Photo: Ukrinform
All this is true that they tell about Ireland. Everything is true that James Joyce wrote about Ireland. And about the little balls of islands, the rusty-bearded sailor with a cup of strong, dark, foamy ale, and about the hot steam of veal soup and the scent of freshly baked, sweet buns floating from cafes, and about houses, long rows of houses, streets, miles of pavements, and about sardines on shelves, Dignam's pâté with rice and lemon slices. All true: and about Miss Kennedy with fogged mugs of cold porter for two gentlemen, and about the swirling chords in the roar of the sea, and about the mashed boiled potatoes in liver gravy, and about the goat strolling high in the rhododendrons, and about the bugs in the heather tickling the hand.
Everything that is written about Ireland in tourist brochures and catalogs is not true. If only because the real Ireland is not at all the English Ireland, but a most Celtic country Erin, or at most Hibernia, as the Romans once called it long ago. Because the true sights of the Emerald Isle are hidden from the not-too-hardworking tourist, and to fish them out, a trinket in the form of a shamrock bought in one of Dublin's countless little shops for six pounds, or a hastily read legend about Cuchulainn, is not enough. The very minimum is the ability to pronounce some English words with an Irish accent, so that 'food' sounds like 'fush', 'bus' inevitably becomes 'buss', the singsong 'sunny' resounds as 'sunny' (with a different vowel), and the unforgettable 'Russia' suddenly turns into 'rusha' with a rolling, almost American 'r'.
All because Ireland is no longer England, but not yet America, although it wants to look as if America is closer to it. And because the Irish saint Brendan, in a frail boat made of willow and covered with leather, traveled through North Atlantic waters past the Island of Sheep, the Island of Grapes, and the Firebreathing Mountain to the Promised Land almost a full thousand years before Columbus. However, the Irish themselves are in no hurry to popularize the name of the brave saint and claim the discovery of the New World. They are quite content with Patrick, ancient dolmens and castles, brewer Guinness with his book of records, palms peacefully coexisting with birches, and peacocks strolling along Dublin streets. Boasting, you know, is not in the Irish character.
Sheep Hunting
Ireland begins not at all with Dublin, as might seem to the uninitiated, but with that very place where the Cliffs of Moher scratch the sky with sharp summits, where even birds are afraid of heights and do not build nests here. Only the bottomless feeling of the edge of the earth, inspired by the boundless ocean or too fast-flying clouds, the thin, barely audible smell of heather or the mournful cries of soaring seagulls, can explain what Ireland really is. This, of course, is sheep. Sheep in Ireland, like air, are everywhere. That is, in fact, they graze on the rocks by the ocean, climb mountains and slide down on wet clay, climb again, dejectedly trample on already grazed pastures, lazily moving colorful spots of bright paint on their curly rumps, descend the spiral staircases of the pier, cross on ferries. The next inevitable pastoral after the sheep bucolic is unreal, simply fantastically thick grass. Or rather, its succulent, indescribably emerald color. The grass here, of course, is painted at night by soldiers, to at least amuse themselves and once again confirm the status of the most peaceful and ecologically clean country in Europe.
Sandwich
After three days of staying in Ireland, it became obvious to me that the cult of the Sandwich flourishes on the island. Its numerous types and modifications, striking the corrupted imagination of the most inveterate fans of unhealthy eating, appear in the form of giant loaves, plump stuffed buns, and multi-tiered sandwiches. You can stuff such sandwiches either to your own taste or according to a special menu. Only one thing remains unchanged - you get fat from them. But the Irish, despite the abundance of overweight people and social advertising urging people to leave the car at least for a short time, seem to have already solved this problem - a tracksuit can hide a couple of extra kilos, and today's youth is completely devoid of any complexes about their own figure.
The next idol of Irish cuisine is the potato, heir to a hungry past. Potatoes here are still eaten in huge portions and on every convenient occasion: for dinner, lunch and, most surprisingly, for breakfast. And the beautifully illustrated two-hundred-page books 'Potato Dishes' in tourist offices involuntarily suggest that, apparently, if it were the will of the Irish, tourists would take home in their suitcases postcards depicting golden-crusted French fries or appetizingly steaming mashed potatoes against the background of an ocean sunset or the cliffs of Moher.
Time for Pubs
National pride, national antiquities, national language - in general, a peculiar quirk of the Irish. The real Irish language, Gaelic, cultivated by the government, is quite common in the west of the country. It can be heard on some radio and television programs, seen on many signs and road signs. They call their anthem - 'Soldier's Song' (in English The Soldier’s Song) - by its Irish name, as well as their parliament and prime minister. Not that they are big xenophobes; rather, they simply seek to emphasize that they are not English. The latter is a special fact that the Irish prefer not to discuss aloud. For explanations of the essence of the conflict, which is also covered by Russian TV, and the key words of which are 'Belfast', 'Irish Republican Army (IRA)' and 'Northern Ireland', go to a pub.
