Watts

Alan Watts was the foremost interpreter of Eastern thought, in particular Zen Buddhism, to the West. His books on the philosophy and psychology of religion have been in great demand over the last thirty years.

So says a small biography of Watts on the back of his seminal book The Wisdom of Insecurity, first published in 1954. I have read the book. Twice. It's 136 pages long. More than that, I have listened to and tried to digest the multitude of spoken word recordings made when he was still alive. Alan died in his sleep in 1973.

When I was young, up until the page of about twelve, I prayed to God. I remember how my prayers ended every night:

“I love you God. Please make that love last until the day I die.”

I don't know why, or where, I stopped believing. I was raised in the archetypal Irish Catholic tradition. God was not just something to believe in, it was omnipresent in school, Sundays and society in general. I was often told that God loved me more than I could possibly imagine. It left a mark.

But somewhere around my mid-teens, I stopped believing. Not by decision, just by happening. There was perhaps, an occasion or two, when I deduced that it simply wasn't possible that God existed. But generally, it felt like an encroaching truth instead of a revelation. Clearly, there was no God.

And then came rebellion. I turned against religion. It made me angry. There was ample outlet for such expression. The fevered nihilism of hardcore punk was a soundtrack to the reasoned atheism of philosophers and science. But in University, it really hit me in the emotional gut. Horrible things are perfectly capable of happening to the people I love. And there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Argh!!

Godlessness started to shape who I was. I came to believe in secularism. I didn't want religion or God anywhere near my life, my liberty or the pursuit of my happiness. This probably still describes my view of the world. Religion should be available for all, but in no kind of way that forces others to go along.

Of course there was some kind of void. Not because everyone needs spirituality or religion; rather, because it was undeniable part of my childhood experience. God started to appear again. I was spellbound by the concept of rehabilitation of addicts through the twelve-step programme. The serenity prayer is one of the most profound things I've come across. 

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change to things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Is that really just for people who believe in God? I know more atheists than I count who could benefit from it. And religious people too!

In the last few years, I've discovered the new age form of spirituality commonly known as mindfulness. The Power Of Now by Eckhart Tolle is a book that I will never forget reading. It offered up the kind of content I thought impossible.

And then came Alan Watts. A well-spoken Englishman who found himself transfixed by Eastern spirituality. Having come to recognise the ego and its folly through Tolle, Watts seemed to suggest that discarding it was as possible as using an ashtray on a motorbike. He spoke about the Middle Way and made me wonder what Buddhism and Hinduism were all about. .

I try to meditate. And therein is the problem. I try too hard. But there have been some profound moments. One day, while walking by the river, I went over Watts' words and started to feel like I had gone to another planet. I tried to tell a friend once and saw her drift away into thoughts of: “Oh my God, are you okay?”

Watts' biggest impression on me is his emphasis of duality. You cannot be happy if you are not sometimes sad. As soon as you struggle with the Universe, you are in conflict with it. And you are going to lose. Yes, you're an individual. But you are just a small part of something indescribably bigger. So remember to take it easy. Each good and bad moment at a time.

Note: That is not a satisfactory analysis of Alan Watts and his philosophy. Please don't let me turn you off!

I don't know much about Alan Watts as a person. I've read that he struggled with alcoholism. In a very strange way, this is some sort of comfort. He often spoke about the fallacy of idolatry. However, it does trouble me that he may have been a victim of malignant thoughts and behaviours he seemed so easily to dismantle. But I think that's confusing the messenger for the message. I like that he was human.

Maybe this kind of thing makes sense to some people more than others. I wondered whether or not something like this was worth writing. Part of me wants to keep such things personal. But the larger part of me wants to say something about it. And there it is.

Intinn: The Worst Pain

I'd heard of chronic pain before. It was people with sore knees who couldn't walk long distances. And it only happened to people after a nasty accident or in old age. There were drugs for it. Of course there were. It was an inconvenience. But nothing to really worry about. 

In recent years though, I'd had a couple of episodes of poor health that suggested to me that suffering may not be so manageable. They were nothing too serious. In 2010, I had a dodgy stomach for about six weeks, which was almost funny really. After visiting Morocco two years ago, I got this really unpleasant feeling of having something caught in my esophagus. That lasted about a month. Make no mistake about it: these were not life changing experiences. But they did make me think a little differently. In both cases, I had the feeling that the Doctor didn't really know what was wrong with me.

I also recoiled when another friend told me about this acute and inexplicable back pain that left her incapacitated for about six weeks. 

Then, while looking around for another topic to make a podcast about, my friend John told me about a guy he had met at a party in London.I know what John is like at parties. He's especially interested in people he hasn't met before. Specifically, he finds out what their passion is, and then proceeds to harness it through insightful questioning, until he's thoroughly enlightened. He has a good time. 

At this particular party, John had talked to another Dermot. That one, unlike this one, was a facial pain specialist. Their conversation had left a real impression on John. More than usual. And he suggested I track Dermot down for an interview. So I did. 

Pearse and I went to his surgery in Dublin and interviewed him for about an hour and a half. I had done a little research beforehand, but the depth of his knowledge was intimidating. Through the course of our conversation though, it became obvious that Dermot had a particular interest in a condition called Trigeminal Neuralgia. Without going into it here, let's just call it "Hell On Earth", or maybe "Hell in your Face."  

Dermot helped us get in touch with TN sufferer Avril Hitchens, whose story underpins the episode. It's not exactly easy listening, but I think there's a lot to be learned from it. Our aim was to strike a balance between Avril's personal story and Dermot's medical expertise. The sum of the parts is a harrowing account of one person's experience with chronic pain, and how pain itself, in general terms, is still quite mysterious. At the end of the day, people with chronic pain seem to be the real authority on what works, and what doesn't. 

On this episode, we had a total of three interviewees, as well as our own two voices. So there was a lot more weaving involved than Addiction. From a production standpoint, Pearse demonstrated a real getting to grips with things. Let's just say if he wasn't involved, this whole project would be limited to me watching YouTube about how to turn on a microphone.

The same John who started the ball rolling was also the one who put us in touch with Niamh Purcell, who's illustrations, such as above, are truly excellent.   

