Wheaton’s Way

With St. Patrick’s Day last week, I thought it would make sense to reflect on my connection with the Emerald Isle and what makes it so special.

Although born in England, I have Irish ancestry on both sides of the family. On top of that, my brother Dominic was born in Ireland, as before we moved to the Cayman Islands in 1975, we spent four glorious years living in the fishing village of Dunmore East on the southeastern coast.

It was an idyllic spot, with the sound of seagulls wafting up from the docks as the boats came in with their catch. And in the pub, the music of The Dubliners.

My mother used to take us to the beach so we could go swimming. The Caribbean Sea, this was not, but we plunged our skinny, pale bodies into the water, splashed around for a while, then came running out for Mum to wrap us up in towels. The teeth-chattering would stop a few minutes later.

Our time in Dunmore also marked the beginning and end of my future career in ‘Riverdance’. I had Irish dancing lessons at my school, and each day when I got home, I would be asked if my teachers had said anything. You know what parents are like – they always want to hear feedback about their child. I never had anything to tell them, until one day when I walked in the door and my mother asked the standard question, I finally had some information.

“What did the teacher say?” my mother asked.

“Put your Smarties down while you’re dancing, dear,” I proudly replied.

Years later, I don’t know if you noticed, but neither Jean Butler nor Michael Flatley had a single piece of chocolate about their person when they electrified audiences at the 1994 Eurovision Song Contest. To attain that level of greatness, I would have had to give up the sweets; I think you know the rest of the story.

Once we moved to the Cayman Islands, I became an island kid – eating mangoes, catching soldier crabs and chasing fireflies. After four years of settling into the Caribbean way-of-life, we returned to Ireland for a visit and to see old friends. Keen to relive my younger days there, I was determined to go for a swim at the old stomping grounds. Unfortunately, the soft white sands of Seven Mile Beach and the warm Cayman waves had turned me into a wuss. I found myself gingerly mincing over pebbles towards the water, which was full of holidaymakers. As one toe touched the surf, I yelped. Had someone upturned a drinks cooler at this exact spot? Was there an iceberg off-course? Had it always been this cold?

Of course it had. I was just a much hardier child when I was 5. I tried to push forward, figuring that once my body adjusted to the temperature, I’d be fine, but no cigar. At waist-deep, I’d had enough – my legs were numb. I staggered back out, shivering. Lesson learned.

That was our last trip to Ireland as a family, but individual members like Dad and Dominic went there to reconnect with friends. In 2013, I reckoned it was high time I went back, and, that way, best friend Lynne could experience Ireland for the first time.

We worked out a driving vacation that would take us from Dublin across the country to Galway and the Aran Islands, then we’d stop by Lisdoonvarna for the annual Matchmaking Festival, see the Cliffs of Moher, spend a few days in the Dingle area, then make our way to Dunmore East before heading back to Dublin.

One thing we realised quickly after hitting the road is that you get stuck behind tractors on country lanes and massive tour buses on the coastal roads. Didn’t matter – the scenery was breathtaking.

We already had a detour in our plans. An old friend from Cayman was getting married at a spa hotel in Cavan, and she insisted we join the event (“Ah… y’will, y’will, y’will.”) We went to the wedding, I ended up singing an impromptu number, then everyone moved to the after-party, which had all the signs of going until the sun came up. In the end, the only way I was able to extricate myself at 4am was to plead a need for the bathroom and not return. Despite lots of flowing beer and wine and a long day behind them, the bride, groom and entire wedding group had superhuman energy. The next day, they were bright and bubbly with not a care in the world, while I needed 12 aspirin and a tureen of water.

One recovery period later, we were heading to Galway, a city famous for its oysters and live music. We stayed at the iconic Hotel Meyrick on Eyre Square, and explored the bounty of Galway before driving to Rossaveel in order to catch the ferry to Inis Mór, the largest of the Aran Islands.

