prolific.org

(Peter made the mistake of mentioning Glencolmcille in the comments of my previous entry. I wrote this ten years ago.)

‘It’s the dialect!‘ Mary says. Originally from Dublin, she has lived in Leicester for the past 30 years. She’s in her fifties now and she is sitting with us in front of the fireplace of our little cottage. ‘It’s not fair. They’re not accommodating us at all. I don’t understand the teacher, she is yapping away with her the people from her area.’ Thomas and I listen to her lamentations and feel for her. For us ‘absolute beginners’, Mary is a wealth of knowledge. We practice during breakfast, asking each other for milk, butter and sugar in Irish. I’ve only been here a day.

‘Here’ is Glencolmcille, the most western tip of county Donegal in Ireland, the heart of the Gaeltacht – the name given to the Irish speaking communities in Ireland. In the Foras Cultuir Uladh, Oideas Gael have been giving Irish courses for ten years now. Liam ó Cuinneagean, teacher in Dublin but originally from the area, is the organizer and instigator of the courses. He stands before us on the first day, his voice thick with the cold he’s got. The group is quite big, half of us are there for the language course, the other half will go hill-walking, supervised by Tony, a Mancunian who has perfect Irish, hates England and looks like a paratrooper if I ever saw one. He seems difficult to approach, but is nevertheless pursued by several women that week.

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The hatch opened. I grabbed my dusty backpack from the coach, strapped it on and looked around. I was in Letterkenny, a dot on the North of Ireland map, close to the border.

On a two month break in between jobs I told myself I was going to travel Ireland, meet Irish people, talk and write stories.

One piece of advice if you ever feel the same way, don’t try and do this by busing around the country during the high season. You’ll find yourself chatting away with Australians, hooking up with South Africans, fleeing Germans, dodging Italians and sharing meals with the French. But you’ll be hard pressed to find an actual living, breathing Irish person.

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I have a thing about Exchequer Street in Dublin. There’s nothing particularly special about the street itself. It connects George’s Street with Wicklow Street and on to Grafton Street. It’s full of little clothes shops and plenty of eating places. It’s got the Central Hotel on the George’s Street end that is just a little too expensive for me to stay in. But I count two separate moments on that street where I was perfectly happy, both times basking in sunshine, both times on top of the world. It’s my street.

My friend Anto made it even more memorable this time by revealing the secret that’s behind the grim exterior of the Central Hotel. After the gig in Blanchardstown we all re-grouped in ‘The Library’, the hotel bar on the first floor, all pluche chairs and low lit rooms. A place to remember.

Clammy Sunday morning, my last few hours on the island. Saturday was filled with art (Francis Bacon, captivating) in Hugh Lane, a restless nap in the Garden of Remembrance .

I met a friend in the Stonewall Cafe over eggs benedict and muffins, and I found peace within.

A peace that had me blissed out for the rest of the day – I kind of breezed through drinking in O’Neil’s and food in Sufi’s with Tom and later Mr Mersault and his twin.

Helena Fuckin’ Christensen was sitting not too far away from me. A tiny thing, with scraggly black hair and a thuggish looking bf on her arm.

Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. I didn’t.

Sinead O’Connor’s prettier than any of the supermodels. God knows, she’s a bigger ego on her too.

She rips up pictures. She’s a priest. She’s a lesbian. And then she isn’t. She puts her foot in it. She stumbles, falls.

But when she sings, she soars.

In the lobby afterwards, my friend stood sipping his pint, trying to work up the courage to say hello to her, but never did. She was mingling, while the other artists sat at our table.

Sinead had phoned Maurice, Gavin’s pianist, an hour before show time. ‘Can you play backing for me? The songs are all on my last album.’ Maurice didn’t have the album. He picked up Gavin, who did. He popped the cd in the player and listened driving down to the venue. An hour later, he was playing the songs, backing Sinead, live on national radio.

This will never cease to amaze me.

The sun is beating down on Dublin, there’s just the slight relief of a cool breeze. I can’t remember flying in. I can’t remember switching planes at Heathrow. I can’t remember baggage checks or pass control. I am here and have been here since the dawn of time. I moved into a hotel on Georges Street where the lady said: ‘You’ve been here before, you know the drill…’

I have taken buses. I have slept on Stephen’s Green. I have shopped for clothing, checked my e-mail. I have eaten lunch with a friend. I have received calls and text messaged to and fro. I have told a friend to: ‘whisper, smile and nod a lot, they’ll think you’re mysterious and sexy.’

Sometimes being here is more home than anywhere else could be.