What Does Irish Actually Mean?

Donald Trump has been to Ireland.

He met the President. He met the Taoiseach. He went to his golf course in Doonbeg, watched the Irish Open and, somewhat unexpectedly, had quite a bit to say about a united Ireland.

There were protests in Dublin, Shannon and Doonbeg. Thousands took to the streets in Dublin, while smaller groups gathered in Clare.

And Ireland did what Ireland does.

We protested. We put up signs. We argued. We watched it all on the television. And I'm fairly sure quite a few people were mainly annoyed about the traffic.

Because if there's one thing we're very good at, it's holding several contradictory opinions at exactly the same time.

Which got me thinking:

What does Irish actually mean?

The Ireland we export

If you live somewhere outside Ireland, there's a fairly good chance your mental picture of us involves some combination of green fields, Guinness, friendly people, traditional music, pub brawls, lots of rain and somebody saying "top o' the morning".

Possibly a leprechaun.

Definitely a shamrock.

Maybe a Claddagh ring.

And if you're particularly lucky, an Irish pub that looks suspiciously unlike any pub I've ever been in.

Ireland has become very good at exporting a particular version of itself.

And I can't really complain.

I'm literally running a jewellery business that has an entire collection devoted to Irish kitsch.

I make Tayto jewellery. Brennan's jewellery. Superquinn jewellery. I have old Irish coins hanging from chains. I make things that would probably cause an archaeologist to have a small breakdown.

So clearly, I am part of the problem.

But what actually makes something Irish?

This is where it gets complicated.

Is something Irish because it was made here? Because it was invented here? Because we grew up with it? Because our Granny had one? Because it makes us laugh? Because it reminds us of being eight years old?

Because some of the things we now describe as iconically Irish were simply the things that were lying around when we were growing up.

Tayto wasn't nostalgic when I was eating Tayto.

It was crisps.

Superquinn sausages weren't a piece of Irish cultural heritage.

They were sausages.

An old Irish coin wasn't a charming vintage object.

It was money.

And yet here we are, decades later, turning those things into something precious.

Maybe nostalgia is part of it.

I think getting older does something strange to your relationship with the past. Things that once seemed completely ordinary suddenly become important.

A smell. A shop. A particular biscuit. A song. A piece of jewellery. A coin.

Something you haven't thought about for thirty years can suddenly transport you back to a kitchen, a school playground, your parents' house or a summer holiday.

And maybe that's why I like making jewellery from things that have already had a life.

I like things with a bit of history. Things that have been handled, loved, forgotten about and then found again.

Maybe because I like the idea that objects can carry memories.

I didn't know I was patriotic until I left

The funny thing is, I don't think I realised how Irish I was until I left Ireland.

I went to university in South Wales and suddenly, being Irish became a thing.

Not in Ireland, obviously. At home, I was simply… me.

Irishness wasn't something I thought about particularly.

Then I moved to Wales and suddenly I became the Irish one.

And apparently this required a soundtrack.

I suddenly needed to listen to The Pogues. I needed to know every word to Dirty Old Town and Fiesta. I became disproportionately excited whenever I heard an Irish accent.

Someone mentioned Ireland and I'd be there.

“Oh! I'm Irish!”

As though this had only recently been brought to my attention.

And then there was the strange realisation that I actually missed things.

The humour. The way people talked. The food. The familiarity of hearing the same expressions I'd heard all my life.

Even the weather, although I'm still not entirely convinced that was worth missing, especially as I discovered that it rains in the Welsh valleys way more than it ever could in Ireland.

Even Galway.

I think that's when I first realised that patriotism doesn't necessarily arrive wearing a tricolour and singing The Fields of Athenry.

Sometimes it's simply the moment you find yourself somewhere else and realise how much of home you've been carrying around without noticing.

It's hearing a song and feeling something.

It's being disproportionately delighted to discover a Tayto sandwich.

It's hearing someone say “how're ye” and immediately feeling that tiny little click of recognition.

And perhaps that's why, years later, I find myself making jewellery out of Irish things.

