Top'a the mornin' to ye, Ireland - September 2010

It’s half past eight on a Monday morning, I know my chances of a lift are slim, but I stick my thumb out regardless. The first car that passes glides to a halt and a well-dressed man of about forty gets out. ‘Good mornin’. Beautiful day idn’t! That’s a big bag ye got there, let me help ye. Don’t mind the mess in me car’. He takes my bag before I can say anything and puts it carefully into the boot then arranges the mess in his car so that we can sit comfortably.

‘I’m just on me way to work. Already runnin’ bout ten minutes late, but it’ll be grand. Where is it that ye going to?’

A few days earlier I had been travelling from Dublin to the west coast of Ireland on a coach when I met an Irish lad on his way to make a flute. Now, after spending a day hiking the Cliffs of Moher, he and I have reunited in Lahinch, a quaint town by the sea.

We pile into the car on the outskirts of town and make our way to the home of Martin Doyle, who I’m told is a well-known flute maker around these parts. Our driver takes us ten minutes out of his way, dropping us at our door, despite us telling him anywhere easy will do. ‘Can’t have ye walkin’ all that way with that big bag. Ye here on holidays then? I went to Australia once. Ye’ve got funny accents.’ Our conversation continues like this, flowing in a stream of bizarre consciousness, until it’s time to get out and farewell our new friend.

The house is nestled amongst rolling green fields. As we walk up the driveway, I feel a set of eyes burning into me. As I meet the gaze I realise I am being stared down by a cow. I swear there is something a little off about cows in Ireland, like they know something that we don’t. I almost shout out to let it know I am a vegetarian but I think my new friend might find this a little strange, so instead I pick up the pace and get in the house before it can leap over the fence.

Entering the house, there are flutes everywhere, every possible shade of wood and metal that you can imagine, both finished and unfinished. Kev tells me to drop my bags in the spare room until I find a hostel and then we make our way out to the work shed.

‘Well hello there love,’ he says turning off the sander and extending a hand for me to shake. ‘Ye must be Bek. Ye’ll stay here tonight and I’ll hear no more about it’. And the rest of my day in Lahinch progresses much along the same lines. Before I can refuse any offer, I am staying in their house, leaving Kev to sleep on the floor and am having a family dinner with these people I have only just met, and only through chance of meeting Kev on the bus.

And that for me was the Ireland I fell in love with, the altruistic nature of the people, just for sakes sake, not because they want anything in return, other than to let you into their lives and for you to let them into yours.