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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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 }

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.

Thomas keeps word and takes me to see Dun Alt, the fort on the cliffs. He remembers a lot of what the professor told the archeology group, and now he tells me. He doesn’t get along too well with our teacher, Ainne. He knows all the answers, but the words are stuck in his mouth once it is his turn. He decides to stay another week and hopes to get a suitable teacher. After a week we all speak a little Irish and we all have the flue. Liam was right, we are amazed at our own progress. We have learnt eight out of eleven irregular verbs. Ainne praises me for pronunciation. We are told our group, level 1, have done an amazing amount of work, We’ve done a semester’s worth of material, in one week. Level 1 is jealous of our progress and together we are jealous of level 3, when we hear them talk during the ‘diasporacht’ the discussion on Friday evening. We all swear we’ll come back the next summer. We all say we’ll study when we get back home, find a course, or teach ourselves with books and tapes.

The week ends with a ceili, a party in the local community hall. Oideas Gael has found a little old man to play accordion for us, so we can do a set dance. He’s paid in drinks. Michael drags me up the dance floor. ‘But I have a fever,’ I say. ‘To hell with that! Dance!‘ He says. I don’t understand the steps and figures of this dance. But it is fun. The Derry group comes in as well. Plastic carrier bags full of drink on them. When the music stops all kinds of people take the stage to bawl their out of tune ballads. Everybody’s drunk, and none of them can sing Nobody listens to them anyway. They’re busy. Ag caint, ag caint, ag caint. Talk, talk, talk. That’s Ireland, a nation of compulsive talkers.

The next morning we’re nursing our hangovers in the class room. Ainne asks us what we want to do. ‘I want my last three irregular verbs!‘ I say and get what I want. Then we all say good-bye outside. Addresses are exchanged. We vowto write each other. Only a few will actually keep those promises. Ainne has a sudden burst of emotion and affection and rushes to press all our hands. She thanks us. The course was an eye-opener for her. She finds teaching adults much more rewarding. I say good-bye to Glen and travel along the west coast for four weeks. Whenever I can, I try to practice what I’ve learnt. I can decipher the gravestones on the Aran Islands, and I can order a cup of tea or a Guinness. Reactions vary. I can see it in their faces: "How dare she talk our language?" or "At last someone who takes the trouble to learn our ways."

The owners of the hostel in Galway where I stay are from Achill Island, which until recently was a Gaeltacht. They have just opened their hostel and are enthusiastic and interested in their guests. ‘Declan,’ the woman says, ‘This is Caroline. She’s done a course in Irish!‘ Declan tests me: ‘An bfhuil Gaeilge agat?‘ ‘Ta cupla focal agam,‘ I say, ‘I have a few words.‘ ‘Ta focal go lore agat!‘ He praises me ‘You’ve plenty of words.’ In Carrick, in the heart of the Gaeltacht, I try to get a smile from my ‘ban an ti’ – the woman of the house. When she serves dinner, I say – dramatically – ‘Bradán!‘ She looks at me and says: ‘Is that what you call it in your language?‘ ‘No, I say,’ surprised by her reaction, ‘That’s Irish!‘ ‘Oh, ‘t is, yes, ‘t is,’ she says, and walks away and still hasn’t smiled. And then it’s time to go back to Dublin. Culture shock awaits me. Apart from the raging traffic, the smell of the Liffey and the smoke coming from the Guinness brewery, there is the total lack of the language. ‘Go raibh maith agat’ I thank the bus driver as I get off. She looks at me as if I’m soft in the head.

Oideas Gael website.

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.

The local people are divided in their opinions on the course. The Donegal Irish are a lot more surly than I’m used to in this country. They seem bitter, abandoned and neglected as they fell by Dublin. Like most conflicts in this country, the roots of it run deep. Wasn’t it Donegal where the O’Neills, the old Irish kings, came from? And now they are forgotten, this strip of land that belongs to the South but lies more to the North than most of ‘Northern Ireland’, the six counties. Dublin only thinks of itself, the TD’s only worry about their next lunch. ‘Dublin 4 rules,’ says the inebriated civil servant in the pub. He is talking about that part of Dublin, named after its postal code, where the ruling class of Ireland lives. ‘And now they want to tell us how to speak our language! They don’t even speak Irish in Dublin. I write them letters, they can’t read them. You can’t standardize our language. Every area has its own sayings, its own colloquialisms. Irish is not a grammatical language, but a proverbial one!‘ He goes on and on, ‘as Gaeilge’, in Irish. Mary translates for us. She disagrees with him. She, an emigrant, wants to have a chance of learning and speaking the language. The man quiets down, but later returns and starts all over again. It sounds like he’s had this same argument many times before. In the end he starts to recite a poem. Mary joins him, she too learned this at school. He buys her a drink, the argument settled.

Mary no longer goes to our classes. She spends her day walking around the area, revisiting the spots she was forced to see in the rain during the archeology course. The weather is still bright. In the evenings there are all kinds of sessions to entertain us, a poetry evening, a lecture on the Book of Kells, set-dancing. But we mostly stay in, sipping tea. Warmed by the turf fire we tell each other stories. Mary knows a good one, about a father and son who ride their horse and cart into town. ‘Son, shorten the road,’ the father asks. The son doesn’t know how. Every day the father asks him to shorten the road. The son can’t figure it out. In the end he asks his mother. ‘Tell him a story, lad. That will shorten the road.’ We smile. It’s a good one. There’s no television, no radio, no newspaper. We know nothing of what’s going on between the PLO and Israel. There is no Bosnia here. No rest of the world.

Mary asks Thomas and me for our motives to learn Irish. Identity crises seem to be the common denominator. Thomas, the Swiss who wants to be Irish. ‘I knew I wanted to leave when I was ten years old!‘ Mary, the Irish woman living in England, who know feels shut out by the Donegal people. Birgitta, the Swedish girl who desperately wants to leave Sweden and I, the half Indonesian from Holland, who seeks the passion my country lacks. We talk about the Whore and Madonna complex of the Irish male. Ireland is a matriarchal society. ‘When your da tells you off, you don’t bother. But when your ma tells you off, it’s serious!‘ Again and again the conversation comes back to the essence: the omnipotent strangle hold of the Catholic Church. We can’t escape it, even in our language course. You don’t just say hello, goodmorning in Irish. You say: Dia duit, God be with you. The answer: Dia ’s Muire duit, God and Mary with you.

On Sunday, we all go to mass, in Irish, of course. The small church is packed and in the back a few very old farmers sit on the floor, their backs turned to the altar. Toddlers are seated on their mother and father’s laps. Very old and very young, that’s the profile of the population out here. Because the young move away, there is no work for them here, and no future. In the summer, money is made off the tourists that flock to the area in ever increasing numbers. Oideas Gael puts some money in the till as well, and provides the community with seasonal employment: a handful of people can work in the school’s lunch room.