So long, farewell, I bid you all adieu, etc., etc.

All packed now, ready to go. Just waiting on my lift from Springtown to Dublin.

Here are some things I will miss about home.

Whelan’s pub and live music venue, Wexford St., Dublin

Dreadful beer. Even worse brown plastic statue of a man standing at the bar that I still smile at sometimes in the low light. No seats. Tiny stage. However, it has the best smoking area in Dublin. Where else can you bum a smoke from a Lions captain, an internationally acclaimed bluegrass musician and Mundy all in the one night?

Nowhere else, that’s the answer.

Fayles’ Hardware shop, Main St., Springtown

I love the smell of Fayles, a mixture of potting compost, plastic kitchenware and paint. A concrete floor piled with every imaginable type of tool. Saucepan, rug, seed packet, gardening implement, mirror, bathroom fixture, knife, screw, nut bolt and shelf. A big builders’ providers out back – a cornucopia of four by twos and other types of construction material. With everything priced individually to be written up in the big book. And rung in on the old cash register. And the staff, universally grumpy but well on top of the stock and always so helpful. Able to find anything for you.

Zandra’s Ladies Fashion House, Main St., Springtown

Where else can you get fabulous, luxurious, glamorous, French labels at the cutting edge of this year’s trends, at a fraction of the price you’d pay in Dublin?

Nowhere else, that’s where.

Jabba the Cat, my garden, Springtown

I found her on the street on my way down to Smoothies’ pub a couple of winters ago. It was a typical frosty, cold Springtown night and she was a little black scrap of a thing, huddled against the wheel of a car, mewling pitifully for someone to love her. Fully grown now, she is, ensconced with the Queen Mother and Father, she is spoiled rotten and has a sleek, radiant coat, a big belly from all the feeding she gets and the most laid back attitude to life I have ever observed in a mammal. When I come back I’m going to live in a house with a porch and rock in a rocking chair with Jabba on my lap.

The Chestnut, Green St., Springtown

A fire flickering at either end. The lads supping creamy pints of Guinness and settling into a session with guitars, flute, mandolin, bodhran and harmonica. Going out for a smoke under the gas heaters in the yard. Realising that it’s only my Dublin friends who have given up smoking, and everyone I know in Springtown is out there too. DJ sessions on bank holiday weekends. Local guys playing their record collections on a wet Sunday. Discovering JJ Cale on one of those Sundays. Watching rugby matches on the small screen. Getting a crick in my neck doing it. Conor’s shots. Conor ordering me to drink them. Stephens’ Day in the afternoon. Mulled wine at Christmas. Thanks guys!

Rugby internationals, Dublin 4

The anticipation. Having a steak sandwich in Jury’s beforehand. Wedging myself into Smyth’s afterwards. Finding everyone from Springtown in Doheny and Nesbitts around ten that evening. The other fans – Welshmen singing, Scottish men drinking in kilts, Englishmen slagging us, French disdain, Italian smiles.

Gruel, Dame St., Dublin

Dinner for a tenner. Bangers and mash with the onion relish. Rocket fuel in a water glass peddled as red wine. Upstairs in the smallest restaurant in the world, or downstairs where the smell of damp would knock you out and the tables all wobble.

The coffee booth at the Ha’penny Bridge, Dublin

Sitting there after work in the sunshine, drinking a latte, watching the kids fish for the little crabs that populate the Liffey. Getting my purse nicked, chatting to tourists, being touched by some sob story. Handing over my last fiver. Watching people clatter over and back across the lovely old iron bridge.

The Cobalt Café, North Great Georges St., Dublin

Great coffee, yummy toasted sandwiches and lovely staff. You never know who will be there but there’s always someone you know. All the art for sale on the wall, the glass cases with their jewellery that you never remember to buy. At Christmas time the piles and piles of pot pourri. A bird flies in most days and dazes itself flying around the tall Georgian room, before someone gently shoos it out into the garden. Which is for smokers only.

Cobblers shoe shop, Main St., Loughrea

The smallest shoe shop in Ireland I’d say. And the best. Shoes to die for. To kill for. To dream about. To save up for. To ooh and aah over. To fight over. I got the last pair of green suede flip flops the other day – thanks Nadia for bowing out of the race so graciously.

Last post from Ireland.
Next post from Canuckstan.

See you all soon.

Queenie + Percy