Ceili Summer Schools nights

`The best thing about coming here has been making so many friends." Clare Nee, from Galway, is one of 180 students attending the July course at Colaiste Laichtin Naofa, the Irish college on Inis Oirr, which will be 40 years in existence next year.

The pattern of days in Irish college hasn't changed much over the years. Students still stay in local houses, presided over by Bean an Tis (Fear an Tis are still a thing of the future), spend their mornings in classes, their afternoons at games or on the beach, and their evenings at a ceili. Since the island is so small, the students can walk everywhere and they go back to their houses for lunch and tea. Bed is at 11 p.m. and lights out at half-past.

The idea of Irish college is still the same: to become absorbed over the three weeks into an environment where the Irish language and culture is inherent, and to come away with a better grasp of both.

There are, of course, other time-honoured attractions about attending Irish college. "The lads," declares Laura Murray from Co Roscommon. "If you go to an all-girl's school, Irish college is great." The other girls in Laura's house agree. But they're also keen to say that they feel their Irish has improved while they've been on Inis Oirr.

"I've definitely learned more here," says Tessa White from Kinvarra. "Conversational Irish. At school, we just learn the words, but here we're talking it, and that makes a big difference."

"You can really resent the course or you can make the most of it," Dubliner Rory McMahon says. "Last year I was sent against my will, but this year I wanted to come. Irish college is what you make of it yourself. You can have the time of your life if you want."

Both the boys and girls agree on disliking the formal morning classes. "Too much like school," is the consensus. "We learn much more by talking Irish about everyday things, like with the Bean an Ti in the house."

There are certain rules which all students have to observe. "Safety is our number one priority," stress Caomhan O Conghaile and Tomas O Conghaile, who are running the summer courses on the island. "We don't spy on the students, but in a small contained place like this, there isn't much that goes on that we don't hear about."

Anyone found with alcohol or drugs, caught going into the sea without supervision, or not going straight home after the evening ceili is expelled. Repeated use of English also leads to expulsion.

One student was expelled this July for not heeding warnings about speaking English. The other students showed their feelings by having a "Black Ceili" that night. "We all dressed in black and went to the ceili and wouldn't get up to dance," explains Emmet O'Connor from Athlone. "The teachers were really mad."

Alan O'Brien from Co Clare was on a last warning at the time. "Caomhan told us anyone on last warnings who wore black would be sent home too. So I wore a red T-shirt under my shirt," he says, with perfect teenage logic. Others in similar situations wore navy. Whatever the colour, the message of solidarity with the expelled student was made clear.

Inis Oirr's crescent beach with its clear greeny-blue water, and the evening ceilis from 8 to 10 p.m. seem to be everyone's favourite things about the course. "The beach is so beautiful," Tessa White sighs. "The ceil is could be longer," sighs Clare Hanly from Nenagh.

There are seven teachers looking after the students. Rosie Farrell from Co Longford is one of them. It's her second summer teaching on the island. She loves it. "Last year, I got a job in the pub for the rest of the summer after the course, I was having such a good time. This year, I'm teaching for the July and August courses."

Like the students they teach, romances are not unheard of among the teachers. Orlaith McDermott, from Co Roscommon, sits in the pub hand-in-hand with her islander boyfriend. "Yeah, we met this summer," she giggles. "We started off with having a common interest in Irish and the Gaeltacht."

The evening ceilis are cheerful, madcap events. Nobody is allowed to refuse a dance, which takes possible public mortification out of the equation, and must make everyone much more relaxed as a result. The hall is jammed. One of the teachers stands on the stage and operates the music; the others patrol the hall and environs: students are not allowed to leave the building during the ceili.

A bench runs around the perimeter of the hall. Everyone has their own pitch they sit in every night. There's not enough room on the bench for everyone, so people double up, sitting on each other's knees. Gallantry is observed. "When Caomhan sees a boy sitting on a girl, he makes them swop," says Therese O'Higgins from Co Galway.

A casual observer would conclude that the hall-full of teenagers suffer from very weak bladders, so often is the request made to visit the leitreas. "Oh yeah, well, we can't go outside, so we go and hang out in the loos for a while," explains Clare Nee. The boys do the same. The teachers grin and let them pass - most of the time.

The local children, some of them not much more than toddlers, are encouraged to come to the ceilis too. "They know the dances and have the language, so we like to see them," Caomhan says. Just like a wedding, tiny boys are dancing with dressed-up teenage girls, whose hips they barely reach. A small lad even asks this startled reporter for a damhsa.

The rowdiness ceases when the national anthem is played. Everyone stands to attention and sings. A quick scan of the hall indicates that unlike many other public occasions, these anthem singers actually know all the words. "The teachers go ballistic if they catch you moving while you're singing the anthem," report the boys. "It's the one thing that really drives them mad."

Coming up to the end of the three weeks, what are the students' feelings? "It's a beautiful place and everything but it's kind of small and lonely," says Alistair Langwell from Leixlip. "And speaking Irish all the time can get you down," he adds, looking around a bit nervously.

"No matter how homesick you are in the beginning, you're always sad leaving," says Clare Nee.

"I'm sad going, because I'll be saying goodbye to my girlfriend," reports Emmet O'Connor. "But I'll see her next year - we're both going to come back!"

"Being away from your parents, you have to fend for yourself," Aine Mulcahy states. "It makes you more independent."

And Rory McMahon definitely has the makings of a New Man. "All the fellas say they won't cry when they get to Galway, but I know I'll bawl my eyes out," he says, without the slightest trace of embarrassment.

Colaiste Laichtin Naofa, Inis Oirr, can be contacted at 099-75016