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Cultural Immersion – Putting the Dip in Diplomacy.

By Lowell Courtney, LynchPin Tours
 
You would think that one of the “givens” of Irish tourism is a desire to meet the people.  Not that difficult, you would think, as we share what purports to be a common language, although there are a few moments of mutual incomprehension when your driver says: “Mind that lorry!” to passengers trying to dodge trucks while crossing a dual carriageway (freeway).

But all is not what it seems, as is so often the case in Ireland, where the desire not to offend means that many of your contacts will have a Washington lobbyist’s grasp of the truth: not that we launder the facts, so to speak; it’s just that we put them on the fast spin cycle.
Not so much Deep Throat as Loose Lips.

Having said that, Ireland was once one of the most accommodating places on the planet and if you’re quick, you can still catch that genuine welcome, the friendly fáilte, especially amongst the over 40s.

Now “Meeting the People” is a fine idea and there is no doubt that travel broadens the mind, though I have heard it described as time spent “minding the broads.”  But you have to ask two fundamental questions:

1. Does the tourist, as opposed to the traveller, really want to meet the people?
2. Crucially, do the people want to meet the tourist?

Now it is no accident that this site is called The Cultured Traveler, so it is reasonable to assume, for the purposes of this piece, that you, dear reader, are not the sort of person who arrives at 6 am on a fine May morning in Shannon, drives off up the brand new stretch of dual carriageway leading towards Galway and then wonders why the road becomes a country lane within 5 miles, with a surface which would render your SUV US (Unserviceable) after half an hour.

No, I rather like to think of you as the sort of person who is sensitive to local customs and who has done enough homework to know that much of modern Ireland is littered with houses which are modelled on Southfork, or Wisteria Lane, more likely.  Check out the “Where to Stay” guide if you don’t believe me.  Equally, you will know that, since its accession to the EU in 1973, Ireland has gone through a period of economic growth, the like of which it could only have imagined after many successive nights on the sauce and whose true cost, in terms of charity and civility, is only now being counted.  It was once claimed that “The business of America is business” and that particular Chicken Little has certainly come home to roost in our green fields, now emptying of crops and calves as the EU pays subsidies to our farmers just to keep the place tidy.

Having sounded that alarm, the good news is that there are still many people who remember the times when passing an exam was reward in itself and not an operation whose successful outcome required a round the world ticket as an “inducement”.  It is no accident that you are most likely to find a warm welcome from those who are older, wiser and cognisant of the fact that the market can go down – instead of perpetually up.
So let us go in search of the people; the people who actually enjoy your company and who are more than willing to listen and share something of their lives with you.

Despite dire warnings in articles entitled “Frosty Fáilte” and the like, there are still many bed and breakfast establishments and small guest houses who offer a genuine welcome and who will go out of their way to make you feel at home.  Sure, there are places where they show you to your room and kettle – and then disappear into the recesses of the designer kitchen, whence they emerge at 8.30 am to lard your arteries with the Full Irish, but they seem to have peaked, as the “industry” – for which real people with a tad more savvy – has realized that hospitality is still about people, not numbers.

A good bed and breakfast still makes a huge difference, but the chance of being awarded the ultimate accolade – the “Tony” of tourism – the invitation to share a cuppa in the kitchen, is very much up to you.  Believe me, this particular award is not lightly bestowed.  Nor can you buy it, for love or money.  It all depends on mine host’s disposition and whether you are prepared to make the effort. For example, we know of a four star hotel, no less, which has the crest of the Munster rugby team on the wall.  Now you may not know the difference between a rugby ball and a hockey puck – nor may you much care – but knowing a bit about your host country is, well, a pre-requisite.

Many of our children spend a summer – and you are most incredibly generous, for which we thank you – at camps or private homes in your country.  They undergo a couple of days or a couple of weekends being briefed on what to expect in terms of language, shopping, habits and just plain ordinary good manners, which appear these days to be singularly extraordinary.

Perhaps the same preparation might not go amiss amongst adults travelling in both directions.
To be fair – and I have had substantial  two-way experience these past few years – it is now the Irish who are less well prepared, despite the glut of Americana which floods our screens nightly.  It has been my recent experience that more and more of you are better briefed and considerably better mannered than our lot heading off on another shopping spree.  You are therefore more likely to be accorded the privilege of an unexpected invite to a home.