October 7 is International Trigeminal Neuralgia Awareness day and, in conjunction with Sarah Heavey and everyone at TN Ireland, we are looking to spread the word as much as jpossible. Look out for buildings around the country being lit up in the colour teal. And, of course, please listen in - Intinn: The Worst Pain

Intinn: Addiction

Intinn is the Irish word for mind. It's also the name of a radio documentary series that I've been working on for a few years. Yes I know. It shouldn't take that long to make podcasts. But it has. The project is the brainchild of Pearse O'Caoimh, a lifelong acquaintance with whom I have shared many's a moment. His work in the world of radio/podcast is fruitful. Intinn is just one example. 

As is so often the case with creative endeavours, our list of suggested topics seemed at first endless, bristling with potential. Each meeting seemed to end with a sense of real affirmation.

"Yeah.. Definitely!"

"I'll email you!!"

"Have a great weekend!!!"

There were a few of these morale boosting coming-togethers before we set down to the nitty and gritty of actually putting something together. 

At first, the thinking was that we'd make something about gambling and/or online gambling. The approach would be holistic, with one part dealing specifically with brain mechanics and how they become altered by addiction. That was my particular brief.

So I set about tackling issues that most definitely did not tally with my skill-set. Science was always a weakness in education. So sifting through articles about the latest advancements in our understanding of the brain was always going to be a challenge. I spent days staring at my laptop trying to make sense of a language loaded with terms I'd heard of, but never really grasped.

Neurotransmitters, opioids, dopamine... ??

Slowly though, a picture started to emerge. In cognitive terms, the crux of addiction seemed to rest on an obscurity between "liking" and "wanting". 

There is, of course, a lot more to it than that. And by now it was clear that the ins and outs of the hijacked brain were holistic enough by themselves. The brain, it seemed, was enough to analyse. 

The American voice is that of scientist Dana Smith. Being able to get in touch with her, interview her and use her contribution in the final piece is a testament to the times we live in. I began on Twitter..

We interviewed Dana using Skype recording software called Pamela. It was a while ago now but I remember being extremely nervous. The notion of talking to an expert about neurology was daunting. Afterwards, Pearse and I noted that we had actually not heard her opening answers, so conscious were we about how we appeared to her. But after calming down and listening back to everything she said, we knew we had something we could build the piece around. 

Once we recorded the basic tracks, we started adding sound effects. Pearse showed a lot of originality on this one. I think he got a real kick about making our own effects. Most of what can be heard, and there is a lot, is very much DIY.

The music was composed by Colm O'Caoimh, Leo Pearson and Andy Byrne. In those early stages, Andy was also leaned upon heavily as Pearse and I struggled to figure out why “that microphone isn't responding”, or problems to that effect. When you embark on a project like this, it's helpful to know people whose help turns stubborn impasses into temporary stalls.

Colm and Leo's soundtrack captures the mood of the piece superbly. Certain parts remind me of something like On The Run from The Dark Side Of The Moon. They probably knew that I'd be easily bought in that respect.

There's also voice acting from Michael Norton. He's the one who asks the free-flowing tour guide “where the jacks is” and encourages the addicted user to “Go on... Just one more time”. Recording those parts was definitely the funniest part of our experience.

That Intinn is online at all is very much down to another old friend of mine, John Roche. John had originally planned to set up the site himself and had gone a long way to doing as much. Unfortunately, he was unable to keep it up because of doing too many things that he actually gets paid for. But he was able to direct me in setting up the site on Squarespace. John also called in help from illustrators Colm Brennan and Halley-Anne Kennedy. Their work, which is on the finished site, speaks for itself. A list of credits is in the About section

The second episode of Intinn will be online soon. In the meantime, if you care enough to have read this far, you might as well listen in on number one.

http://intinn.squarespace.com/

McGregor Rising

I was around eight years old when I saw 1916 Dublin depicted in a TV offshoot of the Indiana Jones saga, The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles. It was one of my favourite programmes, probably because it coloured my young mind with things masculine and militaristic. And when this was fused with an historical event that had actually happened in Ireland, I was transfixed. It was the first time I'd heard of the Easter Rising. 

I'm nearly thirty now. And although I'm the same, things have changed. Yes I still think guns and rebellions are cool, but I've also delved a little deeper into things. A few years ago I wrote a blog entry that asked on what grounds people could claim pride in being Irish. I'm not sure I feel quite the same now. But I'm still an uncomfortable side-taker, normally too full of analysis to get down off the fence. (Don't vote for me)

Of course there is one realm that invites even the most uncertain of us to be part of the flag waving group. And things are good in Irish sport. Our footballers have qualified for the European Championship, which makes up for the familiar false dawn of the Rugby World Cup. We also have boxers vying for Olympic glory next summer right? How are the cricketers doing these days? Does Rory Mcilroy still think he's British?

No need for that. Something else has come along. While not being an expert on mixed martial arts, I'm pretty sure Conor McGregor is “the” ultimate fighter. All the experts say so. And anything I've seen of him in action suggests as much. Yes he has an almighty ego, but only because he needs to. Anyone doing what he does needs to draw from mental reservoirs overflowing with self-belief. Quite simply, he wouldn't be as good otherwise.

Honestly though, what I really like about Conor McGregor is how Irish he is. It's something that he refers to regularly. He's even got The Foggy Dew playing over an entrance draped in green, white and orange. It's all very bombastic. Such is the big and bold world of professional sport in America.

Of course, despite McGregor's ability and strength of character, the brutality of UFC is something that can't be ignored. But even though it's not always easy to watch, these fighters embody fitness, technique, focus and discipline like few other athletes. It's not for young children, but it's most definitely a sport.

In fact, it's precisely the danger of UFC that makes Conor McGregor even more interesting. Watching a proud Irishman ruthlessly dispose of his opponents with precision is indeed alluring. It challenges what might be one of our biggest insecurities, that, when all is said and done, we are best known for “having the craic” with pints Guinness on St Patrick's Day.

In the aforementioned Indiana Jones' episode, a young Séan O'Casey questions the protagonist upon hearing him sing a bar of "When Irish eyes are happy". "Indy" tells him he's been to the theatre, whereupon O'Casey presumes he's been treated to a painfully cliché depiction of Ireland laden with shamrocks and shillelaghs. 

"What's wrong with that" asks Indy. 

"Everything" replies O'Casey. "Because it's a phoney. And a lie. The kind of thing that makes us a laughing stock."

'Look at the Irish aren't they a scream'" he jibes sarcastically. 

"It makes my blood boil. Because I am an Irishman."

