Irish abroad: ‘One local called me a potato eater . . . ironically, he was eating cheesy fries at the time'

Irish Times

2 days ago

When I first moved to the
UK
, I said I'd give it six months. Now it's been six years and I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever leave.
Last year I was fortunate enough to buy my first home. The elation of the achievement was tempered by the fright of having done so in London. I don't remember making a conscious choice to stay here permanently, but maybe this is it.
Milestones like these hammer home the reality of living abroad. Detached from my support network, out on my own.
Back in
Ireland
, I'd have had an instinct for the
property market
in terms of location and what an area might be like to live in. My parents might have popped along to a viewing and offered an opinion on how much they felt the apartment was worth.
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Buying over here left me at the mercy of English estate agents. With their severe haircuts and ill-fitting suits, they look like they're running late for an Andrew Tate seminar. It starts with an oily handshake, then the lies start.
'The sellers have turned down multiple offers already.'
'The neighbours are all really lovely.'
'I kissed a girl at the weekend. No, you don't know her. She goes to a different school.'
Cillian Murphy moved his family to Cork when his kids started speaking with posh English accents. I can only imagine the pain. Of course, I wouldn't abandon my child if they spoke like that, but I'd probably love them 10 per cent less.
'Papa, take Poppy and I to Waitrose to buy hummus. I'm ever so hungry.'
My real fear is staying in the UK so long that I go full Pierce Brosnan
The urge to put him or her in a basket and leave them on the steps of a church would be overpowering.
The lilt of our voices is the birthright of any Irish baby. How we sound is our only natural advantage when we move away. Without it, we're just freckled alcoholics with translucent skin, doomed to walk the earth for eternity in a state of bleary-eyed shame. Nosferatu in an Aran jumper.
Murphy was right to take his children home. It was the humane thing to do. The accent is our superpower. Meandering, dull stories become charming. Incoherent mumbling is mistaken for poetry. Birthing a baby with an Irish head but denying them the accent is an act of child cruelty.
This is not universally true. There are those who hear the gentle rhythm of our speech and are overcome with a poisonous envy. Years ago, I was standing outside a kebab shop in Western Australia when a local turned to me and called me a 'potato eater'.
The irony was that he was eating cheesy fries at the time.
Who knows if I'll have a child or not. My real fear is staying in the UK so long that I go full Pierce Brosnan. So far removed from my origin that I become an awkward facsimile of myself. Half-remembered visions of my childhood blurring with drunken fever dreams. Perched on a barstool in a silk cravat, waxing lyrical about the old country to anyone who will listen. 'I do miss Éire,' I'd slur. 'My father built our family home from clay and sticks on the banks of the River Liffey. I often wonder if it's still standing.'
Perhaps I should reflect less on what I might be losing and consider what it is that I've gained by leaving Ireland.
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The Irish diaspora setting up and running businesses abroad
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The New York island that is the final resting place for thousands of Irish emigrants
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Living in a foreign country gives you the chance to look at yourself a little differently, to try doing things another way. Part of it might just be a function of getting older. But, since living in London, I've definitely taken chances that I never did back home.
Starting a new life is hard. Emigrating forces you to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. It's challenging, but you might just surprise yourself with how much you can handle. When things feel like too much and you feel like going home, that is actually the very moment that you should stay.
Unless, of course, your kids start sounding like they're in Downton Abbey.
Then it's probably time to go.
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