where do the Irish go in the winter?

Ireland, a while ago:

"Use your backhand!" Finian admonishes me kindly. He lets me play double with him in badminton and he is so good at it that he makes me feel good too. Kit shows me how to hold the racket more efficiently. Noel teases me for my killer attitude in the game and Philip makes me laugh.

The community centre in a remote Irish village has started up  badminton evenings  twice a week - early hours for children, later for the adults. Considering that the only other sports alternative around here is football, it's not surprising that so many show up. The gym hall has squeezed in four courts where doubles are being played simultaneously, and people are queueing in an orderly manner for their turn. You get paired up with whoever is behind you in the queue. Elderly men and teenage girls and everyone in between is there. Sometimes the wait is long but you can always pass the time getting updated on the village gossip.

I haven't played badminton since I was a child and secretly wish we could do volleyball instead. But before long, I love the game.

The hotel down the road where I, the foreigner, work and live has mostly foreign staff. Since I spend so much time around them, it's not easy getting to know the locals. During the busy tourist season there is no time for that anyway, and the villagers tend to avoid the hotel. Sometimes I wonder if they don't really like foreigners at all.

But now it's October, turning into November. Tourists are scarce and most of the foreign hotel staff have returned to sunny Spain or rainy Romania. When the hotel is getting quiet, all of a sudden the locals bring their kids and aunties and wet dogs and pour into the hotel bar. They come for Sunday lunch or a quiet weekday evening pint, to watch a rugby game or horse races on the TV screen, to play a game of darts near the roaring fire or enter in the annual pool competition (first prize: a turkey). They rent a meeting room in the hotel for their gun club or deer society (which I suspect is the same thing, a gang of hunters) or the district development association. They throw enormous, boisterous 21st birthday parties.

And I, one of the few foreigners left, slowly get to know them. I thought the Irish always kept a wary distance underneath their easy chatter. Now I realise they are fun. And I go to the badminton evenings and find out they are warm-hearted and caring, once you get past that first superficial banter.

To get to the community centre, I have to cycle the two miles to the village. I have no light and the road is pitch dark. I meander along the middle of the road, where I can vaguely see the painted middle line, to avoid crashing into any trees. If I hear a car coming, I get off the bike and press myself into the foliage at the side of the road (Ireland doesn't have ditches) because people drive like there is no tomorrow. Sometimes, there are really weird noises in the darkness around me. And I have to pass the place where they used to hang people a long time ago. A great deal of courage is required to get to this badminton game.

But I go, time and again. I feel as if I'm finally part of Ireland.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona duit go léir, taitneamh a bhaint as an seisiún!