Of course, you can do this by arrangement.  The websites of Tourism Ireland and Failte Ireland will lead you to various sites which will offer you cultural immersion in the form of Irish language courses in the Gaeltacht, the now shrunken areas of the country where Irish is the first language.  The western seaboard – Kerry, Connemara and Donegal – is the best hunting ground.

Or you could try one of the many, many festivals which dot the country like a rash – more like the 365 islands in Strangford Lough, actually: one for every day of the year.  Whether it’s  the pipes or the paintbrush, there’ll be something that catches your fancy.  Murphy’s Law states that your chances of an invite to the house is in direct proportion to the amount of music and drink involved.

Conversely, Courtney’s Law states that the more your tour programme promises you “ a great night of frolicsome fun and fancy”, the less likely you are to get it.  Why? Because, dear perceptive reader, as you will know from your many travels, you cannot plan for that happy happenstance, that interplanetary conjunction of like-minded souls and a bottle of falling down water out of which springs one of those magical nights which stay with you for ever.

And if ever there was a land made for Serendipity, it is the remoter reaches of Ireland.

Let me tell you a story:

Many years ago, I invited my nearest and dearest from Virginia to share a cruise with me on the Shannon-Erne canal.  That none of us could drive a boat was irrelevant – you can’t do that much damage at 5 knots, unless you strike the champagne party amidships – but that’s another tale.

Arriving at the southern end of the waterway after a 4 hour drive, I inquired of the proprietor if there would happen to be “anything on” in his area of a Saturday night.  Knowing that I would go to one kirk on a Sabbath morn, and he to a chapel of a different hue, he inquired tentatively if we enjoyed choral music.  As we were in the depths of one of Ireland’s least populated counties at the time, I was intrigued. “Sure”, sez I, thinking that we might get the local children’s choir.  “Do you like a capella?” sez he. “No, I prefer a cappuccino” said I, before realising the error of my ways: “Of course, yes – whereabouts?” “The chapel” said he hesitantly. “But of course” said I and so, laden with more directions than a Microsoft program manual, we set off after dinner.  And in due course, we fetched up at the chapel set on the highest hill in Leitrim – 40 feet above sea level.
The choir were from Dublin; the music was divine and the audience enraptured.  But that is not the point of the tale.  No, sirree. As we were leaving, shaking hands with what seemed to be the entire population of the parish, a gentleman heard my cousin’s accents and asked ever so politely if we would be interested in an evening of traditional music.  Instant acceptance was followed by an invitation to follow him down a country road; “ for sure ye’d niver find it yerself.”

He was not exaggerating.  In the gathering gloom we followed him at madcap speed down roads which got ever narrower, as the grass grew ever higher, until we reached Somebody’s  Country Inn.  The Lord above may know to whom it belongs, for I certainly don’t.  In any case, space was cleared for us as the musicians warmed up.  Seeing a banjo, a guitar, a fiddle and an accordion, I thought we were about to be treated to the usual harmless rendition of “The Irish Rover” and the like, which you can hear in Temple Bar any night of the year.

How wrong can you be?  Just before “closing time”, a fairly hefty individual wandered in to respectful nods and greetings from all parties, especially from the banjo, the guitar, the fiddle and the accordion.  And from his pocket he took – no, not ten sovereigns bright – but a well-worn wooden flute, which he screwed together like a pool cue.  And from that fadog – that  oul’ wooden flute – he produced music which would not have disgraced the Boston Symphony Orchestra or the Royal Philharmonic.

For three solid hours His Rotundity, wearing a plain white shirt and grey flannels, gave a concert the like of which people would cross four states and two time zones to hear; a concert of such fluency and virtuosity that the others gave up trying to match him and just produced a gentle accompaniment.  And when we left at 3 a m, he was still going strong.

Ladies and gentlemen, you can neither book nor buy nights like that.  You can only treasure them and thank your Creator that you were alive to be there.  But with a little forethought and a lot of listening, you can improve your chances of being there, just being there.

Yes, you can read all the guidebooks.  You can research every site on the planet.  You can even take guidance from operators such as ourselves, who travel the country day and daily.  But the best advice I can give you is to arrive early, ask quietly and trust your senses.

You’ll not go far wrong and with any luck, one magical night will stay with you till the grave.