If You’re Not Irish, That Isn’t Your Fault

IMG_6277I shall be returning to Dublin one day. A couple of days is simply not long enough to fully soak up the atmosphere or to see even the tiniest portion of what the city has to offer. That said, I had a fantastic time there, even thought rain dolloped down on us intermittently during our final few hours there.

My son is the best travelling companions I could ask for: interested in local culture, happy to sit in a bar sampling local beverages and listening to some local musicians make with the craic, a bloody excellent cook, excellent conversationalist who is also more than comfortable just to sit quietly taking in the surroundings at times. Quite simply I’d love travelling about with this chap even if he wasn’t my son but it is the bonus of all bonuses that he happens to be my flesh and blood.

I was less scared on the flight home than on the way out – in fact I was almost impatient for the plane to take off because I wanted to make sure we got back in time for my boy to catch his last train home to his Mum’s place. The flight was also short than the outward journey – bigger plane, better pilot (women drivers are far better than men in all vehicles except for the pogo stick).

My legs now ache like aching fucking ached-up things. My lungs are grumpy with me as I did some walking and asked them to keep doing the oxygenation thing as I did so. My neck is a little stiff from the seat on the plane. But do I care? Do I fucking fuck. Or, to go all cultural reappropriation on you, do I fecking feck.

Ever considered going to Dublin? Do it. It’s a city peppered with some more shameful reminders of England’s colonial past yet mostly it is a city full of vibrant people, an ever present lilt of music from round some corner or other or out of a pub door, and it is certainly not a place to only spend two days in. Go for a week, a month. Feck it, go and live there and invite me to come live with you.

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