Scouse encounter



Pointing my camera upward at the licence on the Lion Tavern a voice from behind says: “Sorry, can I ask ya wha’rre you taking pictures of tha’ pub for?”

It’s my first real introduction to the Scouse accent. It’s funny and I rewind his words in my head.

I should be getting used to the question. Poiting your lens at walls, zooming in on details has a lot of people confused. But I haven’t really got a standard answer yet.

“Uhm, I’m just taking pictures…”

He’s not really listening. He’s one of those high energy blokes, a little too old to be called a young man. Jeans a little too snug, always a little fidgety.

“… because it’s funny, look: they’ve stuck the new owner’s name over the previous one.”

He looks at me a little surprised.

“What is that accent? Where are you from?”

I laugh.

“I’m Dutch.”

He doesn’t believe me.

“You’re joking. Dutch? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

I explain I’ve spent a lot of time in Ireland.

“Yeah! Yeah! That’s it. You’ve a really funny accent!”

And off he goes before I can say anything, but I can hear him mutter to himself:

“There are better pubs to be taking pictures of, luv.”

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet

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.