The playground in my backyard: Ireland, how has it taken this long for us to become friends? 

 Our first night in the city, and our feet beat the Dublin streets, a more familiar territory for us all than the neolithic monuments and ancient tombs of our guided tour that day. The city lights spin slightly through a soft haze of Jameson and warm summer air, and with the warm smiles of strangers who march over the bridge with us towards this vibrant playground of a city. Dublin just won at Gaelic football (?) (lack of detail indicative of lack of knowledge, not my area of expertise), and all I know is that the city itself is dancing. The pub floors groan as a hundred bodies jump in time to an old Irish folk song, glasses clinking, sweat dripping, their shoes sticking to the reassuring layer of spilled Guinness which coats the decks and smells like Friday night. Smiles emerge beneath upper lips kissed by a rich, chocolatey foam from the first hurried sip of a freshly pulled pint, and arms extend like branches above the throbbing crowd as each group's chosen guardian attempts to bring back his prize to waiting friends. Rotund men in football shirts transform into graceful ballerinas as they tip-toe their overflowing vessels through the throngs, arms aloft, only to be knocked aside by a gaggle of girls, heads thrown back in song, a forceable chain of linked arms and high heels. 

My observations falter as I am whisked into a whirlwind jig with a man three times my age (and size), and as the song finishes he pats my back with his sizeable paw and shouts amiably into my ear "Welcome to Dublin!". And I laugh because in London, I might not be best pleased with being twirled and lifted by an inebriated, sweatier version of my father but here in Ireland the people are just so wonderful, so full of character, that you can't help but fall in love with them all just a little bit. 

We spill into the street and take a deep breath by the banks of the Liffy before beginning the hunt for our own grease-laden weakness; the type which only resembles real food between the hours of three and five in the morning on a weekend, and necessitates a sole, single slurred utterance to bring it into contact with ravenous mouths. "Chips" "Kebab" "Burger" we cry, and stampede into the Dublin night, wailing half-heard versions of "Molly Mallone" and "Whisky in the Jar" in botched Irish accents and performing spontaneous street-side Riverdance. But the Irish still stand drinks in hand, cheering us on, laughing, welcoming us to their city. And if that isn't exceptional national character, I don't know what is. 

The more salubrious part of Ireland involved a wonderful visit from Marge and Parge; a real treat, as I think I miss them more when I've seen them recently enough to really remember just how much I enjoy their company. When we spend six months apart at a time, my brain tends to downplay such things to avoid a sort of continuous nostalgia which is no good for getting things done.  We spent quality time together the way Mendozas do best: eating our way around the Emerald Isle, in constant rapture about how fresh the food was and how genuinely friendly everyone was. I think we might lose my Mum to Ireland, she is convinced after several seafood dinners and a multitude of gourmet farm shops that this is the place for her. She can park her rusty orange camper van next to the pier, take long walks in the evening sunshine and sing songs about how fresh the prawns are and how well the kale grows till the sun sets over the Irish Sea. What a life! Our impressions may have been biased by the heat wave that hit that weekend, but I'm still convinced that Ireland is a place I've been crazy not to visit until now, considering we've been neighbors my whole life. We got only the smallest taste of the kindness of the people, the wonderful food and gorgeous landscapes. 

After Marge and Parge left, Emma roused me on three hours of sleep to go and explore the cute seaside village of Nowth...or at least, I think I can justify calling it cute, because we got about as far as a row of little independent restaurants serving fresh seafood two minutes from the train station, and were immediately distracted by late-afternoon shellfish and white wine, the fresh sea breeze whipping our hair into our mouths as we tried to elegantly yet efficiently pick apart crab shells, while also expressing our sincere appreciation for the food. The whole scene was pretty idyllic, a sunny day, seagulls cawing, local prawns, not much else to do but sit and soak it all in until it was time to take the train back to the boat. That we did, and with the predictable mixture of reluctance to leave and excitement to go, we were afloat the Atlantic once more…