Seismic shifts in my thinking have a habit of originating from the most mundane circumstances. I guess that is the beauty of life – as opposed to the alternative – that makes being human so wonderfully confusing; from chaos a sense of clarity is often the victor.
Adam’s milestone 30th birthday – my youngest child of two, with Sydney resident Lucy being three years older – presented me with the ideal opportunity to be a little creative. I settled on a surprise jaunt and sought the cooperation of his girlfriend Izzy to provide an effective cover story, as I needed to ensure that he was free. My only remaining decision was where? The sun of Tenerife was compelling, as was a boozy excursion to mainland Europe; then I had an epiphany moment: Dublin. It met all the criteria (save the guaranteed sun) and would provide a connection with his roots. His mum – my late wife Theresa – was born in Hammersmith, London, but her heritage stemmed from the Emerald Island, with parents Maura and Jerry both born in Cork, a tad over 150-miles due south of our Dublin destination ─ famed for the drinking element of the equation: Guinness.
Unusually for me, I undertook some planning, booking the compulsory visit to the Guinness Storehouse and noting down a few essential watering holes, including the famous Temple Bar; however, the first port of call was the EPIC Irish Emigration Museum: a cultural start to the campaign of copious chugging of the “Black Stuff.”
Other than the historical context of mass Irish migration ─ which I hoped would explain why every territory on Earth has a traditional Irish Bar ─ I was unsure what to expect in terms of how this narrative would be portrayed. In my ignorance, I sat transfixed by the incredible video footage, and the depth of my oblivion began to weigh heavily on my conscience. Ireland was by no means the only country that had been oppressed by external forces, or witnessed colossal natural disasters, however, this story held a personal and compelling element due to Adam’s Irish DNA. The Cromwellian conquest of Ireland in the mid-seventeenth century effectively displaced great swathes of the population and confiscated significant amounts of land. The Act of Settlement 1652 was brutal, and the conflict is estimated to have killed around fifty percent (or possibly more) of the indigenous people, whilst thousands were banished to English colonies in North America. Just shy of two centuries later the potato famine is thought to have caused the death of a million citizens, with double that amount fleeing the country to all four corners of the world. Add into the mix the rampant sectarianism that underpinned draconian laws, and regular economic implosions. Emigration was endemic until as recently as the 1960s – the timeline that coincided with Theresa’s parents relocating to England. As the video montages flickered, I was staggered to discover the density of Irish heritage that connected with various world leaders and shapers of culture, science, and discovery. The speech by President Obama – also of Irish descent ─ in Dublin on 23rd May 2011, was, personally, the most enthralling: “Irish signatures are on our founding documents. Irish blood was spilled on our battlefields. Irish sweat built our great cities. Our spirit is eternally refreshed by Irish story and Irish song; our public life by the humour and heart and dedication of servants with names like Kennedy and Reagan, O’Neill and Moynihan. So, you could say there’s always been a little green behind the red, white and blue.”
If Adam’s grandparents hadn’t been moulded from the same stuff, they wouldn’t have taken the incredible risk to set up home in another country and consequently he wouldn’t have been sitting next to me WhatsApping whilst my eyes filled with tears.
Our first pint of Guinness went down a treat and allowed us to return to the safer territory of football talk and the ensuing frolics planned for later that day in the Temple Bar District of this wonderfully welcoming city. Although this alcoholic phenomenon was a constant companion, so was the growing guilt of regret. Theresa and I had frequently spoken about visiting Cork, with Dublin always being the gateway; but life got in the way, and she was cruelly taken from us without first base ever having been achieved. How stupid had I been when this special place was only ever a short flight away; however, she was here in my heart and embodied within the very being of Adam, who I realised had been given a precious commodity: Irish lineage.
Our exploration took in a cruise along the River Liffey, providing even more tangible evidence of the struggles and successes of this proud, but often tormented, nation. Balance was provided by the conviviality of a pint of the local brew of international fame that knew no boundaries as we struck up conversations with many of the locals, especially at John Kavanagh, aka “The Gravediggers Pub,” (owing to it neighbouring a graveyard) where an Arsenal, Celtic, Spurs, and Notts County fan walked into a bar and – contrary to any jokes or stereotypes – had a great time!
I absorbed a lot about Dublin and the Irish people during our long weekend stay, but most of all, I learnt much more about me. Time is precious – especially so with the ones you love – and to paraphrase the iconic quote of author Meghan March:
“Life is short.
Eat the cake.
Buy the football ticket.
Go to Dublin.”
Theresa may not have been born in Galway (due west of Dublin), or ever have played a fiddle in an Irish band, but one thing Ed Sheeran got right was that she fell in love with an Englishman; and as a direct consequence of this happening, I was blessed with my best mates: Adam and Lucy.
© Ian Kirke 2023 & all photographs
@ianjkirke