Ireland

Sitting beneath the looming darkness of the unfinished ceiling of Westminster Cathedral, I found myself praying. I didn’t even know why, but I was walking past during a trip to London and I decided to go in, and I sat down, and then a priest came and began to say mass so I stayed, not knowing what was about to happen back in Ireland to the builder boyfriend, and not having any real feeling that you could call premonition – unless you count an overwhelming urge to be sitting in a cathedral praying, when I have passed there many times on similar trips and never once gone in. It was a lovely experience, except it seemed to me that it was shameful that we Catholics were allowing Jesus to hang on the cross in the dark.

As I was showing a couple from Lincolnshire to their room, I smelt a rat. I don’t mean metaphorically, about them. I mean that halfway down the hallway, as I walked two paying guests from the front door towards the staircase, the most overwhelming stench of rotting carcass wafted upwards from the floor, right next to the fancy dresser displaying the tourist leaflets. I glanced at them nervously to see whether they had noticed. They were telling me about their house-hunting. They wanted to move to West Cork to go off grid and get in touch with nature. That’s handy, I thought, because nature is currently rotting under the floorboards. Trust the darn critter to conk out beneath the main entrance hall just in time for a B&B arrival.

The house fell silent as the last of the tourists took their oat milk and pretend cheese from the guest fridge. Winter came in the nick of time. I’ve bitten my lip for six months while the B&B guests have forced their pro-Palestine, anti-Trump views on me, while refusing to eat normal food or use the dishwasher because, in leftie parlance, dishwashers cause neurological damage. ‘What does the shower cause?’ I wanted to ask some of them, who didn’t even use one towel or open one wrapped mini-soap in a week-long stay. Is soap carcinogenic now? Are you staging some sort of Gaza protest by not washing? The bookings dried up just before I lost it completely with the next long-haired hipster asking for coconut milk or declaring themselves gluten-free.

Almost a decade ago the Irish academic Liam Kennedy published a tremendous book with the title Unhappy the Land: the Most Oppressed People Ever, the Irish? It is a dissection of one of the most curious pathologies in the world: the desire to have been oppressed; a glorying in being repressed. Kennedy, like a few other brave writers (Ruth Dudley Edwards, Malachi O’Doherty, Kevin Myers) has the courage to point to an under-examined seam in Ireland’s history. Specifically he takes aim at the mawkishness that exists in contemporary Irish affairs. The desire to be the first victim, perhaps the greatest victim, of all victims, anywhere in the world. You see similar strains of aspiring victimhood in other mini-nationalisms.

During the immigration deluge in the wake of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, it seems one Afghan and one Indian national who threw themselves on the mercy of much-besieged Ireland got lost in the shuffle. Fobbed off with €25 vouchers, they were obliged to sometimes sleep rough for two months, without access to food and hygiene and exposed to hardship and fear. They’ve sued the Irish state. Knowing Irish NGOs, I bet they got help. The government has argued that the pressures on Ireland’s hospitality at the time were severe enough to qualify as a force majeure. Their reception centres were full to bursting and there was no room at the inn (and haven’t we heard that before). The Irish High Court sought a ruling from the European Court of Justice.

It’s more than two months since I returned from Dublin, and at last the hangover is beginning to fade. I flew out with our team at The Rest is History to record a series about the Irish War of Independence and Civil War. Our guests were Paul Rouse, a professor at University College Dublin and former manager of Offaly’s Gaelic football team, and Ronan McGreevy, an Irish Times journalist and author of a terrific book about the murder of Sir Henry Wilson. On the first night Ronan took us for an excellent curry; on the second, Paul organised a pub crawl. Well, I say a crawl, but in truth we barely got beyond the first pub, the Gravediggers, which is just a few hundred yards from the graves of Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera.

Leaving home is the best way to find out who you are. In my case, it’s a muddle. Welsh dad. Irish mum. English upbringing. And I feel pleasantly detached wherever I go. In England, I’m considered Welsh. In Ireland, I’m considered English. In Wales, I’m considered inadequate because I don’t speak the language, apart from the odd term like ‘popty ping’ (microwave). From childhood I’ve been a scholar of English preconceptions about my Celtic brethren. ‘Welsh? Cave-dwellers who love sheep.’ ‘Irish? Bog-trotters who love horses.’ The Irish are preferred, especially by the English upper classes, who are infatuated with Ireland as an abstract concept. But they’re less keen on the real thing. An Irish accent in the family is an ornament.

Over coffee in a seafood restaurant in the harbour, I talked with the most notorious accused man in Ireland and, I have to say, I liked him and thought he was most likely innocent. It was shortly before Ian Bailey died of a heart attack in January 2024, and I had just moved to West Cork. I bumped into him at a market day and asked if he would like to meet for lunch. I had long been fascinated by the unsolved murder of the French woman Sophie Toscan du Plantier, whose body was found by the gate of her remote West Cork cottage in 1996. After initially working on the case as a journalist, Bailey became the chief suspect and, following innumerable twists in a most bizarre case, he was eventually convicted in absentia in a court in Paris, although he managed to fight extradition.