It's ironic that in sifting through an Americanisation of Irish history, I find one of the best descriptions of my own national frustration. I should also mention that O'Casey himself turned out to be one of the Rising's biggest detractors. Nonetheless, Easter 1916 represents an Irishness that is still so seductive. Maybe it's why we're so preoccupied by it 100 years later. And maybe it's also why Conor McGregor is so appealing. Because, in a strange way, he embodies the same idea of Ireland as a force to be reckoned with.

Cuba

I went to Cuba knowing not too much. Having spent two weeks there, I am but a little wiser. That it was the most amazing place I have ever seen is not to imply that I or my friend John enjoyed every last moment. But I knew, even after a few days, that this was a holiday I would not forget.

But forgetting was how it all started. After a day or two in Havana, I realised that my habitual engagement with the online world would have to go on hiatus. My fledgling command of Spanish was also put to the test by the fact that English on the island is still relatively scarce. There were hand gestures and monosyllabic words a plenty as I remembered that essential communication is fundamentally based on common sense.

For the most part, the people of Cuba come across as tremendously likable. Even if many we interacted with saw us as a pair of walking cash machines, there was less of the aggressive salesmanship I've encountered elsewhere. There was almost the sense that, underneath the toil with which they obviously grapple, Cubans don't take it all too seriously. The truth, I know, is much less simplistic.

But that disarming lack of seriousness leaves a lasting impression. One night, a group of four men sat down nearby in the bar we were drinking in. The barman asked them where they from, to which they said they were Italian. “Ah Italia,” replied the host, “La mafia”. In a Havana restaurant, a local patron unloaded cúpla focal on us when we told him where we were from. He was an ex-boxer, who had trained in Ireland under none other than Michael Carruth. “Póg mo thón, indeed.”

Tourism is Cuba's lifeline. And not just for those wise enough to avail of impending change. In Santa Clara, around three hours from Havana, we passed by a school yard where teachers and junior students were conducting class outside. When one teacher noticed us, she gestured to know if we had any pens. I had three, and after taking my bag from my shoulders with earnest affirmation, I tossed her a black bic and continued on my way. This was a memorable dose of reality: a teacher begging tourists for pens. I tried to ward off the smugness that inevitably followed.

More grit was evident on our journey to Trindad in a 1950s Dodge Taxi. Through the Sierra del Escambray mountain range, the driver navigated potholed roads that had to be seen (or felt) to be believed. After a snail's pace ascent, we gathered some speed on the way down. From the back seat I had just about enough time to anticipate our subsequent collision with a cat rising out of the ditch. I'd call the event fitting if it didn't trouble me the way it did.

Trinidad welcomed tourists like no other city we visited. Old men with cowboy hats sat on corners smoking giant cigars, ready to charge anyone who considered them photo-worthy. In every bar, the resident band sent out their often beautiful singers to boozy customers with cap in hand. On one occasion, I donated three pesos and was met with disapproval because I had used the wrong, much less valuable, currency. John, ever the diplomat, defused the situation with two convertible pesos.

With notable exceptions, the food in Cuba was the worst I've eaten. Generally, the restaurants ranged between average and terrible. A pizza in Santa Clara was certainly the most disgusting meal I've ever been served. Thankfully, the guesthouses, or Casa Particulares, were of a much higher, if still basic, culinary standard. As a vegetarian, I lived functionally on rice, eggs and vegetables. John's experience of meat was more volatile. In Cienfuegos, he suffered a night of vomiting that left him even lower on energy in unforgivable heat. Enough said.

And then there's la revolución- the preverbial “two fingers” extended by the Cuban state to the world's most powerful country, with only ninety miles of water to keep them apart. Although Cubans still practice Catholicism, it takes only a few days to figure out who Christ competes with. The famous print of Ernesto “Ché” Guevara is omnipresent, reminding citizens of their role in one of the Cold War's most remarkable episodes. The martyr takes his place along side the still living Fidel and Raúl Castro, a sort of Holy Trinity for Cuba's declining version of Marxist-Leninism. With recent events in mind, it would interest me to see Cuba again in about ten years' time.

Underscoring this recent experience was the ever emitting sound of Cuban music. As no kind of expert, I am still prepared to agree with popular opinion, that the island's musicality is a particularly strong attribute. A classical pianist in a Trinidad bar, flanked by his bored looking wife, summed up so much of what, here, is so difficult to convey. And that kind of thing, in case you think this entry has been a bit negative, was the incommunicable highlight. Go and find out for yourself. 

Marrakesh

Three days in Marrakesh isn't a bad way to start the winter. Not least when you can get there for absurdly low prices. In fact, my housemate Colm and I were so vocal when we discovered the €60 return flights that our other housemate, Stephen, and his girlfriend, Klaudia, also penned in a trip into their yearly planners. In the event, we ended up paying €70 in the midst of inexplicable fluctuations on the airline's website. But to retain our sense of achievement, we lied to anybody who would listen that we were going to Morocco and back for "SIXTY EURO!!!"

Upon our arrival on a wet evening, Colm's negotiation with taxi drivers was an introduction to the commonly ambiguous treatment of just how much something costs. Taking place in French, the conversation evoked in me the inadequacy of only really speaking one language. For the record, apart from Arabic and Berber, the citizens of Marrakesh demonstrated proficiency in French, English, Spanish and Italian. And when we replied to one enthusiastic kid in Irish, he mistook it for Greek. "We are Moroccan" he said as he finally deduced our first language, "we are inteligente!" 

Our hotel was in the newer part of town, a cosmopolitan quarter filled with a mix of comforted westerners and aspiring middle-class Moroccans. Dress ranged between everything from Islamic conservatism to label flaunting glamour. And this occurred across lines more blurred than male, female, local or "blow-in". Actually, the area's hybrid of western consumerism and Arab tradition was among the most intriguing aspects of our visit. 

In the old town, or Medina, the situation was altogether less decipherable. Arriving in Africa's biggest market, the Jamaa el-fna, we were immediately subjected to the famously relentless salesmanship. Eating a nice meal for example, only happened after we were made feel like we couldn't really refuse.

But watching the sheer chaos of unregulated trade was enough to make amends for the incessant hassling by every second merchant. One memorable image was that of food sellers, bellowing at every tourist within earshot, commanding huge assemblies of fruit and vegetables, like conductors surrounded by their orchestras.

