Posted on 29 Comments

Let’s (not) go camping in Ireland?

Last week, my sister went camping. In Ireland. Took a gamble despite grey, cloudy skies breezing overhead (= Irish summer) because I encouraged her to do so. Me and my endless enthusiasm for life. ‘Give it a go’, said I, ‘what’s there to lose?’ I oozed through the Skype screen.

She may never forgive me.

The thing is… She’s not a camper. Never was, never will be. But because I’ve camped (en famille) with quite some success these past years, I encouraged her to give it a go. Forgetting (uh oh) that by now I’m ‘dutchified’ to the extent that our family’s summer camping trips resemble complete house relocations when compared to the Irish equivalent, i.e. buy a (bit of a) tent, a sleeping bag that maybe fits, a little stove and gas cylinder and Bob is your uncle.

Holy Jaysus. Well all I can say is it sounds like Uncle Bob stayed well and truly hidden on this trip. In fact, I suspect he took one glance at the setup and did a runner, and damn right he was too.

Apparently it started out reasonably well. She, and the rest of the clan, cheerily set up their individual little pop-up tents, defying the rising wind with gusto. They bravely fried up some sausages and bacon on the tiny stove – a feat in itself – before taking a walk on the nearby beach, their woolly cardies wrapped tightly around them. I’m sure at that point they felt like true campers.

It’s the sleeping part that burnt the most. Her daughters, having nipped to the local store to secure bags on ‘special offer’, unfortunately paid most attention to the pretty shades they came in (opting for pink, of course) only to discover when the time came to snuggle in that the glitzy, padded items were in fact, child-sized. Squeezing their legs in nevertheless, they covered their upper bodies with towels, good sports that they are (but oh, to have been a fly on those little walls!).

My sister, smiling as she pulled her adult-sized bag all the way up to her chin, felt proud of their endeavours. This camping lark aint half as bad as I imagined she may even have murmured as she drifted off to sleep.

Two hours later, the rain began to fall.

Now when I say ‘rain’, I’m talking torrential rain. This was no small spattering of drops, but a full fledged Irish downpour, as can only happen when you’re stuck on the side of a hill in a tiny tent, pretending to be a girl scout. Within minutes the roof of her tent began to leak, not in one place – several. Reaching up to test the wetness, she stuck her finger into the fabric, which immediately released a new, flowing stream onto her forehead. Spluttering to sit up, she realised to her horror that the floor had turned soggy and water was seeping quietly in via the side seams.

It was time to abandon ship. Scrambling out of her (now sodden) sleeping bag, she reached for her socks, to find them floating around the end of the blow up bed. Her bra was snagged on the canvas shoe she’d brought in an effort to look the part and her mobile phone was lying face down in a tiny puddle. Shit!! She shrieked, yanking at the tent’s zip on hands and knees.

Her eldest daughter’s voice from the next tent sounded equally frantic, ‘Mam!! Let’s run for the car!’. Hands over their heads, they slid and slithered towards it in the dark, tumbling into the front seats with rain running down their legs, slamming the doors shut as damp fumes began to form. It was 2.30am.

Yes, well… not quite the story I’d sold her on fresh air, total relaxation and peace of mind (based on French experiences). Something tells me her local recycle store is about to receive a mega donation of camping materials. And my next, helpful piece of advice might, just might, be taken with less than half a pinch of salt.

Posted on 13 Comments

Aer Lingus, more than just a logo

The thing is… I never really thought about it before, but just now it hit me – I’ve worked my way through so many emotional moments in Dublin airport since I began living abroad, that I can probably trace most of my significant ‘life changes’ back to small passages of time spent to-ing or fro-ing through it!

First were the early trips to Amsterdam (mid-80’s), my mother smilingly waving me off through held-back tears. Her large blue eyes unable to hide how much I would be missed. My father, silent, watchful, quietly pressing a sneaky roll of cash into my hand at the last moment “just in case”.

The dreadful 6am flights, leaping out of bed in the pitch dark, a race to the airport along the back roads of North Dublin, my sister careening the car along at a fast pace, her sleepy eyes barely open with the burden of two toddlers lying heavily across her shoulders. Never allowing me to take a taxi, this was ‘our thing’, she wanted to be the one to get me there and get me there she did. A last, huge hug before I wafted towards the security gate, invariably setting off the alarm before being hauled up for a body search. She’d giggle through the glass wall, watching until the last moment. I’d keep my eyes on her, imprinting her image into my memory to carry me through the next months.

Happy arrival scenes two years later when I showed up with an engagement ring. Joy, laughter, excitement. Partings less sad than usual because a return trip was already planned and celebrations were still to come.

A first visit with my baby son, then two years later, our daughter. Every bag filled to capacity, my mother ooh-ing and aah-ing at their tiny faces the minute we’d trundle into the Arrivals hall. Me, eager to show what a good mother I was with boiled water stored in a separate bottle, formula in a tiny bag, “look mam, she didn’t get any ear ache on the plane”.

Missed Christmases in Dublin, too complicated to manage with tiny children, work commitments, sickness bouts. Cherished memories of Dublin airport’s lavish festive decorations flitting in and out of my head, my mother wistfully wondering if this year they’d have the ‘Welcome Home’ sign up. She said it gave her a feeling of kinship with other mothers whose children had moved “away”.

Summer vacations, busy, bustling plans to travel around the South of Ireland. Aer Rianta’s trolleys with squeaky wheels barely containing the mega suitcases. My mother proudly telling how she’d filled the fridge with all that ‘healthy stuff’ I liked from Superquinn as we’d splash our way across the road to the parking garage, my sister trying to work out where she’d left the car.

Years later, sadder arrivals with a smaller welcome home party waiting at the rails to pick us up. My father no longer alive, my mother moving towards confusion. Heartache. Wanting to stay but knowing it wasn’t possible.

Making The Most Of It…

Duty free gifts, whether coming or going. Aer Lingus stewardesses, a chat and a smile. That first ‘touchdown’ moment or glimpse of Irish soil. Tea-bags, cheddar cheese and sausages, tucked carefully above my head. The passport checker, waving you carelessly by with a little joke. Home.

New set of cards to play with now, my children old enough to do the trip alone. My nieces/nephews already landing here every so often. The cycle of life. Dublin airport and the Aer Lingus logo will always touch a string in my heart. I wonder do they have any clue, the powers-that-be of these iconic institutions? It won’t be just me. The ‘diaspora’ they call us. A fancy name for Irish who moved abroad many moons ago, and prospered, shared their talents even but never let go of what we left behind.

Sure why would we?