By Lonely Planet
David Monagan has continually dreamed of moving to eire, the land of his forebears. With humour and candour, he describes the pleasures and pitfalls, demanding situations and frustrations of relocating a feisty kin to a international land. Jaywalking with the Irish is a good, penetrating and infrequently hilarious portrait of a modern eire that's so frequently portrayed during the wistful lens of clichés that now not observe
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Additional resources for Jaywalking with the Irish
Then other children – two, three, and now a fourth – began to materialize like young deer out of the shadows. The father of one of these introduced himself. He was in his early thirties, dark-haired and slender, more Corsican than Celtic-looking, just as are a great number of Corkonians, thanks to the genetic contributions of so many invading Normans, shipwrecked Spanish sailors, and Moorish pirates washing up on the southwestern Irish coasts. His head had been nearly shaved to the scalp, in a ubiquitous style inspired by the county’s revered soccer star Roy Keane of Manchester United fame (who would later walk out on Ireland’s World Cup team in a classic Irish tantrum).
A great character, he was born at the other end of the terrace from where he now runs a bed-and-breakfast with his equally engaging wife, Breda, at that moment eyeing us from behind a curtain. Running a B&B seemed like an occupation from Ireland’s earlier era of modest expectations. But hold on, it turned out that Shaun and Breda pocketed enough from all those rasher, tomato, blood pudding, and egg plates, to holiday for four months every winter in Florida or Australia, or both. Did they need an assistant?
Mannequins preened in skimpy tight skirts and shocking lingerie – one shop was even called Undies – that not long ago would have set passersby to making disapproving signs of the cross. In fact, an earlier Cork bishop decreed that, to prevent lustful thoughts, curtains must be drawn over shop windows when mannequins were undergoing a change of clothes. Clearly, the world had changed. There were bookshops and boutiques and flash cafés exuding aromatic coffee smells. Coffee? That was a rare luxury in Ireland a couple of decades ago, when pots of loose-leaf tea were protected against the chill by wool caps known as “cosies,” and the road crews employed a specialist in a tin hut who kept the brew fresh for work breaks that recurred all day long.