It’s a right funny country indeed

There is no doubt that this is a right funny little country. It’s probably because that to be Irish or just be living here is part of what makes it so. Like, even to verbally insult someone here does not just resonates differently, it is different. 

For example: when an Londoner tells you that something is a ‘right load of old bolox’, it is just not the same as a Cavan man saying the same thing or even a Kerryman with the emphasis for starters on the word ‘old’ translating to ‘ould’. 

Or when you drive along a country road in the west of Ireland and wink at the oncoming driver, even though a stranger, or sometimes when you raise a half hand in acknowledgement at him, these same gestures could get a very dangerous reaction in London’s east end or even get you killed in New York.  It’s a right funny little country indeed. 

There are traditions that still linger: In a pub you are never on your own, and if you die nor will you be allowed to be alone either.  Gossip, good or bad, will always ensure you are in someone’s thoughts, and when you are gone you are sure to be remembered bad or good; for a while anyway. 

Even when the Gardai stop you on road looking for that out of date taxi disc or that deeply suspicious bald tyre, it somehow feels different. You sometimes get a ticking off or there are times when they can be a bit thick.  There is also a good chance though they will know someone that you do and everything will be alright too.

And even some travelers in caravans with their own indigenous dialect, spent and worn out Hiace vans, pieball horses; sure without them it would not be home at all.  Brambles and briars, rain and wind, sure where else would you want to be? Its not just about the rain you know. It’s a right funny country indeed.

Barry Clifford