Laois could be the next Iceland
Lovely Laois, I hear you calling
In my dreams I hear you say
Come back home to dear old Ireland
Lovely Laois, I’ll come back to you some day
(Lovely Laois by Christy Cullen)
Fadó, fadó, before your time, Portlaoise used to be half way between Dublin and everywhere else in the country. Halfway to Cork, halfway to Limerick, halfway to Galway but especially halfway to Kerry.
Put down your mobile phone, close your eyes for a second and imagine if you can an Ireland without motorways and a Portlaoise without James Fintan Lalor Avenue and no Lyster Square.
All the traffic going up and down the country had to pass through the town centre. The Main Street was the main Dublin Road with two lanes and apart from cars and buses, artics even had to wind their way through the town on their way to the Big Smoke.
Heffo’s Army were flexing their muscle in Croke Park and the Dublin wit on the Hill was encapsulated in signs like ‘Dublin for Sam and Kerry for the holidays.’ (Things haven’t changed all that bleedin’ much, I hear you say with a Jackeen twang).
At that time the only ones who seemed to come on holidays to Ireland were Americans. We didn’t call them tourists, we called them Yanks. English visitors coming here didn’t count as tourists as they spoke the same language as us, looked the same as us and supported the same soccer teams.
You might meet the odd French person or a German looking for the Burren or the Shannon, where the story went they would fish for eel for a week and bring them all back home in a freezer. Irish people didn’t eat eels. Now these weren’t tourists either but affectionately referred to as foreigners; they looked different and spoke funny, but they were usually lost and only looking for directions on their way to buy up large chunks of Clare or West Cork. These were well off tourists, as there was no Ryanair at the time you’d have to be a multi-millionaire to get here from the Continent.
Tourists never stayed in Laois, they were always on their way to somewhere.
Somewhere else, somewhere more exotic, somewhere more famous, somewhere like Kerry. The Lakes of Killarney, the Rose of Tralee, The Ring of Kerry, Ryan’s Daughter. The Yanks loved it. Even though only one third of Americans have passports they all have at some stage or other visited Kerry.
See Kerry and die as it were. Just like in Star Wars.
Well before space travel, the Yanks used to have to use buses to get to and from Kerry. They would be ferried to the Kingdom on fleets of buses, but they would always have to stop halfway. You could set your watch by them as they would land in the Market Square.
At that time there was there were a few famous pubs in the top square. The Yanks to a man and woman would traipse off the buses and make a beeline for one of these bars to do their business.
So like a line of ducks togged out in loud coloured garish pants with matching jumpers and peak caps the Americans would queue up for the restrooms in this pub.
To add insult to injury they lived up to their reputation at the time for being tight. They might buy the odd glass of beer, the occasional cup of tea (as coffee wasn’t yet on the menu) but mostly they’d ask for a glass of tap water as they surveyed their surroundings.
The pub was a treasure throve of antiques, bric-a-brac, old posters, faded newspaper cuttings and photos from down the years. Bits and pieces lurking in every corner and from every shelf with the prerequisite amount of authenticating cobwebs dangling to duty from the nicotine coated ceiling.
Every year from Easter on the ritual with the Yanks in the top square of the Town was religiously the same.
Until one morning the proprietor in no humour for small talk and the queue out the door for the loo.
(For best affect switch now to your finest John Wayne American accent).
“This is a mighty fine place ya’all got here. Really lovely bar. Really quaint. Mighty fine bar, a really great place. We’re gonna tell all the folks back home,” said the well-meaning Yank, doing his best to make friendly small talk to cover his tracks as he made towards the exit.
“Yeah that’s right,” says our publican, barely bothering to lift his head from the counter and he buried in the racing results in the Irish Press, “You tell them, it’s a great place to have a s***e!” (Laois accent here).
Well fast forward and the town and county are a far more salubrious and sophisticated setting today – we even have public toilets.
But what a transformation there has been in terms of the fantastic hotels, amenities and attractions there are available for visitors and locals alike. Look at the investment, enterprise, energy and effort that is pouring in to so many world standard establishments right across the county. You can list them off here for yourself ….
We’ve touched on festivals before in this column and in the Electric Picnic, Bare in the Woods and the Durrow Scarecrow event we have three of the finest anywhere in the country.
Just this week, LaoisToday reported on the incredible success of two events from Steven Miller’s own patch in Vicarstown with the barges and boats on the Grand Canal and the organic success of the parkrun there.
Then you have Emo Court and the Slieve Blooms, the list goes on and on. Earlier this week on Facebook, Roghan Headon, who has long being singing the praises of the county’s attractions, not least the Timahoe Round Tower and Rock of Dunamaise, posted an amazing moonlit photo of the Ridge of Capard boardwalk under the caption, ‘Stairway to Heaven’.
In truth Laois is heavenly and many others commented adding their own favourite places and hidden treasures. Our county has so much to offer and yet we don’t fully appreciate it and it often takes the fresh eyes of an outsider to remind us of the beauty and bounty we have on our own doorstep.
Which brings me to Iceland.
I was astonished to learn this week that the guide book for Iceland is one of Lonely Planet’s top sellers for all of its European destinations at the moment. This confirmed some anecdotal evidence I had of more and more people visiting Iceland, even though it’s quite expensive.
Its appeal is certainly not beaches and sunshine, but an off-the-beaten track, authentic place, with friendly people. A rugged quality, not over crowded or spoiled, with a rich heritage and a warm welcome.
Sound familiar? Get the picture?
Enjoy your Easter and all the fabulous places we so often take for granted. Tell others too.
Laois is a great place and could so easily be the next Iceland.
SEE ALSO – Wired with Whelan: Johnny I hardly knew ye in the Town I loved so well
