Instead we confirmed ourselves with memorizing the image we saw on the horizon and dreaming about how incredible that session would have been. As even to keep dreaming it was getting too cold, we turned back towards the pub we had seen on the road. Having discarded plan A, surfing, we turned to plan B: having a beer and finding the best soup in all of Ireland. A much more achievable goal, as there are pubs with soup of the day on the menu at every turn of any village you pass through. Villages that, with their houses and little shops that seem to belong to times of the past, could easily be the setting for a film, including its characters. But not just a film of any genre. They are the ideal setting for tragicomedy.
Have you seen any Irish films? I don't want to generalise, but a lot of them are tragicomedies, and very good ones! They can be related to different themes like music in ‘The Commitments’, rural life in ‘Awaken Ned Divine’ or have a more romantic story like ‘Wild Mountain Thyme’, but what they all have in common is that somewhat dramatic touch with a good spark of humour. At least in the rural areas we visited, everything seemed to breathe that air. The landscapes as well as the people, marked by the weather, the day-to-day life and probably the occasional Guinness. At a first glance life might seem rather grey and dull here, including its people, but when the sun comes out, illuminating the wild coasts and the furious green of the fields and forests, the scenery changes completely. And if you wander through the streets alongside houses with windows and doors painted in all colours and exchange two words with their people, you realise that the complete opposite is the case.
At every step we discover stories, some of which we made up and some of which we were told. The ideal soundtrack for these mini-scripts would be a curious mix of reflective, dense and deeper tracks like Radiohead's Creep and injections of tunes full of energy and light-hearted joy like the Beach Boys' Good Vibrations. This is the omnipresent feeling that we perceive, and which confirms my theory of the tendency towards tragicomedy.
In line with that, one day we met a lady all dressed up warmly and walking slightly hunched over, either because of the weather or her age, who ended up taking off all her layers and without a second thought jumped into the sea for a swim in her bathing suit. And I'm neither talking about the Caribbean nor about a sunny, splendid summer day. The surfers here in winter wear a 5/4 wetsuit and many wear hoodies, to give you an idea of the temperature. Meanwhile, our lady didn’t seem to have much trouble. At the beginning of course you struggle, but in the end it becomes an addiction, the good kind, she told us when we asked her after her swim. Paradoxically, the cold that seems to pass even through your bones makes you feel much more alive. This addiction to feeling alive motivates her to keep up her ritual every day of the year. In fact, in many areas you can join meet ups to go swimming or dip into the sea as a group because it’s proven that it alleviates psychological problems such as depression.
That there is something healing about the sea is no news, and being an island, Ireland has plenty of that remedy. It is a culture with a strong connection to the ocean, that originates way back in the past and has been lived in many different ways. In fact, getting in touch with the ocean through surfing is one of the most recent ways. And guess what! Even the beginnings of professional surfing on the Emerald Island have a bit of a dramatic storyline with a dash of humour.
The first international surfing championship ever staged in Ireland took place in 1972. The coastal town Lahinch was chosen to host the event, but while surfers arrived from all over Europe, there was no sign of the swell. Many didn't want to waste any time and left without even taking the board out of their bag. Still, some weren't in such a hurry and took their chance for a road trip along the coast... and were rewarded. Not celebrating the final of the championship, and probably with more sheep and cows following the show than spectators, but surfing incredible waves and taking home an experience they surely still remember.
We took our stay with the same philosophy, after a couple of weeks of cruising up and down the coasts and through narrow streets where the speed limit apparently is up to free interpretation. Having gone through the first few frustrating sessions with wrong boards and struggling against the offshore wind, the search for waves became almost a side story. In the main plot, we suddenly found ourselves in the weekly charleston and foxtrot lessons with the town's pensioners. Some of them live so far off the hidden track that they don't even see their next neighbour, which can end up being a quite lonely life. With the excuse of the dance classes, though, they get together to socialise in the community centre. Even the parish priest comes along to shake a leg.
We also followed the advice of the mini market owner to watch the boy's Gaelic football match, and whenever we had a chance we stopped to have a chat with the people we came across. That might sound weird and with the pace of everyday life it’s probably something you would not consider doing too often, but hey, we were on holiday and this way got to know the local culture. That’s how we met one lady, for example, who was the owner of a house in the middle of nowhere that was surrounded by beautiful flowers. When she heard that we were in search of waves, she told us all about her deceased husband, who was a real Aquaman at a time when wetsuits didn't even exist.
Another day we went into a pub where we sat at the bar and a man, who seemed to have spent his afternoons there all his life, in the beginning just watched us out of the corner of his eyes. After quickly realising that we were anything but locals, he told us that he was actually a foreigner himself. Which seemed strange to us because his Irish accent couldn't have been more pronounced. It turned out that he was from another county and with the pride they have in every county, being from another practically feels like being a foreigner.
I don't know if it was because of the genuine way the people we met treated us like one of them or because of the fireplaces lit in every pub that feel like an invitation to stay forever, but without realising it, the time flew by, and we almost forgot about our search for waves. Almost. Until one of the last days we did another trip along the coast. As we realised that the body, with the cold weather, which we were not at all used to, asks for food every 5 minutes, we were prepared. We brought our picnic of delicacies from one of the few home bakeries we could find. Yes, even in the most rural Ireland than you can imagine, the big supermarkets have gained ground and you buy everything there. Everything except meat, because there are at least five butchers' shops in every village.
But that’s a different topic, back to the coast, here, after almost a month, we found what we were looking for. A real bakery and its owner, a retired lady who transformed her garage into a charming oven. She not only prepared all the treats we were craving, but also gave us the clue to find that surf session we weren't even looking for any more. Tips for the best tide included. Following her directions, we finally got to the beach and couldn’t believe our eyes. There they were, within reach of stepping down just a small cliff, dreamy waves were rolling in. And as if to sweeten the end of our trip we were even blessed with clear skies and a sublime winter sun that tried to dry our wetsuits after the session while we ate our last post-surf apple pie.