It was peculiar for us to land in Dublin airport and collect a rental. With lights, indicator and wipers established, boot packed to the gills, off to Tipp with us, gone wrong with excitement. It rained, bucketed down on our week home. There was apple tarts and chocolate biscuit cake (savage!) and tight hugs and kisses and gasps of ‘look how tall you’ve all gotten!’. And the kids grew a bit too. There was talk of austerity and the economy and Mary from Tesco. Fond farewells and a bag of Grandad Jack’s apples in the boot we turned the wagon Wesht. And as for the new Limerick tunnel...ya gotta love that! Zig zagging our way across Galway the kids met up with their old pals albeit to a tight schedule. There was quality time with grandparents and cousins. ‘Is everything we say goin into that aul blob of yours’ enquires Grandad Dydys. I got my knuckles wrapped over the sneaky parsnips. The Small Man trained with his old squad. Hard to know if we did the right thing but I believe he came away the better for it. When you haven’t heard it in a while the Galway cadence and banter is priceless ‘Arah how ya Bridie’ inside in Dunnes and ‘c’mer an’ I tell ya’ is music to my ears. We soaked up the atmosphere in town and a few scoops were had. When the sun finally shone through, for a nano second, we walked the Prom and shivered watching a gang of young fellas as they jumped from the top of the tower. ‘When we come back at Christmas can I do that’ The Small Man hopes ‘only if I can do it with ya’ says I like an eejit. The bet is on. The last time I jumped I was a young wan. It looks much higher from the top now. Further farewells and laden with stones in their pockets from the beach, we made for Dublin. In synchronised mode all passengers assumed the position; elbows on the door, hand underneath chin, eyes gazing out the window. Shattered, drained and melancholy we headed back on the blue plane to our own beds with the comfort that we will be back again for Christmas. I await the emotional repercussions.
To trick or treat or not to trick or treat, that was the question. Hamlet man, I feel your pain. In these here parts we received conflicting advice on the correct etiquette for Oíche Shamhna. Sussing out the girls’ friends I was informed that they did not trick or treat, it was considered rude to go from house to house. I see, is that the way it is. Before we broke for half term one of the Italian mums handed me an invite to their Halloween party. So that solved our predicament. I assumed it was a kids party. So, one witch (complete with her mother’s good fishnets and red lipstick), one surgeon (guts hangin out) and one psycho killer hopped into the car and the GPS did its thang. We locate the house. The devil and his missus answer the door. There’s a pair of Spanish pumpkins in the kitchen and Dracula is tuckin into a glass of wine. We are the only adults not in costume. Morto. Pure Irish. And....everyone else brought a dish. I came with a bag of goodies for the kids. This is an international Oíche Shamhna. Because of the RAF base in the vicinity many Italian, Spanish and Dutch families complete a 3 year stint here. It never ceases to amaze me, the lives people live. One Spanish pilot said he used to fly for the Spanish royal family. His wife said they had no life, he was always gone and now that he’s around so much he’s getting under her feet. Sure ya can’t win. Good food was had, trick or treating was executed, Piñata bet to bits, we headed home on a sugar buzz to thoughts of school in the morning.
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