However, the undoubted talking point of our trip to Marrakesh was an elaborate scam, whereby Colm and I were lured into the "tannery" district for what was initially presented as an unmissable opportunity to experience authentic Berber culture. Before we knew it, we were following a middle-aged man, through ever deteriorating slums to see a tannery at work.

I didn't really know where we were going until we got there- a grimy yard where the fumes of rotting animal hide filled the air. The sight of a chained sheep awaiting its inevitable slaughter should have signaled to me that I was in one of my most dreaded places, but Colm and I could barely think as the "guide" reeled off his explanation of just how leather is made. 

Next, we were brought inside the tannery store and subjected to a showcase of animal rugs. Still unaware of our roles as pawns in an impressively sophisticated racket, we were more concerned with how we were going to tell our hosts that we weren't interested in their produce. The inevitable showdown came in the guise of a debate between Colm and the shopkeeper over how much he should pay for a belt. But the longer the discussion went on, the more obvious it became that we were negotiating the terms of our departure. 

When brave Colm eventually told him that we would have to leave without buying anything, the shopkeeper, a stocky enough man, grabbed both of us in turn and pushed us toward the door. "Hey" we exclaimed as we were ushered back into the yard. When we made for the gate, he followed us shouting: "Fuck you Man!" We were then surrounded by all the characters from the story, and it dawned on us that our whole visit was no kind of accident. It was time to pay up. 

Ten euros from each of us now seems like a menial amount for what kind of felt like a mugging. Subsequent research revealed that the "tannery scam" is commonplace in the Medina. The tactic, ever more obvious the more I think about it, is no less than the total manipulation, and intimidation if necessary, of the tourist's naive mindset. We were had. 

Still, Marrakesh was one of the finest holidays I've taken in a long time. The rough and tumble of the Medina, while not without hassle, was ultimately the most enjoyable part. Life manifests in a degree of activity that really has to be seen to be understood. It's what academics and the media might call the developing world- human beings that simply don't have time for the egotism and self-consciousness of affluence. To witness this and drop out whenever "I need to" is a privilege that can't really be quantified.

This entry is nothing but a brief impression of one Moroccan city. And just in case I haven't done its people justice, I should add that the vast majority were warm, courteous and helpful in the utmost. Add to that things like an exotic sounds-cape emitting colloquial Arabic and the regular call to prayer, Marrakesh is an unforgettable place. If you haven't already been, it's definitely worth a look. 

The Idea of Me

I've written these words carefully. I want them to earn your attention, to stand out from whatever else it was you've just been scanning over. I've tried to make this piece have that "little bit more" about it. I'd like to make you think, to get you to see things from a different perspective. So says the idea of me. 

But I can't quite explain how terrified I am of coming across as pretentious. I would hate to think that you might consider me in such light. The idea of me says that my work should be more subtle. So subtle that you would never suspect my motivation of being something as fickle as self-advancement. 

I'm very attached to the idea of me. It's something I've invested a lot of mental, physical and emotional effort in. It's a habitual thought-pattern that's become the starting point for everything I do. And with much less consciousness then other mental processes, it relentlessly dissects, analyses and evaluates the happenings of my life. 

The idea of me wants, above all else, to reconcile the situation of my life with what it considers better. Quite predictably, it has a profound influence on my relations with other people. It prescribes an affable disposition, behind which its insidious ways remain undetected. But at times of vulnerability, it disregards concealment and manifests in guises of anger, frustration and melancholy. 

So how is it doing? Is there evidence to suggest that the idea of me exercises influence enough to cause satisfaction, happiness and fulfillment? Not really. Many times the idea of me has found itself undermined. But it has escaped outright falsification by adapting to ever-changing circumstances. This it does by alluringly promising a future brighter than the past. Some might call it hope. The idea of me calls it expectation. "I'm still not complete. Life still hasn't started." That kind of thing. 

The idea of me exists because of a strange discomfort with the reality of me. Diverting attention away from existence as it happens, it traps my mind in the quagmire of past only to overstretch itself into the uncertainty of future.

Before, I would have referred to it as an inevitable facet of human nature. But lately I've begun to look at it as an inhibitor of nature itself. After all, the idea of me has consumed most of my life.

Travelling Spain: Meeting, Memories & Mérida

There was one more city to visit before Madrid. I had considered crossing eastwards to Valenica or even going over the border into Portugal. In the end, I decided to keep things simpler and start making my way inland. From Cádiz, I journeyed 300km north to the Extremaduran capital of Mérida, where there was added incentive to stop and explore.

Since telling my parents of my trip to Spain, they had been tirelessly reminding me that I have a cousin in Mérida. But this wasn't someone I had spent Sunday afternoons with in childhood. Frances was raised in London by my father's oldest sister and her English husband, who, I will always remember, had once told me about living through the Blitz. Despite being first cousins, circumstances meant simply that we had never met. 

Nevertheless I decided, with relentless encouragement from my father, that I would try and make contact with him. But upon reaching only a Spanish lady who didn't seem to speak English, I thought I had been given the wrong phone number. Tired and uncertain, I went to a nearby bar and tried to order a tapa of goat's cheese, only to end up with a full plate of salad.

The next morning, I tried the same number and was relieved to hear Frances complimenting my "brave attempt" to ask if it was right. It was, in fact, a babysitter I'd been talking to the night before. Upon first meeting, Frances confirmed that I indeed had the “head of a Tobin”. His own resemblance to his father was equally faithful.

Frances' marriage to fellow Londoner Rupee in the summer of 1995 had actually been the cause of my first trip out of Ireland. While my parents attended, my older brother and I stayed with my Gran Aunt in her London apartment. I recall her talking about how Real Zaragoza midfielder Nayim had defeated her beloved Arsenal with that audacious lob over David Seaman in the 1995 Cup Winners' Cup Final. 

In the meantime, Frances and Rupee had two children of their own. On meeting them, the younger daughter turned anxiously to her mother and commented: "I don't know Mum, he's a bit big". Afterwards, Frances took me to see the Roman ruins that Mérida is famous for. They were just as compelling as anything I had seen in Moorish Andalusia. 

That afternoon and evening, I was treated to amounts of food probably sufficient until I get home. In between were conversational insights into Spanish society that I could have never incurred on my own or in hostels. Spending time with my cousin and his family turned out to be biggest education of my whole Spanish adventure. 

