For instance, leaving Dublin yesterday and heading west towards the little medieval market town of Ennis (chosen more or less at random) for a couple of nights stay, we stopped for lunch at a place called Maynooth. Now, it's quite a place, with an ancient ecclesiastical foundation and a large university, and (as we found out) a great selection of cafes and restaurants supplying lunch in a pretty and buzzing high street. But we had never heard of it, till we got there. Silly us. It's definitely worth exploring and we were lucky to get a table in the pre-Christmas rush at a Spanish bar/restaurant called Picaderos which supplied us with stonkingly good food in a fabulous atmosphere. Memorable.
And when we finally clawed our way through the fog and dark wetness of an Irish December, and found ourselves in Ennis itself, we could hardly contain our pleasure and excitement. True, the hotel had a style of decor which can only be described as ambitious, but once outside and pushing into the town centre we found ourselves in a magic place: small medieval streets with a wide variety of pretty and old buildings, all lit with dazzling Christmas lights which were reflected on the wet pavements to create a kind of fairyland. Up at the top of the hill is a splendid monument to that great Irish patriot and pacifist Daniel O'Connell - standing on his column and surveying the whole area. The shops are just plain gorgeous - stylish, inviting, varied, cosmopolitan, artistic, thriving. The main streets are crossed with small alleys which lead through into a variety of marketplaces and squares. The town is girdled by the River Fergus - a great character in its own right - powerful, embanked, pushing along relentlessly at about 5 or 6 miles an hour - really fast. We found the remnants of a series of mills whose origins go back a thousand years or more, most recently 19th century, and with a bewildering array of races and sluices, leats, bridges and stonework, watched over by a regal heron who stands by the fish-ladder waiting for his dinner to arrive.
Walking round again this morning, a group of lads called out to me. One said, 'Will you be my mum?' He was serious. We chatted, and he said he came partly from Ennis, partly from London. Only he doesn't have a mum and wants one. I said no, but he asked me again. One of his friends said 'He's seriously mental....' He asked what I do - and I said I make things. He said, 'Can you make snow? Can you make it snow?' I had to say no again. He was beguiling, and needy. I hope he finds a mother. But it won't be me.
We love Ennis. It has such a buoyant nature, pride in its past, and it's set on the edge of the enticing west coast region called The Burren which we went to see this afternoon, despite the dreadful dark wet weather. We will have to come back when it's lighter... what a lovely place. Small hills and woods, interspersed with plateaux and bogs, with some of the hedges bent over into haggard crone-shapes in the wind. Some of the cottages are thatched. Cattle and sheep look muddy but robust. The colours of the land - even in the dull light of the solstice day - are rich and glowing - reds, purples, greys, blacks and blues. A huge quarry is carving its way back into a mountain ridge and is filled with huge crushing systems so that the piles - slagheaps - of rock are graded for road-making or other construction work - all a dark slatey grey.
A land like this, with the sea not far away, and a complex history, and solid land-based economy of small farmers and resourcefulness, is very attractive. I guess most Britons have no idea of the history of what 'we' did in Ireland. The stories are deep-rooted and powerful. The injustice and cruelty and greed were relentless. But I have to confess, reading about one battle - maybe the decisive moment when the Jacobins (Catholics, of course) had to give up... that did make me laugh. It's the Battle of Aughrim. A very grand French general came to command the Irish, and the final confrontation was to be where the R Shannon was understood to create a workable boundary. He was called Charles Chalmont, Marquis de Saint-Ruhe, generally referred to as Saint Ruth who assumed the post of Marshal-General of Ireland, in May 1691. One of his main assets was an unassailable belief in his own powers - he urged his men to fight because he was leading them, and bolstered their morale by telling them that he was marvellous. Not all his officers agreed with him, but enough stayed around to get the battle going.
The story of this great face-off between the Irish Catholics and the English-sponsored Protestants in the form of a Dutch army led by a man called Godard de Ginkel, is available in huge detail at http://www.historyireland.com/early-modern-history-1500-1700/the-battle-of-aughrim/
But the fact is, from an Irish point of view, that two dreadful things happened on that day. After a confusing day, Saint Ruhe's head was knocked off by a cannonball. This fact was concealed from his troops for a while, enough for them to fight on. But they were losing it. The skirmishes between cavalry and infantry, the taking and losing of high ground, the battle itself was slipping out of their control. They lost their cannons, and had to resort to small arms. For that, they needed more ammunition and tore open the boxes which their glorious French commander had brought with him. Then, the ghastly truth came out. He had brought French shot. It was the wrong size for the Irish (English) guns. For all his planning and swaggering and grandeur, he had no idea that there was any difference. The soldiers had to use the buttons off their clothes, small pebbles from the ground, and the wood ramrods which they used to charge their guns.... But, of course, it was hopeless.
There is some doubt about many Irishmen and how many Protestants died that day. Thousands. The only ones to survive were those who fled the field. The Jacobites left Ireland altogether and mustered on the continent ready for another battle another day - the planned invasion of England accompanied by rebellion.... the whole romance of Bonny Prince Charlie....
This glorious, or inglorious bit of the Irish resistance story has faded from view in the light of more recent rebellions and wars, but you can't overlook it. Every church, every village, every high street in the land reflects it, in the proud names on the shopfronts and on the stunning marble and limestone gravestones and monument. This is Ireland. It's just a bit like England, in some ways, but it absolutely is not at all like England. It's a parallel universe. And it's still 'in Europe' which Britain may not be for much longer. History has weird ways of changing things. I think of England as my mother-country, but I feel more at home in Ireland in so many ways. I wonder if I will be asking Ireland if she will 'be my mum', one day.
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