A Love Affair With the Emerald Isle: Part 1
In my 28 years pre-Ireland, not even a twelve euro Ryanair flight was enough to lure me across the Celtic Sea. Six months later however, I can't bring myself to leave.
I Could Literally Be Anywhere...
Make no mistake, I was dragged kicking and screaming to Ireland, like a petulant toddler forced to put down the iPad to visit a grandparent, the one who's house is musty, old fashioned and short of stimulation. Had I been asked to describe the emerald isle, prior to setting foot on it's rugged shores, that is exactly how I would have done so, my inspiration to visit solely reliant on some prospective stag do in Dublin that I might attend, should I ever amass more than a dining table's worth of friends to make that a likely scenario.
My girlfriend had taken a job in Waterford, in what is affectionately referred to as the 'Sunny South-East' of the country. It's worth noting that the only people calling it this are the Irish themselves. A hardy, down-beaten yet optimistic bunch, to whom patchy drizzle "'tis some day for a run, so" as I found out when lining up for a road race on a miserable November morning. Emboldened by my newfound digital nomad status (which, in my experience, is a fancy label for what is essentially diminishing personal hygiene and a propensity to consume and unhealthy amount of cereal at your desk), I was left slightly deflated by the thought of postponing a temperate Mediterranean lifestyle, in favour of waterproof trousers and dingy old man pubs.
What's the Craic?
You've probably heard it said, if not experienced firsthand, that it is the charm of the Irish people, which makes the country so special. Regardless, it will surprise you to discover just how warm, jovial and sharp-witted a people they really are. What's more, they don't just turn it on for the swarm of culturally appropriating, leprechaun hat-wearing tourists rolling in for a piss up every year. It's a year-round way of life, a moral code of conduct that can be likened to that of Latin cultures, only with the added dose of emotional repression and a ruthless sarcasm that is so homely and comforting to an Englishman.
Initial Observations
Charm aside, my love affair with Ireland was a slow grower, hindered not only by the dire state of the rental market in the midst of a cost of living crisis, but a particularly wet autumn, which cruelly morphed into a soul destroying winter. The only appropriate (in budget and self contained) dwelling in the laughable selection of properties returned online was a seaside semi in a rural fishing village called Dunmore East. Google it and I'm sure you'll see sun drenched coves, encircled by characterful thatch-roof cottages. I also wouldn't mind betting the first 10 pages of images were taken between May and August. Winter is a whole different story, a hostile ghost-town where waves pummel harbour walls, and rain water streams down narrow streets, spewed from drains that cannot cope with the barrage.
I remember laughing during a conversation with a local, as we sat sweating our bollocks off in a mobile barrel-sauna, that would occasionally park up on the seafront on a Sunday morning. He assured me that this was the best time of year in Dunmore, before the holiday makers come and dirty the place up with their parasols and inflatable dolphins. As we briefly touched upon earlier, you should never trust an Irishman's account of the weather, and the same can be said for their seasonal recommendations. In fact you're best off taking anything they say with a degree of cynicism, such is the 'look on the bright side' vibe around here.