As we would be spending a whole 24 hours there, we naturally bought enough food and drink for three weeks from the SPAR near the ferry dock. As we lugged shopping bags along the lane towards the ferry, one of them ripped under the weight and scattered its contents everywhere. I’ll never forget the sight of Lynne clumsily loping after a two-litre bottle of Coke that was rolling at speed along the tarmac, trying to make a break for it.

It was a brisk journey on the ferry. Lynne looked like the Michelin Man, all bundled up against the wind. Our bed-and-breakfast owner picked us up once we reached the other side, and as soon as we’d dropped the bags in our room, we were off on our rented bicycles to go exploring.

If you’ve never visited the Aran Islands, you absolutely must. The stone walls, quaint houses and surrounding water make for breathtaking vistas at every turn. With my backpack on and both of us easily making our way along the narrow country roads, we felt like two of the Famous Five, off on an adventure.

As the sun made its way to the horizon, we could have turned back, but instead made the decision to press on to Dún Aonghasa, a prehistoric fort site at the edge of a 100-foot cliff.

We had to park the bikes and climb for a while, but it was worth the effort. It was another spectacular view, particularly as the waves crashed against the rocks beneath.

Unfortunately, our return journey was not without its hiccups. I had underestimated the incline of the road we had to traverse in order to reach our lodgings and my steed was steadily turning against me. Let’s just say that certain parts of my anatomy were not used to sitting on an unforgiving bicycle seat for hours at a time. A couple of bemused residents witnessed me huffing and puffing up the hill, my puce countenance covered in sweat.

Lynne didn’t suffer as much, but she’d still admit it wasn’t a doddle. By the time we got back to our room, I was catatonic. It was my own fault for overestimating my athletic prowess – I shouldn’t have assumed that after years of being a couch potato, I could suddenly handle riding for hours straight. That being said, I still look back on that part of our trip with particular fondness. Inis Mór was truly magical.

Next on the schedule was a different kind of magic: The Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival. I think it’s a much more organised affair these days, but I wouldn’t have changed our experience for the world. People of all ages descended on the small town for a weekend of dancing, drinking, matchmaking and more dancing. We stayed at The Hydro Hotel, ‘boasting Lisdoonvarna’s only night club’, according to the official festival website. From early in the morning, and I mean 9am, the live music would start and patrons would be dancing. At The Matchmaker Bar in the town centre, there would be ‘official’ posters written in permanent marker of all colours, announcing when Willie Daly – resident matchmaker – would be available for consultations.

Everywhere we walked, the men were happily trying to book us for a dance later. After all, everyone only had three days, there was no time for coy disguises.

At breakfast, we sat on a table with the self-proclaimed Tipperary Tarts, a group of friends who had left their husbands and the tractor races at home for a bit of the craic. Don’t misunderstand – they weren’t looking to cheat on their spouses, just have some drinks and dancing. Good, clean fun. The only other thing I remember about that meal was the server bringing us an unreal amount of toast. I’ve never seen so much bread in my life.

When Lynne and I finally crawled up to our room around 1am, the same people we’d seen cutting a rug before lunch were having a knees-up to some lively Irish tunes. It was just fantastic. I would honestly recommend that festival to anyone – young or old, hitched or nay. It’s a brilliant time.

I could go on about our drive through the otherwordly Burren; the time I unknowingly sat in ‘Moira’s seat’ at her pub in Dingle when we were watching the rugby (and jumped out of it sharpish once I was made aware of my grave error); meeting Fungie, the bottlenose dolphin, on a boat trip; being thrilled to see that Dunmore East had barely changed over the years and it still had all the charm I remembered; and spending a fortune on branded keychains, hats and other knicknacks at the Guinness factory in Dublin; but my editor is already going to kill me when she sees the word count of this column.

The fact is, there just aren’t enough words to describe the beauty of Ireland’s landscape, the characters you encounter, and the warmth of the welcome. You have got to visit it for yourself.

Just two pieces of advice: Get used to riding a bicycle; and when you’re dancing, put down your Smarties.