How far Ireland is from the consciousness of a travelling Indian was evident from the fact that I couldn’t quite tempt any of my friends on this trip.
‘Why do you want to go to Ireland? All you’ll find there is portly old drunk men,’ was one reasoning. ‘Why would you want to go to a city (Dublin) where the best tourist attraction is a beer factory (Guinness),’ was another. Then came the Irish version of it. ‘Why do you want to come to Ireland? It’s always wet and cold!’
But I was too far gone down that green road to turn back.
The tourism industry its best to sell the caricaturised version: a land of ‘good craic’ and lucky shamrocks where you might chance upon a leprechaun, most possibly drunk, and its pot of gold. Where sheep bring traffic to a stand still and Guinness and whiskey flows more generously than water. Here, people have pale faces and red hair, speak with a friendly yet funny accent and bum around in pubs drinking beer and swaying to Riverdance tunes.
On many of the souvenirs, you will find this boldly inscribed: If you are lucky enough to be Irish, you are lucky enough. Here’s another: God invented whiskey so the Irish wouldn’t rule the world (written over a carved and painted figure of a dazed leprechaun with a giant bottle of whiskey slammed over it).
The prints on T-shirts inform you about the seasons of Ireland: summer, autumn, winter and spring, all represented by a sheep with an umbrella. They are happy to indulge you in the joke.
Some of that may be true, and thankfully so, but Ireland is much more that England’s poor country cousin.
The Ireland I remember is painted from the palette of green and grey. The farmlands, grazing cattle and glassy lonely lakes nestled in a quiet misty valley calm the soul. Its beauty is not overwhelming. But like the rolling hills on the horizon, it is always there, silently waiting in the background. Gentle and soothing. Its simplicity is seductive.
It’s also a country with fabled history and blessed with some of the best storytellers. Oscar Wilde, James Joyce, Samuel Beckett and William Yeats to name a few.
It was Yeats who said, “There are no strangers here, only friends that we have not yet met.”
During my visit, I met a Polish man, who was then working in Dublin. Ireland has a huge population of East Europeans, and I asked him why he much preferred living here. “People in Poland, always like this,” he replied, drawing his face to a sad smiley. “Here, people always smiling. They also have tough lives, but when you cross them on the street they always say hello.”
And you will usually be greeted with, ‘Top of the morning to ya! What’s the craic?’ The Irish truly believe why use one word when you can do with four. For people who do not possess their gift of the gab (me) and traveling alone, this is a blessing. An Irish blessing.
‘Why do you want to go to Ireland? All you’ll find there is portly old drunk men,’ was one reasoning. ‘Why would you want to go to a city (Dublin) where the best tourist attraction is a beer factory (Guinness),’ was another. Then came the Irish version of it. ‘Why do you want to come to Ireland? It’s always wet and cold!’
But I was too far gone down that green road to turn back.
The tourism industry its best to sell the caricaturised version: a land of ‘good craic’ and lucky shamrocks where you might chance upon a leprechaun, most possibly drunk, and its pot of gold. Where sheep bring traffic to a stand still and Guinness and whiskey flows more generously than water. Here, people have pale faces and red hair, speak with a friendly yet funny accent and bum around in pubs drinking beer and swaying to Riverdance tunes.
On many of the souvenirs, you will find this boldly inscribed: If you are lucky enough to be Irish, you are lucky enough. Here’s another: God invented whiskey so the Irish wouldn’t rule the world (written over a carved and painted figure of a dazed leprechaun with a giant bottle of whiskey slammed over it).
The prints on T-shirts inform you about the seasons of Ireland: summer, autumn, winter and spring, all represented by a sheep with an umbrella. They are happy to indulge you in the joke.
Some of that may be true, and thankfully so, but Ireland is much more that England’s poor country cousin.
The Ireland I remember is painted from the palette of green and grey. The farmlands, grazing cattle and glassy lonely lakes nestled in a quiet misty valley calm the soul. Its beauty is not overwhelming. But like the rolling hills on the horizon, it is always there, silently waiting in the background. Gentle and soothing. Its simplicity is seductive.
It’s also a country with fabled history and blessed with some of the best storytellers. Oscar Wilde, James Joyce, Samuel Beckett and William Yeats to name a few.
It was Yeats who said, “There are no strangers here, only friends that we have not yet met.”
During my visit, I met a Polish man, who was then working in Dublin. Ireland has a huge population of East Europeans, and I asked him why he much preferred living here. “People in Poland, always like this,” he replied, drawing his face to a sad smiley. “Here, people always smiling. They also have tough lives, but when you cross them on the street they always say hello.”
And you will usually be greeted with, ‘Top of the morning to ya! What’s the craic?’ The Irish truly believe why use one word when you can do with four. For people who do not possess their gift of the gab (me) and traveling alone, this is a blessing. An Irish blessing.
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