ireland – Nick Grant

Nick Grant

Tag: ireland

  • Gold Rush

    This is a story about getting rich or dying trying…

    Irish Gold

    People come to London seeking their fortune. I went to Ireland seeking my salvation. In a way, I kinda found it.

    My life had fallen apart. I had lost a lucrative contract with Barclays through no fault of my own (the guy who terminated my contract was then sacked because of his stupid decision) as well as breaking up with my girlfriend, being evicted from my apartment in Swiss Cottage (again, through no fault of my own) and had once again found myself homeless and unemployed. Many friends took sides during my breakup, and I ended up suddenly alone.

    It was January, in the depths of a depressing British winter. No job, no money, no friends, no girlfriend, no nothing. I was fucked.

    A friend who I met in the summer, when I first became homeless, had returned to the emerald isle. He had generously made an open offer that I could go and stay with him and his family if I ever needed it, and oh boy did I need it. I was suicidally depressed and a big danger to myself. Camden council had been supremely unhelpful to a resident who they owed a legal duty of care, but they didn’t give a shit whether I lived or died.

    I guess a lot of unimaginative runaways go to London, and a huge proportion of them will end up in Camden Town. Camden is cool, undoubtably. Camden is full of wide-eyed young people, tourists, and huge amounts of recreational drugs, casual sex and music venues. It’s a great place to spend a summer on a shoestring, smoking strong cannabis and chatting up girls.

    I had made a couple of similarly Peter Pan-esque pals in Camden, in their mid thirties and working dead-end jobs on low pay, forced into living in hostels and dreadful squat-like houses with several people sleeping in every room. For me, it was a hugely novel experience, having been a wealthy IT consultant working in banking since I took my first big money contract at the age of 20, for Lloyds TSB in Canary Wharf. After 17 or so years of fabulous wealth, slumming it for a summer was almost fun.

    My girlfriend at the time was a waitress at an Italian restaurant. Despite having a degree in economics from the University of Bologna, she had rejected the rat race in favour of a minimum wage job and getting ridiculously stoned every day. She was fun and easy going, just so long as all you wanted to do was sit around while she chain-smoked joints, and have great sex of course.

    I wouldn’t say I outgrew my circle of friends, because I loved them dearly, but the stresses and demands of my contract at Barclays were not really compatible with the lifestyle of casual labour and the pursuit of recreational drugs. At some point, the worlds were going to collide.

    My girlfriend and most of my friends felt that I had arrogantly snubbed them, but in fact I was desperately dependent on our social circle for my wellbeing and happiness. When things all fell apart, I did too. I was devastated by the collapse of my social life, as well as losing the structure and routine of my employment.

    I ran away to Ireland, and my friend picked me up from Cork airport and took me back to the little village of Killavullen, that he and his family call home. Nestled in the hillside above the village, looking over the valley below and just at the edge of a vast forest, my friend’s family home is a peaceful idyll that is completely unlike the rat race of London.

    The timing was not ideal, and I arrived in the middle of various challenges facing the family, but they welcomed me and treated me with incredible warmth, kindness, care, despite the crises that they were dealing with. It’s not my place to be indiscreet about the family matters that I became aware of, but suffice to say the last thing they needed was some sick burnt out heartbroken citydweller suddenly thrust into the mix.

    My state of mind collapsed still further, as it became clear that there would be no reconciliation with my former friends: I was a pariah. There was nothing for me back in London, except a certain collapse in my will to live. My friend’s family insisted that I should stay with them until I felt fit and well enough to return home. I missed my return flight and didn’t book another.

    I tried to go along with the flow of family and village life, getting to know the people that my friend grew up with, and his family.

    My friend and I went panning for gold – I had bought him a kit while in England and had brought it over to Ireland for him – as well as climbing to the top of the ‘mountain’ that he lived on. We drove around the vast forest that covered the hillside, and explored the neighbouring villages, as well as nearby Cork city centre. Although I had visited Ireland twice before, I had missed the point about stopping to smell the shamrocks. I’m always in the mode of rush, rush, rush.

    We travelled to the huge cliffs at Old Head, and I stood there on the edge, having had a haircut, a shave, a bunch of hot meals and having slept in a warm comfortable bed in a welcoming family home for some time. Instead of wanting to jump off the edge of the cliff, I was actually happy to be alive.

     

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  • School Holidays

    This is a story about taking a break…

    Ballyvolane House

    This time last year I was charging around Ireland, exhausted and stressed out of my mind to the point where I was losing my marbles, because I’d had such a rough ride up to the point that I finally got out of the country for a few days break.