Travelling Spain: Cádiz

After the sparseness of Tarifa, I arrived in Cádiz happy to be back in a busier spot. The sea-surrounded city is one of Europe's oldest population centres. But historical emphasis lies on the eighteenth-century, when it replaced Seville as the region's main port. Maritime is the definitely the primary theme, and I spent a considerable amount of time on the old fort of Castillo de San Catalina, captivated by the sight of Atlantic waves crashing furiously against the rocks.

On drier ground, the nineteenth-century Cathedral conformed eagerly to the opulent standards set by the other Christian temples I've encountered so far, though a baroque style was something of a departure. Descending into the crypt was definitely the highlight. On a Tuesday afternoon in early December, I was all alone amongst darkness, crucifixes, and portraits of dead bishops. Compounding the mystique were the strangest acoustics, apparently induced by the nearby ocean. That alone was worth the €5 entry. 

Day two saw me visit the Torre Tavira, a viewing point once used to monitor the arrival of ships carrying cargo from the new world. Here I was treated to the amusement of a "camera-obscura". But the young guide reciting her rehearsed script was equally entertaining. At once, I played the part of adult and child, reacting excitedly to her tailored statements. Toward the end, she used a card to "pick up" people walking around the city. Being familiar with her line of work, I did all I could to show that I really did care.

In Cádiz, I stayed at the Rough Guides recommended Casa Caracol. This hostel felt like the most alternative of all I've stayed in so far. The people running it reminded me of the buskers in Granada, and there was definitely more of an emphasis on recycling and shared responsibility for the upkeep of the hostel. Like La Banda in Seville, delicious food was provided every evening by staff. Initiatives like this make the hostel experience much more worthwhile: nothing breaks the ice like talking about how nice food is. 

Leaving Cádiz marked the end of my visit to Andalusia. My impression before was formed by literature that informed how it was Spain's poorest, yet most charming, region. There were surely signs of economic hardship, and an atmosphere of decline permeated throughout. My euros were also noticeably more valuable than in Ireland. But there wasn't manifest poverty. Andalusia instead conveyed itself as a resilient place, possibly assisted by traditional virtues of family values and charity. Adding dynamic culture, vast history and very tolerable weather, I find reasons for not visiting hard to come by. 

Travelling Spain: Tarifa

Leaving Ronda afforded me the first opportunity to use Spain's renowned railway network. And a two-hour journey to Algeciras was enough to deduct that Renfe is very much worth its reputation. The train ride was clean, comfortable and complimented by yet more mountainous scenery. 

I did, though, have another dose of loudness. This time, a group of elderly women made intermittent, yet very unsettling, exclamations. One was so sharp that it shook me suddenly in my seat. 

After a brief stop in Algeciras, I made my way down to Tarifa. As Europe's most southerly point, this small town is vitalised by the port's use as a gateway to Africa. Indeed the Morroccan coastline is perfectly visible across the water. When I told my father that on the phone, he replied simply: "You're Joking!"

Before becoming a kitesurfing hotspot, Tarifa was morbidly known as one of Spain's suicide blackspots. Speculation as to why centred on the constant presence of very strong winds. Having spent just over one day there, I have to agree that they were depressingly difficult to tolerate. Sandblast and sunburn tainted my lengthy walk on the otherwise beautiful beach.

Nevertheless, the old quarter provided enough for me to stay occupied with. The San Mateo church and the sculptures inside were one point of interest. Spain's Catholicism is different than its Irish cousin. Chapels are more elaborate and depictions of the crucifixion and saints' martyrdom more graphic. It's made me think even harder of what exactly the message is. 

Ultimately, I'll remember Tarifa for two eqsuisite meals. For obvious reasons, seafood was very much on the menus. But I was lucky enough to discover a tiny Vegetariano that served up the finest of samosas. I also divulged in probably the largest amount of tomatoes I have ever eaten, sandwiched by mozarella cheese. It would be nice to eat like that more often. 

Travelling Spain: Ronda

There wasn't much I knew about Andalusia before deciding to come here. Major cities like Sevilla, Málaga and Granada sounded familiar, not least from all that time spent playing Sensible Soccer and Championship Manager. That's what made a place called Ronda alluring- I'd never heard of it. Subsequent planning revealed a “white town” divided by 120 metre-high bridge running over a chasm. I was going. 

But the most profound experience of my two nights in Ronda turned out be a single ensuite room and some time to myself. After sixteen nights in shared accommodation, the last three of which were harassed by incessant snoring, I had been desperately seeking solitude. Hotel Morales was the perfect remedy.

Early starts allowed me to explore this dramatically situated town properly. The Moors fortified it well, and throughout the centuries, Ronda had become the site of repeated sieges. The eighteenth-century bridge, or Puente Nuevo, was certainly impressive. Looking cautiously down, accounts of prisoners being thrown over during the Civil War ran eerily through my mind. I also visited a museum exhibiting documents, photographs and paraphernalia related to the nineteenth-century Andalusian “bandits”. Average. 

A recurring theme on this trip has been to find a sunny spot where I can sit and read. One afternoon, I scouted out a suitable spot on the crest of one of Ronda's many urban slopes. Here I was presented with a clear example of Latin peoples' tendency for oral projection. I couldn't quite believe how loudly four men were speaking to each other on the corner. It must have been an argument, even if definitive signs of aggression or submission were lacking. Whatever the topic, the sound of Spaniards in Spain is something I won't forget quickly. 

After moving to a quieter location, I managed a few chapters before being approached by a young family. Dad started off by hassling me for a cigarette or bread. When I told him I had neither, it sounded like he enquired if I was Chinese. At that point, I asked if he spoke English. Immediately he turned to the oldest child, who was nine at most. In a moment of inspiration, she tenuously interpreted the elders' short conversation. But her younger sister stole the show by listening intently to the Inglés introductions and contributing with something like: "Mee nay ess Sara!"

Afterwards, I vainly hoped that they might remember me as some kind of nomad from parts unknown (as if Spain was on the other side of the world, didn't use the euro and wasn't serviced by Ryanair). I also continue to wonder if I somehow seem Chinese. 

Travelling Spain: Seville

Having descended from the higher ground of Córdoba and Granada, my first impression of Andalusia's capital was its weather. Winter in Sevilla turned out be the warmest I've ever encountered. On each of the five days spent there, afternoon temperatures climbed well over twenty degrees. Sitting short-sleeved on the grass, I could only imagine how oppressive the summers must be. 

