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In summer, Dingle is a beehive of activity. Coach upon coach of tourists arrive, taking over the town and its 52 pubs. The only foreigners in Dingle this time of year were myself, an Italian travelling salesman showing his fine suits to a fisherman in the harbour and the Lithuanian girl cooking me breakfast in my B&B.

Wednesday morning 9 am, the marina and harbour were still, safe for the gulls screeching and the quiet conversation of fishermen tending their nets.

Most of the town folk probably weren’t aware of the two-week hustle and bustle surrounding St James Church on Main Street and the late night revelling in Brenners hotel opposite the church.

Talent and crew stuck together in this microcosmos, welcoming the lone traveller from Amsterdam in their midst. Working, laughing, swearing, drinking agus ag caint, ag caint, ag caint.

Let’s map those 40 shades of green in images. I’ve started an Ireland group on Flickr. If you have pictures of Ireland you wouldn’t mind sharing with the world at large, join up.

She makes her Christmas pudding in plastic containers, not like her mother, god rest her soul, who’d wrap the thing in cloth and let it hang and rock from her Singer sewing table.

Is the recipe secret? ‘No, I’ve got it on a piece of paper,’ she says, with serious intent. The same recipe for the last 30 years, involving carrots and sultanas and many other things. Whiskey, of course. Just a drop.

It isn’t ‘ripe’ yet, still a little soggy at the top, but Mrs Lynch tells the husband to serve us slices. ‘We’re out of cream,’ she says, despairing. But it tastes heavenly regardless. ‘You don’t have to eat it,’ she adds, almost incredulous we should eat her sticky black concoction. But we want to. Oh, we want to.

She stands on the porch as the husband drives us to the bus stop, in the freezing cold and forgets to wave, her mind already caught on other things. Like the neighbours’ daughter, who she used to mind, who now has a little wan herself. She’s in and out the door and regards Mrs Lynch’s front room her own. Didn’t they buy the DVD player when the little wagon said they should so she could player her Disney DVDs in it? They did.

We thank her for her kindness and the tea, fish and chips and buttered slices of bread, the biscuits and the cider and washing up when we said to leave it. But it’s no bother, didn’t the husband do the cooking?

So he did.

’s Not officially confirmed yet, but something cool is going down on December 15…

I had to change around all my holiday plans for December and guess what… it fit right in with the schedule at work, so I was given that whole week off.

Yes, people, I’m making another trip to Ireland.

‘Howyeh luv? Wanna come down to da beach wid me, look for crabs?’

They walk too fast, the pusher and his customer in their scummy nylon shell suits. Always in a hurry going nowhere fast. Hollow cheeks, dead eyes.

Pieces of H in a brown paper bag change owner while they scurry past Christchurch cathedral. A tall black girl glides by, the dealer looks and makes his lewd remark.

Maybe he knows her, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe she sells, maybe she doesn’t.

Dealer and client continue down to the river, laughing, coughing up phlegm.

Don’t get me wrong, the (Irish) country side is very pretty, but I really am a city girl. Dublin just puts a smile on my face. I feel much more at home here now that I was traipsing around sheep dung in the Gaeltacht. Though I did pick up a fetching Northern twang.

Dublin is about chance meetings and surprising conversation.

Yesterday, as I walked by the set of Breakfast on Pluto at the Ierne on Parnell Square, I saw two blokes that looked like gaffers outside on the doorstep. I thought, sure, I’ll walk up and ask if himself is around. As I approached and looked the one guy in the face I realised the ‘gaffer’ was none other than Neil Jordan himself.

I think I just about pulled off the ‘I have no idea who you are’ look on my face.

Later it was business as usual, old friends in the Library bar, talking about the ones that went before us and dissecting Hot Press with one of its writers. And me downing the vodka & tonics without getting a hint of a buzz.

Getting psyched now. We’re booking a fly drive offer to Dublin through BBI Travel at 127 euro p.p. for the end of September and beginning of October. (My friend will be driving. I’ll bring my license, but I’m pretty sure I won’t go anywhere near the driver’s seat.)

