15 things I learned in Ireland - part 3 - I love the Irish!
No joke - the Irish are Friendly!
You’ve already read about the first six things in my list of 15 things I learned from my trip to Ireland. One of the lessons I learned from my late husband, Jack, is the rich potential of talking to strangers. Ireland provided this at the next level! The 7th thing on my list of 15 confirms the Irish reputation for friendliness. Here are three examples from the many I could have chosen.
a. Sligo Pat becomes Semen Pat
One of my fellow workshoppers at the Irish Writers Retreat told me of an amusing encounter. She’d walked 2 kms from our Inn to a store where one of the many locals named Pat shared a little of his colourful history - including his Sligo roots - as a prelude to hitting on her. He picked up the pickup thread again as she walked past his Wild Atlantic Way property on her return to the Inn. She’d let me know Pat’s outward age was much older than the 65 he purported to be, belying the rough life he was now living, off-grid and carless, sharing his land with chickens and goats. Sligo Pat became a joke between us for the rest of the week. I did not, however, expect to have my own anecdote to tell.
The conclusion of the retreat started my next holiday phase, a visit with one of my husband’s sons in County Galway. I took Danny’s cab (the only cab) to Molloy’s Grocery to catch the bus southward, arriving early enough to fortify myself for the five hour journey. As I tucked into my much-needed salad (more on the food later) in the cafe adjacent to Molloy’s, another patron sat down two tables over and ordered fish & chips. I continued to read my book, happy to be free of social obligation and therefore paying him no mind. When I learned from the server, however, that I was the cafe’s first ever customer, we all celebrated the moment with a brief conversation: the server, the owner, his wife, and the grizzled gent with his fried lunch. The moment ended and I’m old enough to know when a man is not going to let me read, so I paid and left, planning to resume my book outside until the bus arrived.
But I was not to be left in peace. My bench was one of three and it wasn’t long before my new friend began chatting me up from one two over. He was waiting for Danny to take him and his box of groceries home. He lost no time sharing details - he’s a Scorpio born Oct 30, 1959 - and prying some out of me.
He hauled a pipe and a packet of tobacco out of his filthy jeans. As he was lighting it, I said: “that’ll kill you, you know. It killed my husband.”
“Why are you concerned about my wellbeing?” he replied, misinterpreting my admonishment.
“Trust me, just friendly advice,” I replied, and moved on.
But when a creepy lech in rural Ireland then informs you your vintage red and white infinity sunglasses are silly, you change the subject again. Trotting out rural Canadian roots seemed the best next move in our game of conversational sparring. This set Sligo Pat off on a tangent about importing Holstein semen from Canada 30 years ago. And so Sligo Pat morphed into Semen Pat, a moniker I’m sure he’d prefer. I was grateful when my getaway bus arrived. I boarded, sat in the front seat, far from anyone, and left Pat to search out his next target.
b. An architect and his wife
My next encounter could not have begun more differently. After my delightful visit with my stepson and his family, I went to Dublin for two days of solo time. This is old-Celia-style vacationing - explore a city not as a tourist but as if I lived there - roaming through parks and communities outside of the central core, stopping on park benches to read, write, or people-watch, eat comfort food, and drink coffee in the early day and then wine. I had just checked into my well appointed and off-the-beaten-track guest house, Donnybrook Hall, and was getting my bearings with a ramble through Herbert Park. I detoured out of the park to follow a river path on what I now know is the River Dodder.
A couple walked hand in hand ahead of me. She wore a cream cashmere coat. He was in smart casual trousers. Even from the back, they oozed charm. And money. They walked slowly and I overtook them. I said hello as Jack taught me to do. They responded by saying it was a wee bit chilly out. And we went from there. Turns out he’d been to Toronto in the late 70s to see the Eaton Centre. I knew from everything about them his trip was not to shop. I inquired if he’d been a developer - no, an architect. I mentioned the variation in buildings in Toronto and how I didn’t feel we’d created a very unified city. They asked me how I enjoyed Dublin. Too soon to know for sure, I explained, but I love Herbert Park. I asked if there were areas I should be wary of, as a single woman. Her expertly-applied cats-eye makeup crinkled sympathetically as she gave me advice. We exchanged well-wishes.
Ten minutes later, in another part of the park I encountered them again. They had a third in their group. He was also in his mid-80s, but was standing astride his bicycle. They had been telling him about a nice Canadian tourist. I exchanged pleasantries with the trio. Paddy, the cyclist, took the chance to offer to double me home to my Inn on his bike. I declined. He high-fived me. I am not making any of this up.
c. Liam
I left Donnybrook Hall two days later in a cab driven by Liam Quinn enroute to the docks to catch a ferry to Holyhead in Wales. Liam and I got to chatting, as you do on a 30 minute cab ride on holidays. Another reason to avoid Uber. The fact of me being a widow is no secret and is part of my story so it came out as it often does.
Later in our conversation, Liam asked: “So how did you kill your husband?”
I never miss a chance to educate about medically assisted death so I launched in, explaining MAiD in Canada and how Jack was able to control his death in a time when he’d lost of control of all else. Living in Ireland, a country with such strongly Roman Catholic roots, the idea seems quite futuristic to everyone and wrong to many. But Liam was right with me. He told the story of a relative whose death was protracted and painful, and distressing to the family. He shared - almost sotto voce - his wish that Ireland would provide this right. He commended Jack on his decision and on me for telling the story so easily. I left the cab and the country on a very positive note.
(Photos - above, canal boats in Dublin; below, me with a view of Dublin Harbour as the ferry leaves; Dublin park scenes; me on a bus and the view from the bus window)
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