Naked Ireland

‘Naked’ and ‘Ireland’ struck me as rather ironically oxymoronic.  Times and attitudes are changing, but the Irish on the whole as a nation are reasonably disinclined to disrobe and less likely to get their kit off than their mainland-European brethren. It’s testament to this country’s historical religious and cultural embedding that the Irish have been particularly cowed by a Catholic guilt & papal prudity that hasn’t seemed to have afflicted their European coreligionists to the same extent. Why the Irish should feel particularly abashed about dropping their draws is extraordinary when you think of the Swedes who swan around starkers in the sauna, jolly Germans gambolling around unclad, inadequately-dressed Italians, skimpily-clad Spanish and the French who will frolic au naturel at the drop of a drawer.  I once had the audacious impropriety to wear a bikini top on a French beach and ended up feeling like a nun at an orgy . . . Interestingly, Ireland is the only coun...

One of the things that I love about living on an island with inclement weather is that that we’ve avoided the concrete jungle and ribbon-development so typical along the coastlines of warmer climes where sky scrapers and apartment blocks jostle shoulder to shoulder along a limited length of coastline, where the entire population of one country of several tens of millions tries to take their annual beach holiday in the same six week period.  On Irish strands, as beaches are known, there are no beach bars selling flamboyant cocktails to the tunes of thumping summer hits, no lines of pay-per-day sunbeds or umbrellas, no queues for car parks charging eye-watering rates just for the pleasure of minding your car while you while away the day in the sand and surf, no disheartening lines of traffic and depressing jams on the way to the beach, that can ruin your day before you’ve even arrived, requiring that you leave home at the proverbial crack of dawn if you are to get to your intended b...

Christmas has always been a mixed bag of emotions.  When we were children we lived in Africa so Christmas day meant guzzling gallons of ice-cold Pimms (the adults) and fooling around in the pool all day (the kids).  Most people didn’t have family nearby so it was a good excuse to meet up with friends and get plastered in the sunshine with plenty of staff to pour the drinks, make the ice, cook the lunch and, finally clear everything up.  It couldn’t have been easier (for the adults) or less traditional (for the kids). As a child, I remember some hilarious Christmas dinners with friends and the uproarious games we played, including calling a random number in the telephone book and singing a rude version of Jingle Bells down the phone and my Father having to dress in the hostess’ sexy (and revealing – urgh!) lingerie.  We used to play ‘pass the orange’ – where you have to pass an orange held under your neck to the next person under their neck – a good excuse for th...