Nuala Whittle

A land of saints and scholars, a land that calls me home.
A land that has nothing for me, a land that owns everything I hold, dear. It’s queer, the sheer seasons changing
Derange me here, but when I’m there, I can’t stand
To be near, I fear, there’s no steering life, but I try,
And I don’t want to resent you Ireland but -

These are the thoughts in my head as the plane touches down.

Each footstep brings the drenching love and call of soil ever closer, and ginger steps down metal stairs feel refreshing. My imagination says that the ground beneath my feets feels different, homely, and my nose prickles with the smell of turf fires and mountain air, before quickly registering two facts:

1)It is impossible to feel any ground under shoes with a three-inch platform and, 

2)I do not smell a turf fire, I smell engine smoke and a blueberry vape.

The airport is grey, and the ruddy faces speak in accents that come from bogs and valleys, and cliffs and trees and secrets, and they all look me in the eye - they can tell I’ve come from away, that I’m playing tourist. Can’t they? I push the mountains and valleys aside, moving through security and approaching the bus.

There is no bus. Well, there is a bus, but that bus only comes when the bus-man decides that it’s time. We circle like hens, picking and scratching at the wet concrete as we wait for the Big Green Bus, going to Naas, an hour after it said it would. When it eventually decides what its own verision of ‘half past four’ looks like (it is nearly six), the Bus Man opens the door without looking; he knows he will have passengers.

We all trundle on, at the mercy of John/Willy/Diarmuid the Bus Man, and then we set off into the landscape and the night time, going to a mid-size town. Small drops trickle into traffic, and are only eased by blurred orange indicators of cars turning off into whatever Ballysomething follows their chosen roundabout exit. We never exit, and move and move, and drive and drive. It has been so long since I have been in a four wheeled vehicle that I am desperately sick. My closed eyes imagine fields of clover, and my ears pretend they can hear the song of my ancestors, but this is fanciful, and cannot compete with the rousing rendition of ‘Dance Monkey’ coming from the radio. My mother laughs to hear about this journey, and reminds me that this is not Berlin, there’s no point relying on the buses, a smile in her voice.

One week later, I watch from Berlin, to see the buses are in flames and the smoke drowns out the good voices of good people, people that draw me home but will never know what it feels like to leave.

'Ní mar a shíltear a bhítear'
(All is not what it seems)