I’ve been to Ireland 50 to 60 times (lost count) over the last 15 years and have hitchhiked/camped around the country three times and bused/hostel/b&b’ed it numerous times. There were two short ‘weekend trips’ that involved a car and an ex, but I’ve never really travelled the country by car. I’m very much looking forward to seeing all the spots we didn’t get to see when were were on foot. The Giant’s Causeway is one of them.

It will be also be my first chance to photograph Ireland with new gear and new eyes. As I said, I’m psyched and the days can’t go fast enough.

“That muss be da biggest pig in da world.”

“If he took her to bed, he’d break ‘er.”

“Maths was easy, Irish was broootal!”

“Too much Edam, Cazza.”

“Hush now, cause I AM in bed.”

“You wouldn’t see that now in Amsterdam, you wouldn’t.”

“Mammy, lookit da floying pig!”

“Dere holidays were a noightmare, cause my Da took ill.”

“Take care in the most expensive, most violent city in the world…”

“Because I’m a Dubliner.”

{ impressions of Dublin, June 6-8, more text to follow }

(part I) (part II)

Seamus is a big elderly American of Irish descent. He is in level 2. Of course he takes the car to drive around the corner to go shopping. On the third day he has a puncture. One of the locals helps him out. In the shop I hear him, his voice booming, ask the shopkeeper how to thank his benefactor. ‘So what would he like? Shall I buy him a bottle of whiskey?‘ The shopkeeper and his son don’t say much. ‘He doesn’t drink,’ their answer is barely audible. ‘Well how about a box of chocolates?‘ Shoulders are shrugged. ‘Well, should I give him money? How much would be appropriate?‘ Seamus is at a loss. He doesn’t understand that you don’t talk about such things. His best bet would have been to pay the man a visit, and quietly leave a small present on the table.

Seamus takes Birgitta and myself for a drive around the area. We go up Bun Glas, a pass over the mountains. It is a scary drive, the fog is out and thick as peasoup. On the summit you’re supposed to have a beautiful view of the cliffs of Slieve League. But today we can hardly see the back of our hands. Seamus takes pictures of everything he sees. Even the fog doesn’t escape from his viewer. ‘I brought plenty of film, so I can show the folks at home.‘ His wife did not want to come along. Later in the Rusty Mackerel in Teelin – a famous pub the heart of the Gaeltacht – he starts telling us about how he used to beat his children. He didn’t know any better, he says, his father used to beat him too, and the nuns were no better. He confesses some more. Both Birgitta and I feel a little embarrassed. We feel we’ve just arrived in an Oprah Winfrey show. We’re not used to this American frankness. On the way back he asks us what language we speak in our countries. Dutch and Swedish, of course. ‘And do you speak it well, with your parents?’ He thinks the entire world speaks English. A few days later we take him along to see a formation of three pre-Celtic passage graves. When the sun sets, the light shines through the openings of the three graves. ‘Is that a fort?‘ he asks. ‘It’s a grave. Two thousand b.c., Seamus!‘ ‘Oh really?‘ he says and takes a picture. Then he’s off. Pre celtic times don’t mean much to someone whose own constitution’s just a quarter of a century old.

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(part I)

In the local pub, Biddy’s, the drinks are poured by an elderly bartender. His arms look like they have been broken and wrongly set, stiff and twisted. Here we meet the other students. A lot of attention goes out to Michael Collins from Limerick, a Chicago resident. He looks a handsome 18 year old, but he’s 28, married, runs a software company with his wife, lectures literature at University, wants to set up an Irish school in Chicago and wants to run up Glen Head. He is one of three published writers in our company. He tells us about his first book ‘The Meat Eaters’ which has just been published in Europe. His Canadian companion John doesn’t say anything, but we later learn that he too has a novel to his name. He’s here to write a tribute to James Joyce, before it is too late. John has cystic fybrosis, and has already lived longer than he thought he would. Every day is a miracle to him. We talk about modern Irish literature, and agree on a lot of things: Roddy Doyle’s funny and accomplished but rather superficial, Dermot Bolger’s almost magical realism is the work of a genius and we praise John Waters for his insight in Irish society. And we drink a few more pints. We clique together during tea breaks. Michael tells stories about the time he was an altar boy. What to do when the host is dropped? ‘Get the Holy Hoover!!‘ we shout. It becomes our running gag.

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