Because once you've lived somewhere else, even temporarily, you realise that all those completely ordinary things you grew up with weren't actually ordinary.

They were yours.

And then, of course, you become the person who gets emotional about a sausage.

Although, to be fair, British sausages really were woeful 30 years ago.

We're also very good at telling people what we think

There's another side to Irishness that doesn't always make it into the tourist brochures.

We're often sold the idea of the Irish as endlessly friendly, welcoming and good craic.

And we are.

But we're also a country with a long tradition of protesting, arguing, campaigning and refusing to quietly accept something we think is wrong.

We'll welcome you into the pub and then spend three hours telling you exactly where you're wrong.

We'll apologise while disagreeing with you.

We'll say “No offence” immediately before saying something that is, quite clearly, offensive.

And we'll make a sign.

God, we'll make a sign.

There was something almost comfortingly familiar about seeing the photographs from the protests during Trump's visit.

People standing together. People shouting. People holding placards. People making their feelings very clear.

And, inevitably, somebody somewhere making a sign that was considerably funnier than it had any right to be.

Because you can tell an awful lot about a country by the way it protests.

The Irish have a particular talent for making a serious point while finding the absurdity in the situation.

I don't think that means we don't care.

Quite the opposite.

Sometimes humour is how you cope with caring very much indeed.

We can be contradictory

Perhaps that's one of the things I find most interesting about being Irish.

We're full of contradictions.

We're nostalgic and modern. Sentimental and cynical. Proud of our history and perfectly capable of taking the piss out of it.

We'll happily tell everyone about our ancient Celtic heritage and then get terribly excited about a limited-edition packet of crisps.

We'll complain about tourists and then complain when there aren't enough tourists.

We'll argue passionately about politics and then say:

“Ah sure, look. What can you do?”

And perhaps that's why Trump's comments about a united Ireland felt so strange to so many people.

Irish unity isn't a novelty topic.

It's history. It's politics. It's identity. It's family. It's memory.

And for many people, it's deeply personal and deeply sensitive.

So perhaps another part of being Irish is listening to somebody else tell us what Ireland is going to look like and thinking:

“That's nice. We'll decide for ourselves, thanks.”

And then there's the ridiculous stuff

Some of the things I make are objectively ridiculous.

A necklace featuring Superquinn sausages is not exactly what you'd expect to find in a traditional jewellery shop.

Neither are Tayto earrings.

And yet people love them.

Why?

Because they're funny. They're familiar. They remind people of something.

Because they're unmistakably ours.

And perhaps that's the bit I really like about Irish kitsch.

It doesn't have to be grand or ancient or beautiful.

Sometimes it can be completely bloody daft.

And still mean something.

So, what does Irish actually mean?

I don't think I know.

And I'm not sure there is one answer.

It might be a Claddagh ring or an old Irish coin. It might be a song your Granny used to sing. It might be speaking Irish. It might be living abroad and still feeling a little tug when you hear an Irish accent.

It might be a packet of Tayto or a Superquinn sausage.

It might be sitting in a pub arguing about politics with people you completely disagree with while somebody in the corner plays the fiddle.

It might be remembering where your family came from.

Or it might simply be where you feel most at home.

Maybe Irishness isn't one thing.

Maybe it's a slightly chaotic collection of things we've picked up along the way.

Some ancient. Some modern. Some beautiful. Some deeply questionable.

Some that we inherited. Some that we invented. Some that we fought for. Some that we laughed at.

And some that we probably should have left in the charity shop.

Which, when I think about it, sounds remarkably like my jewellery stash.

And perhaps that's why I like it.

Because I'm not trying to make jewellery that tells you what Ireland is.

I'm making little pieces of the Ireland I recognise.

The Ireland I remember.

The Ireland I find funny.

The Ireland I grew up with.

The Ireland I sometimes get nostalgic about.

And the Ireland that occasionally makes me want to stand on a street corner with a homemade sign and tell somebody exactly what I think.

Because maybe that's Irish too.

A bit sentimental. A bit stroppy. A bit ridiculous. Very opinionated. And always up for a cup of tea afterwards.

And if that's not Irish, I honestly don't know what is.