PART OF THE IMPETUS for traipsing around the country for a year, sampling the en fête feeling of various parishes and pueblos, was my inability to secure a mortgage.
Living in a van has had unforeseen benefits. I now get to pull up the hand-brake and sample a different neighbourhood every night. It’s kinda like a mobile “try before you buy” scheme. I went up-market last weekend and dropped anchor in a quiet corner of Howth. It was all automatic gates and pairs of high- spec Land Rovers in the drive, very clean and very quiet. I made a cup of tea, read the paper and had a snooze. Upon awakening, I got out of the van for a stretch and a scratch, and surveyed my surroundings.
Lovely setting with sea views and salt air, but I couldn’t live there. Any neighbourhood where they’d let a fella like me camp at the side of their immaculate green should be avoided. I hear they have a much better class of encampment in Killiney.
I wasn’t in Howth just to aggravate residents’ committees. Hordes had descended upon the seaside town, to celebrate the Dublin Bay Prawn.
SIZZLING SHELLFISH
The air was alive with smells of sizzling shellfish, smothered in all species of spices and sauces. Last Saturday afternoon the sun actually shone, the big wheel turned, the prawns sizzled and a most unlikely festival had a bunch of happy punters decapitating crustaceans left, right and centre. I heard one Howthian comment to a busy prawn broker, with no small degree of surprise – “This is actually working, isn’t it?” I heard a young American tourist on his phone – “There’s a hell-of-a lot of people and we’re all eating prawns. That’s pretty much it.” He sounded happy about it though. I hope he stuck around for the fireworks. Isn’t that just typical of the miscreant in me, earwigging at a prawn festival.
FUN IN A FIELD
I’ve been at a fancy do or two since starting this escapade, but none compare to the gala fundraising event that I crashed last Sunday. Hollywood Baby! Co Wicklow that is. Hollywood Hills Vintage and Tractor Run is old-skool fun in a field. Bouncy castle, throwing things to knock over other things, wheel of fortune, a raffle and a contender for the bestest Master of Ceremonies in the country.
All the lads driving the tractors and vintage vehicles paid 20 quid for the privilege, with proceeds going towards the National Rehabilitation Hospital. The main attractions paying to participate and the punters enjoying the spectacle for free? That doesn’t happen very often. This crowd had a field day. Literally.
STRUMMING AROUND
The Guitar Festival of Ireland was running last weekend and I popped into the National Concert Hall to see the wonderfully monikered and manicured Elena Zucchini. She cut an impressive figure and delivered an even more impressive programme that saw her move seamlessly from well- worn classical pieces to contemporary compositions that challenged both herself and the audience. I think I might have more of a crush on her than I do on the mammy from Crystal Swing.
DEBAUCHERY
Bank Holiday weekends are difficult. There’s just so much going on. There’s kayaking and cuckoos in Kinvara. Féile na Bealtaine in Dingle has a nine-piece Congolese band that will have the Skelligs rockin’.
So many festivals, so little bank holiday.
Since beginning this quest, I’ve been striving to strike a balance. It can’t be wanton debauchery and decadence all the time. I’d be done in. In the past two weeks there’s been culture, crustaceans, tractors, dancing and horses. It’s time for some loud music and full-throttle festivaling in a field. Purely for the sake of balance, like.
So this weekend I’m going to be revving up to Vantastival in Louth and warming my bones at Festival of the Fires in Westmeath. I’ll milk the weekend dry.
Safe travels, don’t die.
