St Patrick’s Day today and I guess there’ll be a multitude of  blog posts about it. As Ireland is one of my two favourite countries in the 43 I’ve visited, the other is of course Romania, I have to post something, but what? Last year I posted about a wonderful personal experience in the land of fairies. I might have seen a leprechaun on that occasion but I did have rather a lot of Guinness and Irish whisky; I’ll settle for less today.

I am trying to write a ‘fairy story’ today, as our writers’ club (Writing on the Wharfe) has one of our occasional ‘performances’ in a local library, Ilkley, next Saturday afternoon. Recently we have done it for Spring/Easter, Autumn and Winter/Christmas. It doesn’t have to be a children’s story though it has to be suitable for children. I love writing for them, drawing my inspiration not from the impressive list of Irish story writers but from children I know, daughters of a friend in our village or, on this occasion, and some past, from the daughters of my blogger friend in Latvia. However, back to Ireland … …

Irish writers

It is extraordinary how many Irish writers jump immediately to mind, way disproportionate to the size of this astoundingly beautiful country and people. I just made a list but I’m sure someone will say “what about … …?” I cannot put them, poets, dramatists, short story writers and novelists, in order of preference so I spent a minute putting them in alphabetical order.

Samuel BeckettBrendan BehanRoddy DoyleJohn EnnisOliver GoldsmithSeamus Heaney, James JoyceC. S. LewisLewis MacNeicePatrick McCabeIris MurdochEdna O’BrienLiam O’FlahertyGeorge Bernard ShawBram StokerJonathan SwiftOscar WildeW. B. Yeats.

Personally I’m hard pushed to make such a list for any other nation.

I could, though, make such a list for Romanian poets, they have a language which seems to me perfect for poetry.

Which brings me back to writing and a post earlier today from one of the first bloggers I followed, Romanian; at the time I was struck by how good his written English was and found his writing on writing interesting, which was unusual for me as much as I like to write, reading about writing rarely interests me.

His post today (or rather the one which interested me; he tends to post several times a day, most of which I do not open) is titled ‘Being a writer’ and includes a short video clip of American tv writer Chuck Lorre’s response to being asked for advice to new writers. I’ve never seen one of his sitcoms but what he said hit home:

Write what you love … write what’s real, write what you care about …”

When writing for children I write ‘inspired’ by children I know, so what I write is always based in truth. Those children may not always be entirely ‘real’, though they often are, but my method of writing whether for children or adults is simple: I ‘dream’ of the characters, wait for them to speak to me and write down what they say, do or think. If they don’t speak to me I don’t write, so I cannot follow the advice to write something every day. But as I write for me, with no aspirations to be published more widely than my blog, it doesn’t matter.

PS. Congratulations to the Irish rugby team which beat England today to win their first Grand Slam for 9 years and the third ever.

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Small Belleek vase with flowersI can’t let St Patrick’s Day pass without a small acknowledgement; Ireland and it’s people share the top spot in my favourites with Romania, though it’s a few years now since I visited. Must remedy that.

The little Belleek vase was bought on one of the most memorable of many memorable Press visits when I was working full time as a journalist. It was bought as a memento for my mother and came to me when she passed on at 91 years five years ago.

Alcoholism, divorce and Blarney

A guest of the Irish Export Board with two other journalists, we were ferried around for three days in a Mercedes limousine, a wonderful – quite crazy – trip around many bars with several factories between. I returned to England I swear with a tan, Guinness tan, a preference for Irish whisky which has never left me, and a lasting wonder of Irish food. Despite the ride in an alcoholic haze (in those days all true journalists worked better well over the limit – alcoholism and divorce were the main enemies), the export board got their money’s worth with a published feature on the working places with export potential which we visited. It must have been 1970 or thereabouts.

The itinerary certainly included Dublin, Limerick and Cork (near which the obligatory kissing of the Blarney Stone took place). We never went anywhere near the village of Belleek, which is just over the border in Northern Ireland, but I acquired the small piece somewhere. I’ve always considered Ireland to be one country anyway.

So today I’m green, with envy, for all those lucky enough to be there over the Irish sea.