    August is a dreadful time to get anything done. The French have the right idea, basically taking the whole month off work, leaving the cities and heading for the coast. I peaked a little early this year, because I wanted to be on holiday while celebrating my birthday.

    A friend raised the very valid point that becoming engaged in debate is exactly what I’m looking for when I’m courting controversy. To say that I’m shitposting or attention seeking would be untrue, but there’s certainly a reason why I don’t just keep a private journal.

    Now that I’m in my mid-thirties, most of my peers have spawned offspring, and that means they’re taking their snot-nosed little shits on holiday. Can you sense the provocative sarcasm? Certainly the irony in my tone has not come across effectively at times, causing offence to stressed out mummies and daddies over my irreverence towards the magic of parenthood.

    Every so often I reconsider whether what I’ve been writing is balanced and fair, and occasionally somebody tells me I’m out of line or otherwise gives me feedback that directs my attention towards points of view I hadn’t considered.

    However, now we are in the middle of the school holidays, I definitely feel like any attempts to address my critics would fall on deaf ears. Most of my child-encumbered chums are too busy trying to stop their offspring drowning while in the paddling pool or World War III from kicking off in the back of their family-sized car packed with infants and infant paraphernalia.

    Unless you’ve met me during your sprogged-up years, you’re not going to know that I’m actually poking fun. For my own amusement, I’m assuming a caricature: that of the footloose and fancy free bachelor, who is too much of a cultured citydweller to be bothered with mopping up sick and pooh. In actual fact, if you have met me during your years of parenthood, I hope you think I’m at least a little bit sympathetic to the trials and tribulations of raising unruly offspring, and it’s obvious that I actually like kids.

    Ironically, those friends who genuinely are footloose and fancy free and have rejected the commitments of family life, have also missed the point. While they are off partying around the world, with buttloads of disposable income and zero fucks given for how the other half live, they’ve ignorantly chided me for not being more grateful for my lot in life. A couple of pals who life has conferred considerable good luck upon, have deigned to give me a lecture on homelessness and the struggles of the working class… presumably while also sipping champagne on a yacht and completely failing to see the irony.

    The irony is not lost on me, no matter what you might think, and believe me when I say that I do consider those who have not been fortunate in life when I bemoan my own situation. I hope that I always give an adequate nod to say that I acknowledge my own fortune that I haven’t had my limbs all cut off and lemon juice squeezed in my eyes while my testicles are removed with a rusty spoon. My God I’m so glad that didn’t happen to me. Oh how terribly fortunate I am. I can hold up a prompt sign if you like, so you know when I’m being sarcastic.

    I have this strange habit of directing what I write at various groups of people or individuals, which must be very confusing as a reader, but it’s also confusing for me as a writer. Who am I writing for now? My passive-aggressive attacks on my parents, and my rebuttals of my critics, have fallen on deaf ears. It’s the school holidays and everybody’s off on the beach or at a country show.

    I could stop, regroup, and even take this opportunity to actually write on themes rather than using my writing as a vehicle to deal with the demons of my mind and argue aloud with the thrust of my critics words, even if they’re not reading or responding.

    There’s something satisfying in knowing that you’ve won the argument, whether your opponent listened and responded or not. So many people are terrible at debating anyway, believing that contradiction is the same thing. “No it isn’t” then “yes it is” repeated ad nauseam. Yawn!

    And so it is, I feel like I’m talking to myself, and this feeling is further exacerbated by the summer break and the “calm before the storm” moment I’m facing, where I feel like I’m shouting into an empty room, but I also know that I’m closer than I think to making a breakthrough.

    Taking a break can so easily mean the abandonment of a project, and the web is littered with abandoned blogs. I might not have achieved much, but I’ve certainly achieved a degree of consistency.

    I’m so close to turning a corner, and yet it feels like I’m getting nowhere during a lonely school holiday where everyone is distracted spending time with their families in the sunshine while I plug away at an unfulfilling job and continue to bare every aspect of my soul on the public Internet.

    I could stop, but then I would be like Wile E. Coyote when he runs off the cliff. It’s only when he stops running and looks down that he falls. If that cartoon coyote just kept running he would be fine.

    That’s the discipline of the completer-finisher. That’s my discipline. I don’t stop. I don’t give up. Not until I achieve something. Not until I reach some kind of goal. The project’s not done. I have to continue even if it’s bleeding me dry.

    Anyway, void, I know you’re always here listening to me and it’s mighty therapeutic to be able to talk at length. Feels a bit weird continuing to blog away when so many people are off on their summer holidays, but there we go!

     

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