I always knew there was plenty to love about Ireland. There’s the breathtaking natural beauty, the delicious stodgy food and perfect pints of Guinness, the accent that makes everything sound like a song even when the bloke next to you at the pub is threatening to knock someone’s head in, and, of course, Paul Mescal. Still, I didn’t expect to love my family’s home country as much as I do, and I really do.
After much, and I mean much, anticipation about my Big Euro Trip, I finally arrived in the motherland with my family a couple of weeks ago. It took two painfully long flights and a four-hour car drive through windy country roads to arrive at our first stop: Doolin in County Clare.
Unsurprisingly, I felt like microwaved death when I eventually extricated myself from the luggage, jumpers and chip wrappers in our hire car. But I swear, the second I saw our quaint, whitewashed Airbnb overlooking the Cliffs of Moher, my back pain, headache and motion sickness (the holy trinity of long-haul flight-induced ailments) evaporated into thin air.
The place was something plucked out of a storybook, no exaggeration. Rolling hills dotted with grazing cows, the ocean gently lapping against a rocky shoreline, nothing but the sound of serene birdsong. Honestly, I couldn’t believe my suburban eyes; there wasn’t a colossal car park, fast food chain or prison-esque-looking gym in sight—just verdant hills dotted with white farmhouses and pastel-hued high streets.
And while I could go on and on about Ireland’s incredible natural beauty, I have to admit it’s really the people that defined my experience, especially along the west coast. Everyone is up for a chat. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone must identify the person you’re talking about as well as their occupation, where they live, their family members, when and where they saw them last and honestly any other tidbits of information they can scrape together. It’s quite comical listening to a typical Irish conversation. From what I’ve learnt, it almost always ends in the participants identifying that the person being discussed is related to one, if not both, people having the conversation.
And as the very inventors of ‘craic’, it makes total sense that the Irish know how to have a good time. In a cosy pub in Doolin called Gus O’Connor’s, an old man came and had a chat with me about the traditional Irish music being played before going to join his buddies. One of his friends told him to break a leg as he hobbled over on the only one he had. As he sang classic Irish songs, everyone joined in and hung their arms over one another. Australia just doesn’t seem to have a pub culture like that. The closest comparison would be an AC/DC tribute band at the pub and/or men dancing with their pants around their ankles to ‘Eagle Rock’ which I hope we can all agree is pretty dismal at best.
Oh, and the snacks! God, the snacks. Scampi fries, Club Orange, McDonnell’s Curry Sauce and Meanies have my heart.
Of course, I must state the obvious; Ireland can’t be as green and gorgeous without its persistent rain. So, when the weather inevitably took a turn for the worse, my family and I simply donned our raincoats or sought refuge in the local pub (as if we really needed an excuse).
Needless to say, I’ll definitely be returning to Ireland. After all, the Guinness there is unmatched.