I was formally introduced to Seville by another walking tour. It was guided by a local engineering student and centred on the fundamentals of a very long history. Given my interest in the more recent events of the 1930s, I was intrigued to hear how Franco and the Nationalists projected Andalusian traditions as the most "appropriate" expression of Spanish culture. But that could never have detracted from my later viewing of an authentic Flamenco at the local museum. The fusion of the dancers' graceful technique with elite musicianship made every one of my twenty euros count. 

The rallying point for Seville's sightseers is the Cathedral. But because I had just seen Córdoba's Mesquita, I opted instead for a walk around the nearby Alcázar. Here, as is common across the region, a Moorish palace is augmented by Christian alterations. But there remains enough class to make parts of it truly breathtaking. Combining intricate carvings with a "cupola" cedar-wood ceiling, the Hall of Ambassadors rivals the finest of Granada's Alhambra.

Strolling around Seville was especially rewarding. A distinguishing feature was to stumble upon concealed public gardens with elaborately painted and tiled seating. There was also the unmistakable drama of Plaza De España (pictured). Relaxing here revived my fascination with Europe's "patriotic" buildings. I always enjoy seeing how once mighty powers used architecture to project the notion that this continent was the centre of the world. 

My bed in Seville came courtesy of the very central La Banda Rooftop Hostel. This recently renamed digs is run by four English guys, the oldest of which looks about twenty-five. While being thoroughly dependable for anything weary travellers might need, they personified the laid-back attitude that every hostel is so desperate to convey. La Banda was definitely the first place that I felt like I got to know people. The "internationality" of these places makes them difficult to dislike. 

But there are two sides to every story. One night, as one of the hosts was closing the rooftop area, two well-wined guests demanded to know what the "craziest story" from the hostel was. It was 1am midweek, and as he struggled to recount sufficient "craziness", the Englishman's fatigued expression revealed a more realistic side to the lifestyle of low-budget accommodation. 

Then there was the snorer who shattered the previous tranquillity of our eight-bed dorm. I've never been subjected to so many different tones of breathing. After about three hours of sleep, I watched him gently climb down his bunk, delicately cross the floor, and almost silently lock the bathroom door. He was, in wakefulness, the most courteous of people.   

Travelling Spain: Córdoba

The outskirts of Córdoba looked more like American suburbia than an ancient European city. Arrival at dusk coloured my search for the right way in an orange glow. Enclosed by blocked streets lined with palm trees were the luminous signs of fast-food chains, soft-drinks and auto-parts. It was close to the images I conjure of southern California, most directly influenced by watching COPS a lot when my house got the "English channels" in the mid nineties.

A taxi journey into town changed all that. Within minutes I was back in that familiar maze of streets and alleys. The driver described Córdoba in minimal English. My replies came in even scanter Spanish. But it didn't matter; you know when someone is trying to make you feel welcome. Courtesy, patience and Latin animation have compensated for almost all communication difficulties in Andalusia so far.

Perhaps due to my arrival on a Wednesday, Córdoba was at first quieter than Granada. This was nice. I enjoyed sauntering around slowly and picking away at tapas in empty bars and restaurants. "Little and often" might describe my dietary regime so far. However, with some exceptions, I've found vegetarian options quite limited. Pork is particularly tricky to avoid- Spain's taste for bacon is said to have arisen during the inquisition, when it became an expression of Christian identity.  

Backpacker Al-Katre was my nicest lodging yet. A small open yard gave access to a common area, bathrooms, bedrooms and a stairs to the first floor. One of the hostesses told me she learned English in Cork, and that accordingly, she could understand every variation of the language. An Argentinian traveller shared a room with me. He too was documenting his trip, and made me feel amateur by being gone before I awoke and returning only after I fell asleep. 

Rivalling the Alhambra for the most visited of Spain's 44 world heritage sites, is the Mosque-Cathedral of Córdoba. Its famous red and white arches bestow a sense of vastness, once filled by thousands of Muslims on their knees, facing toward the spectacular Mihrab. As in the Alhambra, Christian additions and restructuring is plentiful. Chapels, statues and all-out extravagance, though impressive, come across as an attempt to outshine the subtle magic of the Moorish original. In total, this stunning structure took about two hours to see. Other highlights included the minuscule ancient synagogue and the Roman bridge (pictured). 

Unfortunately, my enduring recollection of Córdoba will be, once again, centred on folly. On the night before leaving, I returned to the hostel around 0:10. The door to Al-Katre was shut, allowing only guests with a key access. But even when I unlocked it, the door refused to budge. There followed around twenty minutes of cursing, victimhood and repeated knocking. Eventually the hostess opened up and asked if I had forgotten my key. "It doesn't work!" She me asked to show her. I did. And figured out that there were two locks, the second of which was released by a extra turn to the right. I shuffled off to bed wondering if she had happened to meet anyone like me in Cork. 

Travelling Spain: Granada

The mountains that I flew over into Málaga were the same ones I bussed through on the way out. When touring Canada five years ago, I remember being humbled by the landscapes of British Colombia. A similar feeling descended en route to Granada, especially when the snow capped Sierra Nevada appeared in the second half of the journey. 

The colder climate of this high inland city was the most noticeable factor upon arrival. It's been a crisp few days, with the average temperature hovering around thirteen degrees. Yet even in chilly November, the Spanish sun has been strong enough to sit in and worry about getting burned. The evenings have been closer to a less comfortable two or three degrees. But I'll take cold over wet any day. 

Granada is a much nicer place than Málaga. Even its tourist districts have no hint of the disposable "getaways" that emanate from the Costa Del Sol. I stayed in a charming spot just west of the supremely mounted Alhambra. A bohemian atmosphere surrounded my digs, with dreadlocked buskers playing acoustic versions of the western world's favourite songs. This is usually a jaded kind of scene. But Granada's example felt a little more authentic. 

The day after I arrived, I trekked up through the Albayzín quarter. The sight and sound of a vibrant Arabic community is almost like a revival of Al-Andalus itself. Structures and streets looked closer to images of North Africa than anything I ever knew existed in Spain. Narrow streets where cars and buses barely squeeze by are a staple of Granada. Paved with ornate cobblestone, they twist around elevated areas revealing building after building of irresistible charm. This was probably the nicest thing about my stay. 

