I took Simon, Lucy and Siobhan up the all too familiar M3 and M25 in an old black Suzuki Vitara, bound for Gatwick Airport. For a relatively ordinary fee, Ryanair had agreed to carry us and our on-the-limit hand luggage across the Irish Sea for Tim and Nuala’s wedding weekend. The preparations had been made, and we were well suited and adequately booted.
As we descended towards the ‘Emerald Isle’, the ground appeared bereft of rainbows, pots of gold or prancing leprechauns, but I reassured myself that the latter were probably terrified of giant metal jet planes and were most probably hidden well out of view – perhaps submerged in a peat bog or something. Despite this I was at least as excited as I had been when landing at any of the far flung destinations on our round-the-world holiday. Surely there would be plenty of magical Gaelic dwarves in the rural depths of County Cork. I hoped I wouldn’t run any over on the drive out to the wedding venue – that would not only incur the total loss of my rental car deposit, but probably a curse on the wedding, at least a lifetime of bad luck, and perhaps a few terrifyingly vengeful visitations by the ghost of the mangled Irish sprite in question. Luckily, we had no such misfortune and arrived safely at the beautiful setting for Tim and Nuala’s wedding.
The narrow lane took us up and over a green and purple lipped ridge of rock and moss consealing the valley beyond. We parked by the hotel, which sits proudly opposite the dark lake of Gougane Barra. It appeared to be bubbling as countless small trout broke the surface to catch low flying insects. The water, surrounded by a ring of mountains (probably more like large hills – but they’re rocky and steep and the word ‘hill’ doesn’t really do them justice), has a special jewel in its emerald encrusted crown. It’s found across a causeway that juts out from the nearmost bank onto a small island where there quietly sits a perfectly proportioned old stone chapel. An epic location for a wedding, even with the dark grey clouds swilling overhead. There was a sort of solemn, ancient beauty to the place and once you escaped from the wedding revelries, and as long as Giles (my 2 year old nephew) was under control, it was completely peaceful.
Just before the ceremony, in an unexpectedly surreal moment; none other than the President of Ireland turned up. Seemingly with the sole intention of well-wishing my brother on his big day, and ‘having a bit of a nose around the place’. I thought of European referenda, Gerry Adams, peace negotiations and Eurovision – important things that Irish Presidents need to be thinking about, but here she was – power-suited up, with a serious entourage and an immovably lacquered perm – shaking hands with Tim. “Surely Irish politics hasn’t gone that quiet?”, I thought. Perhaps it has. Nowadays, the only real threat to Irish stability would be a price rise on stout. Now that would be a catastrophe, and they dont need that. Life out in rural Cork seems to require very few decisions: a walk in the rain or not, pub or not, Guinness or Murphys…hmmm…Guinness. No, Murphys.
All went well with the day (if you excuse the wrigglesome antics of a certain 2 foot high relative). Good food and speeches were digested, before a strong guiness-clouded cocktail of booze, laughter, tears, drunken dancing (a lot of drunken dancing), and music filled the night. A long night for some. Namely myself, Siobhan, Lucy and some others who danced like maniacs to the iPod’s desires until the very, very wee small hours. I was a sweaty shirted mess of a man by the end, and I had found my leprechaun, right under our noses all along – it was Giles, of course!
