The first experience of a genuine Irish pub - far out in the Irish countryside, in a valley where the gorse was blooming in shocking yellow and the air smelled of spring leaves and turf fires.
The pub was dark, as it should be, the ancient wooden paneling infused with centuries of smoke and alcohol and human emotions. There were locals there, people who through my foreigner's eyes looked like stereotypical Irish farmers, but my company - and myself - were the new breed of Irish, the immigrants who were flooding Ireland, loving Ireland and becoming a part of it. Young Canadians, Swedes and Spaniards chatted around me, full of plans for adventure in this magical country.
I felt very far from home, surrounded by unfamiliar things. The pub itself - I had never been much of a drinker - the people, the language which was clumsy in my mouth, the smells and sounds. There was a pang of homesickness. There was also that dizzying, exhilarating feeling you get when a rollercoaster is about to go into free fall. It was a chilly May night and my first night in Ireland.
Someone put a pint glass of Bulmer's Irish cider in front of me and I felt my new life beginning.
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