Visiting the Alhambra itself fulfilled one of the primary objectives of my whole trip. Rough Guides champions Granada because of the "sensuality" of this fundamentally Moorish complex. Christian additions also play their part in making it a very impressive experience. But I'm less likely to forget the folly of racing back up toward the Nasrid Palace after realising I was in danger of missing my designated entry time. My arrival amidst teaming sweat was confirmation enough that running around Kilkenny isn't as pointless as it sometimes feels. 

Granada was also where I encountered a religious procession making its way through windy streets at night. I was told that these sombre advancements have less to with genuine religiosity and more with a time-honoured Spanish tradition. But it looked suitably God-fearing to me. Carrying a grand effigy of the Virgin Mary were fifteen suited young men. Behind them were candle-holding girls, older members of the congregation and a brass band playing foreboding music. I couldn't help but marvel at the eeriness of it all.

My ongoing journey is being underscored by reading The Battle For Spain by Anthony Beever. That La Guerra Civile happened here less than eighty years ago is inducing both captivation and horror. Accordingly, I watched a left-wing protest making its way through central Granada on Sunday morning with considerable intrigue. It's interesting to see young families march with students and trade unionists under hammers, sickles and the republican tricolour. It reminded me of trying to teach English to Italian teenagers a couple of years ago, and being taken aback by them knowing what Das Kapital is. Ideals in southern Europe seem an integral part of life.

Travelling Spain: Málaga

I knew southern Spain was going to be different. But until seeing brown rugged mountains on the approach to Málaga, I didn't really expect it to "strike" me. My flight had departed Dublin in early-morning darkness, leaving behind some of this year's most uninviting Irish weather. After tiring of futile attempts to sleep, Andalucía from the air looked exotic enough to delay my inevitable fatigue. 

It was sunny of course. This part of the world sees few days that aren't. A very comfortable seventeen degrees sprang my step all the way to the accommodation.
Yet the sight of coat and scarf-wearing locals conveyed that this was Málaga's version of winter. 

The abiding memory of "day one" will be my first deployment of Spanish, just weeks after learning my first word. It was, admittedly, to ask a waiter if he spoke English, which turned out to be of similar standard to my Spanish. Still, propelled my willingness to eat and his eagerness to sell, we managed to do a deal. Afterwards I asked him if there was a bathroom.

"Si" he replied cheerily, pointing the way in tandem. 

Then, for reasons unknown, I attempted to ask him if I'd posed the question correctly. That was when we finally hit the linguistic difficulty we'd being do so well to avoid. He presumed I was reasking the question, and merely repeated his answer more vigorously. Then I tried explaining that I wasn't asking the same question, that I was wondering if I'd asked the question correctly. Such deadlocks are broken only by smiling broadly and going, finally, to the bathroom. 

My first full day in Málaga was spent exploring the old city as part of a walking tour. The history was surmised by an Italian tour guide. Romans, Moors and Reconquista played their supporting roles before the emphasis settled on the Civil War and Franco. That totalitarian Spain remains very much in living memory was a point he made eagerly, and made well.  

Franco's terming of Pablo Picasso as a "degenerate" seemed as good a reason as any to visit the latter's hometown museum. Pablo left Málaga at age nineteen and vowed never to return as long as Spain stayed Francoist. In the event, the Generalísimo outlived him by two years. The Museo Picasso Málaga boasts 285 of the celebrated artist's works, each one as discussable as the last. I imagine.

Málaga's Moorish remnants are best exemplified by the Alcazaba and Gibralfaro fortifications that sit on elevated ground between the city and the port. While the strenuous 130 metre-climb to the Gibralfaro is rewarded by stunning views, the sheer elegance of the Alcazaba's interior secured its place on my "What I enjoyed most about Málaga" list.

Being Irish

Stereotypes are not normally my weapon of choice. Like any good liberal, I consider them skewed, unreliable and dangerous. But I'm not so naive to think that they are without a semblance of truth. In fact, the only way to invoke stereotypes without projecting spiteful prejudice is to do so in reference to whatever race, nationality or sect that you yourself illustrate.

It's from that shaky platform that I commence this brief dissection of Irishness. And therein lies the first shortcoming of stereotype. What does it mean to be Irish? When I worked in a Montreal restaurant a few years ago, my boss often joked about how he couldn't leave me alone around alcohol. Too often, drunkenness colours how the rest of the world, and we ourselves, understand Ireland.

The Irish obsession with drink needs no further analysis. For me, it concludes with the assertion that our psyche is tormented by a discomfort with sober reality. Our relationship with alcohol might therefore be seen as a continuous attempt to escape. This helps explain why the Irish funeral often reaches the same alcoholic intensity as the Irish wedding. Or why winning and losing at our favourite sports often yields a similar degree of intoxication. It seems anything that solicits higher emotional levels than normal requires the treatment of drink.

So it's our emotions that we are running from? This sounds valid enough. After all, we have only recently discovered that an earnest engagement with the mind can take place outside the confessional box. Catholicism, of course, is another great expression of the Irish character. But its fixation on guilt has probably caused much strife in our minds. The sentiment that Catholics' ritualistic obsession with the crucifixion encourages self-criticism is hardly weak. I don't remember learning about the death of Christ; rather, it feels almost innate. The routine exposure to an ancient preacher dying a painful death to divinely legislate for human wrongdoing is the backdrop to many an Irish childhood, when more intricate falsehoods about ourselves formulate regardless.

A less explored explanation for uneasiness in Irish people comes from our turbulent history. It's still less than two hundred years since Ireland underwent the devastation of a famine that decimated the island's population. I'm not sure what the psychological effect of being in the perpetual state of having nothing to eat has on a people, but I suspect it's quite profound. That's not to suggest that the Irish condition was more content before the 1840's, but the sheer magnitude of the Famine underlines it as probably the most unforgettable episode in Irish history. The transfer of this trauma from generation to generation is likely to have diluted over time, but its impact must somewhere endure.

Songs, stories and commemorations might be an obvious manifestation, but discontent with our national selves could also play out in proclaiming our “pride” in being Irish. Here we sometimes drift into embarrassingly murky waters of tediously claiming common heritage with whatever we deem as success. Dabbling in this kind of nonsense means subscribing to the notion that Irish people have "that little bit more about them". What else could propel the notion that Barack Obama, a symbol of African-American emancipation, is actually from County Offaly?

