The Irish are their own best export, worldwide

If everyone on earth who could claim some sort of Irish heritage went back to Ireland at the same time, there would not be enough space for them all to fit into the island nation.

I don’t believe any country can claim to have quite so many expats living in virtually every other country on earth.

No matter how exotic or remote your travel destination, you will always find something Irish, sometimes only a pub. I am quite sure that in the far reaches of outer Mongolia, where no Caucasian faces are seen from one century to the next, you will find a Noonan’s Pub and Grill.

There is no country more fascinating right now than the Emerald Isle. Not too long ago it was poverty stricken and backward, cold and miserable. Nowadays it is one of the most economically successful countries on earth with an intelligent, innovative population who smile and sing a lot, produce outstanding whiskey, and boast some of the most picturesque golf courses imaginable.

The weather is still cold and miserable most of the time—except for summer, which this year is expected to take place on July 15.

A quarter of the blood flowing through my veins is pure Irish, and even though I am a committed South African who cannot bear to be away from the majestic Cape mountains or Limpopo bushveld for too long, I love visiting Ireland because I am made to feel so much at home.

And wherever one stays, in hotels, B&Bs or guest houses, your Irish hosts will always seem to have some or other relative living in South Africa.

And if you mistakenly believe that the seat of European Catholicism is Rome, think again.

A certain American political journalist decided to go to Europe and combine a hiking holiday with interviewing heads of state.

The story goes that he was fortunate enough to get a personal interview with the pope. It took place in a particularly spartan papal apartment in the Vatican boasting only two chairs and a plain wooden table on which sat an ornate golden telephone.

Seeing the journalist’s gaze fastened on the phone, the pope explained that that was his hotline to God.

The journalist was incredulous, and seeing his cynicism, the Holy Father suggested he pick up the handset and try it out.

He did so, and within seconds the phone was answered by God himself. For the next three minutes, the hapless hack was told by the highest possible authority not to doubt popes. And that if he intended publishing anything on his experience, to make absolutely sure that there was not so much as a vestige of a misquote or he would find himself condemned to an eternity of reporting on parish council meetings.

As he left the Vatican, the pope’s personal assistant presented the wide-eyed journalist with a telephone bill for $3,000.

A few months later, while hiking in rain through the Irish county of Cork, he spotted a Catholic priest tending the garden of a tiny parish church miles from anywhere. The priest called to him to come out of the rain and join him for a cup of tea.

The journalist was ushered into the tiny vestry in which an ancient gas heater did its best to bring some warmth to the sole furnishings, a table and two chairs.

The reporter stopped dead in his tracks. Before him was an ornate golden telephone—a dead ringer (pardon the pun) for the one he’d used in the Vatican.

“That’s my hotline to God, you’ll be after seeing on the table. And if yez doesn’t believe me, give it a try,” said the priest.

The journalist backed out of the vestry and muttered through chattering teeth that the last time he had been invited to do just that, it had cost him a whopping 3,000 US dollars. (His office in America refused to refund him the price as a legitimate business expense; they had no precedent in their accounting rules for journalists having a chinwag with the Almighty, especially at a thousand bucks a minute.)

The priest poured a liberal dollop of triple-distilled Tullamore Dew into the journalist’s tea, and putting his arm round him, led him back to the table, saying: “Yez don’t have ter worry about dat here me lad, yez can speak direkly to da Good Lord for only four pence a minute…”

Before the suspicious scribe could ask the obvious question, the priest leaned forward and whispered: “Ye see, from here it’s a local call.”