Scary stories from a lovely place
Now that we’re back home in Australia and we’ve just about conquered jetlag we’re enjoying other ongoing effects of our lovely time in Dublin.
The northern Irish accent that quickly infiltraited Silas’ voice is enduring the Australian twang. I hope he can keep it as a momento of all the conversations he had with his grandparents.
I was a little sad at playgroup yesterday when I reverted back to spelling Oisín’s name the Australian friendly way – Oishín. It was great the first time we took the boys to crèche at church in Dublin and I didn’t spell his name that adulterated way, but people could pronounce it perfectly!
Oisín seemed to come alive the first few days we were in Dublin. This could be because he had been sick for weeks in the lead up to our trip. I wonder if on some level it was also because everyone was pronouncing his name correctly. Not once was he called ‘Oysin’ or ‘Ocean’. He knew he was at home amongst his similarly named cousins; Roisín, Aoibheann and Saoirse.
The other thing that seems to have made an indelible impression upon the kids, and I admit myself, was the Dublin bus. Irelanders – you should be so proud of so much in your country, but your public transport is one thing in particular. I know the Celtic boom ended and now you’re all suffering under austerity, but it gave you your bus system. Silas now refers to every bus as ‘blue bus’ even when they are mostly green.
We had many great bus rides together, and I enjoyed quite a few on my own too. Silas loved the bumps and Oisín liked banging on the windows. I liked watching the landscape of the city go past my top level window.
Yes, we are missing you Dublin.