Not so long ago, a friend of mine recounted an experience he'd had while studying in Italy. As he related another merit to Irishness, a Turkish classmate interrupted him: "Yes Yes Yes. We get it. Everyone's fucking Irish!". Shocked and appalled, the Irishman asked his fellow student to elaborate. It was then that he became aware of his habitual invoking an Irish person's involvement in human achievements they commonly discussed. While listening, I remembered how I once told a pair of English girls that Irish writers were “the greatest of them all”. That might not have been such an absurd statement had I actually read authors from every other country, analysed accordingly and generally had a semblance of an idea of what I was talking about. Instead, I readily repeated a lazy quasi-racist mantra veneering as "national pride".

In Ireland itself, feeling such greatness is a lot less likely. Contrarily, the traditional Irish community tends to view pride as a taboo. It's not that we are unwilling to recognise achievement, it's just we feel we really shouldn't recognise it in ourselves. Nobody wants to be thought of as "having notions" about themselves.

The paradox of proclaiming Ireland's greatness to others while frowning on individual pride at home is interesting. It suggests that being Irish only contributes to excellence when it happens in the world's view. It's probably more accurate to say that it doesn't contribute at all, that any Irish person who achieves does so because of themselves alone. In reality, it has nothing to do with the other 4.5 million people who call themselves Irish.

It may seem self-deprecating to raise these problems with being Irish. So it's worth pointing out that there are plenty of things about Ireland that I enjoy and adore. But it would be so much healthier if this could happen because of proximity to them, as opposed to frivolous association with them. Constantly referring to Irishness is actually a laboured assertion of self-superiority. That it's most proudly proclaimed under a tirade of alcohol is evidence enough that it's just an expression of fundamental insecurity. The fatalist in me concedes that this is the inevitable nationalism of a formerly oppressed country. But as an idealist, I'd like to think being Irish doesn't need to come across as so utterly mindless. 

War Games

I was probably about three years old when, from the back seat of the car, I bawled inconsolably at the sight of a traffic warden at my mother's window. She had temporarily parked on a double yellow line to allow her own mother easier access to the post office. But the hysterics of her youngest son must have worried her more. From somewhere, he had garnered a disproportionate fear of the "Brown Man", as unfortunately dressed 1980's traffic wardens were known in my family. My wariness of uniformed men was further fuelled by my brother when he told me his friend's Dad was a Garda, and that I would be shot if I showed up at their house. These fearsome moments are probably the foundations from which I developed a lifelong fascination with expressions of authority. Before long, I was obsessed with what I considered to be the epitome of masculinity: soldiers, armies, battlefields and war. 

However this proved not to be the nurturing of some perfect warrior. Any "action" I've seen in my twenty-seven years has been extremely limited and more crucially, fictitious. In later childhood, I would often lobby friends for a good old game of "Air Raid Attack". On the rare occasion they obliged, they would find themselves sheltering beneath trees, waiting for me to give the "all clear". This calamity would rarely last more than ten minutes; I never did get the chance to figure out what happened next. 

At other times, my illusions were complimented by more appropriate surroundings. During one school trip, my classmates and I did battle in Laser World- a dodgy simulation of some futuristic war-zone formerly located in Tramore. Scant recollections suggest I enjoyed the skirmish, without feeling I was the difference between victory and defeat. On the bus home, statistics being passed around on a piece of paper confirmed the suspicion that I had failed to hit any targets. This I digested in silence, while less combat inclined classmates celebrated jubilantly.

But my comrades weren't always so tactless, at least initially. On his return from the holiday of a lifetime in Canada, a good friend was delighted to present me with a Super Soaker XP 85. I thanked him profusely, anticipating future glories in the common water fight of balmy summer evenings. Unfortunately, the weapon had been damaged somewhere on the Atlantic convoy, leaving its triple projectile struggling to meet even quarter of the advertised distance. This, coupled with a leaking tank, made me an easy and amusing target for the water-balloon brandishing enemy. 

More successful sorties occurred in the rarity of snowball fights. One of my most cherished memories is teaming up with another friend against our older brothers in the white Christmas holidays of 1997. I can't remember how exactly it unfolded, only that I felt less solitary in playing the part I loved most.

Another account of wintry "combat" comes from my oldest brother. In the big freeze of the early 1980's, he was enjoying a snowy day off school when he spotted a famous Kilkenny hurler delivering fuel to a neighbour. Awestruck, but determined to interact, he gathered a ball of snow and playfully threatened to strike his off-season hero. But it turned out not to be so jovial a scene. The hurler, unimpressed, harshly dispelled my spectacled brother's cheer with the words "Throw that snowball at me and I'll break your fucking glasses!".

In recent years, I've noticed my preoccupation with combat become more "mature". In the cosy confines of western existence, war is not a phenomenon I am privy to. But that same precondition permits me to try and understand conflict's intricacies from a safe distance. With great interest, I watch unfolding chaos in Middle-East and flirtations with nuclear holocaust on the Korean peninsula. I should point out that this is not some exercise in sadism; rather, I like to think of it as a realistic engagement with the ways of the world.  

But there is also evidence to suggest that this fascination is not such a studious hobby, that I'm still just a child who thinks war is cool. Why else would I pass the amount of time I do amassing huge armies in Command & Conquer, watching and re-watching seminal scenes from my favourite war films, or even writing laboured blog entries trying to figure it all out?!

This militaristic fetish probably feeds off my romantic attachment to justice, order and the idea of a common purpose. Actually, I think I am more enamoured with the discipline militarism inspires than the barbarity of its logical conclusion. This isn't such a bad thing; organisational tendencies are amongst the things I admire most in people. They are especially laudable in the pursuit of collective benefit, individual responsibility, and the notion that we might receive from society what we put in. 

There is, of course, a huge difference between such civic responsibility and an unwavering loyalty to authority. But both extremes may emanate from the same source: a desire to equalise the inherent isolation of existence in a chaotic world with a sense of indomitable fellowship. The difficulty comes in trying to maintain a balance between the two, and ensuring that we don't opt for a dangerous road paved with the best intentions. 

Accordingly, I am forever grateful that my childish tendencies occur in circumstances not fertile enough for war. Imagine, for example, that I happened to exist on the streets of a European city during August 1914. In Munich I might have found a kindred spirit in a short Austrian man with a toothbrush moustache, equally enthusiastic to get himself into a uniform and give his life some meaning. In this light, I consider it a privilege to search hopelessly for a raison d'etre in less lethal environments.