Paddy's Day Blarney

As a nation, the Irish are renowned for their blarney. Ireland has a rich cultural heritage of the written word, going back centuries: From the Book of Kells, to stories from Irish mythology: Brian Boru and the High Kings, stories of the Children of Lir, Cu Chullian and Finn MacCumhain; Samuel Becket, James Joyce and Patrick Pearse; modern writers like Colm Toibin, Joseph O’Connor or poets like Patrick Kavanagh or Thomas Kinsella; and the chick-lit heavyweights of today like Maeve Binchy and Marian Keyes.

In celebration of St Patrick’s Day, I’ve been scanning my shelves for books that celebrate Ireland’s rich cultural heritage, from the ridiculous to the sublime. First up, ‘The book of feckin’ Irish Slang that’s great craic for cute hoors and bowsies’ is an education in the finer points of Dublin street slang. Here’s a selection:

Make a hames of / I will in me hole / Having a hooley / Howaya / How’s the craic? / Janey Mack / Jaysus, Mary and Joseph / It’s banjaxed / Yer wan / Wagon / Shenanigans / Ride / Jaysus I was scarlet! / Have a puss on / Nixer / Culchie / Langered / Bollixed / Gobshite / What guff / Go and shite! / Giz a gander / Fierce bad head / Go wan yer good thing / fooster / feck / deadly / I’m only coddin’ yer / that’s brutal / Acting the maggot / Ask me arse.

At the other extreme, the more sublime use of the written word is Irish poetry, two of its finest exponents being W B Yeats and Seamus Heaney. Here are two poems, the first by Yeats, probably one of his most famous.


'He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven' by W B Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with gold and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths,
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


'Digging' by Seamus Heaney

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it                    

                      from Death of a Naturalist (1966)

In Dublin's Fair City

I’ve been in Dublin this weekend attending the Jameson Dublin International Film Festival.

I love Dublin. I’ve been going to Dublin for the past sixteen years, and even lived there for a number of years in the late 90’s. Being back in Dublin is like returning to my spiritual home. It's a place I'm very fond of and a place which holds very dear memories for me.

As an appetiser to the weekend’s festivities, I met a very dear friend for tea after she finished work. We headed to the Irish Film Institute (IFI) for gin, nachos and a good natter before I headed off to see the first of many films that weekend and she went to catch her train. Weatherwise, Saturday was a beautiful, sunny day. I’ve developed a bit of a photography bug and was itching to get out in the sun and take photos. The light shining off the Liffey and Ha’penny Bridge was simply breathtaking. I am rather pleased with how the photos turned out.

On Saturday afternoon me and three of my oldest and dearest friends spent a hugely enjoyable afternoon, having lunch, drinking cocktails and sharing wonderful conversation. I don’t think there is anything else I would rather do. I could quite happily drink gin until it came out of my ears and on Saturday afternoon, I just about did, with the odd Bellini thrown in for good measure! On Sunday I met up with more old friends and enjoyed wonderful food and conversation in their company. I love that no matter how long it is between us seeing each other, when we meet it’s like we only saw each other yesterday and we spent a pleasurable Sunday afternoon, talking about our mutual adoration of Mad Men.

Govindas is a vegetarian Hare Krishna restaurant in Dublin that has enjoyed quite a lot of my custom over the years. The food is delicious, with a special mention for the paneer cheese. A Govindas special for tea on Sunday seemed like the perfect ending to a perfect weekend.

My highlights of the weekend: the early morning sun shining on the Liffey and the river, like a millpond, reflecting everything back on the city; the Hugh Lane Art Gallery and an artist's emperor's new clothes; the Garden of Remembrance; weird Italian films on a Sunday afternoon in the Screen on D'Olier Street with no dialogue but an over-abundance of goats; the purty waiter in The Front Lounge with such elegant poise, magnificent quiff and a beaming smile; the girls together again like we'd never been apart; animated discussions about Mad Men and Joseph O'Connor books; a co-incidental meeting in a Church; goofy sci-fi films and men in anoraks; coffee and The Thirty-Nine Steps in The Winding Stair; snoozing in the cinema; a Bad Ass breakfast; the Blue Rinse ladies in the audience at the IFI; an early morning photography trip to the Northside; gin and tonics and belated birthday cocktails; conversations about crochet; a Govindas Special; gin, nachos and a Ken Loach film; a flea market and sparkly baubles in a former drinking establishment.