The air is different in Ireland.
It's not just the softness of a mild, humid climate. It's the attitude. I'm not a great believer in supernatural things but suddenly I'm prepared to believe in fairies dancing in the misty fields and meddling in people business.
Strange things happen in Ireland. There are inclines where things roll uphill, not downhill. There is a church ruin where an entire stone wall has mysteriously jumped three feet. There are plaques commemorating the fact that nothing happened. There are strange sounds, optical illusions and people believing in all kinds of mystical things. And I feel a new wildness growing inside me. I'm turning into someone a little more carefree, reckless, impulsive. I don't drink as much as the people around me but at times I wonder if their intoxication is an airborne contagion.
Maybe it's just the freedom of being a thousand miles away from anyone that knows me.
My new friends, a party-spirited, loose gang of mostly Spaniards, Swedes and Canadians, put drinks in my hand. "You are too mellow for this gang," they tease me. "You drink less than my baby sister!" someone complains, almost angrily.
I'm grateful for being included in the "in" crowd so easily and fascinated by the carefree attitude, so far from the sobriety and intellectualism of my university friends. I'm also dismayed by the way they slander people behind their backs and constantly complain about the job. We spend long evenings in the bar or partying with kalimotxo, chorizo snacks and bottles of Jameson in the staff house. There is plenty of dancing, singing, kissing, hugging and punching. The Spanish boys get louder the more they drink and are prone to impromptu stripteases. The Irish demand everyone's attention and then sing a melancholy song about injustices suffered under the hands of the Brits. Scandinavians and Canadians throw themselves joyfully into the festive mood. Belorussians and Romanians take one look at the party and withdraw to their rooms to watch TV.
There are fights, love affairs, weed and broken bottles. Hotel staff love to party hard.
Late at night I'm often exhausted by the rowdy atmosphere and the cigarette smoke and sneak out without telling anyone - I learn the fine art of the "Irish goodbye" long before I realise it's a thing. Then I go for a walk in the dark. Through the thousand-year-old cemetery, straight out of a horror movie, if I'm feeling brave. Along the winding mountain road if not. Away from the inn, the quiet of the wilderness surrounds me like a warm blanket.
But the magic does its work on me and it's not long before I'm dancing with strangers and throwing rocks at someone's window. I still take my midnight walks but sometimes I bring a boy to kiss and sometimes I need to be alone to scream out a rage I've never, ever felt before.
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