A pub is a place where a bartender pours an inimitable dark-brown beer into a tall clear glass, the price of which practically does not vary depending on the establishment's rank. But wait: which pub are we talking about? A pub is in London, in the place where those hated twin taps for hot and cold water and left-hand traffic came from. In Ireland it is called a "pub". So, a pub is loud Irish songs about Peggy and various O'Flahertys who were lucky to be born in a small proud country, and sudden dances on the table. A pub is a place of loud conversations, where a decent girl from a working-class background is proper to drink Guinness in half-pint portions, and with higher education - a pint is also fine. In short, a pub is a magical place without which no Irishman can imagine his existence, and out of six houses in a small village, one will definitely be a pub. But, like all magic, pubs stop their activities around midnight, because an additional portion of miracles requires a special expensive license.
Liberty, Equality and Fraternity
Apparently, the climate in Ireland is such that the bacillus of communism and universal revolutionary justice was never destined to take root on this small Emerald Isle. The Soviet party leaders realized this in their time, declaring with indignation that the IRA leadership "had betrayed the cause of revolution and expelled communists from its ranks," while at the same time refusing to fight against fascism. Therefore, the word "freebie," so sweet to our ear, does not excite the imagination of ordinary Irish citizens, who are accustomed to hard work, high taxes, and an austerity regime.
And yet some three centuries earlier, Jonathan Swift, as a true champion of his homeland's prosperity, sincerely wished for the establishment of a law under which "half a dozen bankers would be hanged every year," which, in his enlightened opinion, would briefly put a stop to the ruin of Ireland. But, as is known from history, the proposed measures were not adopted, Britain continued to enjoy Irish Provisions from its colonial garden, and the popular Russian encyclopedia published by the Granat publishing house at the beginning of the last century described Ireland as "a very poor country, among the costs of governing which the first place is occupied by the item on the maintenance of the police and public education."
Most likely, it was precisely the lack of encyclopedic knowledge that let down the Russian cyclist, who found himself on the island exactly two days before me. But that was a fateful digit - in reality, the land of fairy tales and legends turned out to be not so sentimental, and stony, dry Connemara was too little like the Vologda Oblast, and it did not work out as it did at home, where "in the villages they almost fought for the right to put a traveler up for the night." The tired traveler on two pedals was "not even offered a cup of tea," and he, offended to the depths of his traditionally mysterious soul, headed off toward his native embassy, squeaking his tires displeasedly against the local sand. At the embassy, as it later turned out, he spent two restless nights and rode off home.
That same evening, the unshakable Irish, following an ancient tradition, selflessly studied the menus displayed in front of restaurants, slowly moving from one establishment to another and comparing where the oysters were cheaper that day. Who knows, maybe it's all about the Gulf Stream?
The Most Curious
Valery, a Russian citizen of Lithuania, whom we met in one of the Dublin pubs, has not spoken Russian for nine months now, cutting up Irish lamb and guarding the local pub. His employer, a stocky old fellow with hair the color of dry mustard, turned out to be a middle-aged man who drinks six pints of beer on an ordinary day and 14 pints when in the company of friends. When asked how he manages to get home after drinking, the bright-eyed Irishman with a playful smile replied: "I don't walk, I get behind the wheel and drive" (drunk driving is treated very strictly in Ireland, but when it comes to humor, everything is in perfect order: the forgetful hero of a popular local joke returns from the pub without his wheelchair, which caring friends deliver to his home the next morning).
The owner's surname was O'Sullivan. This prefix "O" is translated as "grandson or descendant of the Sullivan clan." There are also surnames beginning with Mac (MacKinley, MacDonald). Mac means "son." According to legend, all Irish clans trace their origin to someone. The Sullivan clan descends from marriages between ordinary mortals and sea mermaids, who were bad housekeepers and, at every opportunity, abandoned their homes and children and went back to the ocean.
It is worth noting that the Irish are the most curious people in the world. They will be interested in where you are from, what you think about yesterday's hurricane, whether you kissed the Blarney Stone to gain eloquence, whether you know what fish mackerel are caught on, why you don't wear a knitted scarf, how you feel about abortion, how many degrees it is now, whether anyone has told you that fishermen's wives identified their husbands' bodies by the pattern on their sweaters, whether there are sheep in your country, etc. If you are asked too many questions, ask about the new offerings on local television, where for the first two weeks of the month they broadcast a recording of a quarrel between the O'Neills, and the remaining two weeks - between the MacCrane couple. This is the cross of all the island's residents who are not connected to satellite television.
What else can be said about Ireland? That its population is smaller than in the nineteenth century, but, as before, the sky above it is worthy of an impressionist's brush? That the police there are unarmed, and the essence of the Irish character lies in the changeable weather? That the west coast with its bays, inlets, islands and endless sandy beaches, where ocean gulls peck at giant crabs thrown up by the surf and thick, heavy seaweed, is far more beautiful than the east coast? Or perhaps that Ireland is “bird bazaars”, sheer two-hundred-meter cliffs, all yellow-red from the setting sun, the barely perceptible smell of burnt peat in houses, the motley and mad Dingle, the dark purple and green color of the Atlantic Ocean? Maybe about the gold of the Celts, parks, monasteries of early Christians, castles and the magnificent stained glass windows of Catholic cathedrals?
You see, I am already asking you like a true Irishman. There is something to see there for those who truly want it...
_