Clare People Interactive

ROMANTIC Ireland is dead and gone.
Two of the first things you are taught when studying journalism is to avoid clichés and to always start with something snappy and interesting. So what do you do when a damp squib of a cliché fits all of the ideas that you are trying to convey so perfectly that you just can’t find a way of avoiding it?
Because yes, romantic Ireland is dead and gone.
So, besides being – as you have no doubt already noticed – a pretty rubbish way to open a column, what value can we gain from this much quoted utterance of WB Yeats?
I hold no great candle for the passing of rural post offices, pubs or even garda stations. These, as far as I am concerned, are shells for rural life – mere staging posts where the real spirit of the people can find a space and time to express itself. No, what really irks me is when this spirit itself begins to be eroded or lost forever.
Romantic Ireland is dead and gone and rural hitchhiking is my assassinated love.
The people are still there, huddled in the hinterland of every decent-sized town or village, and every so often someone even stops and gives them a lift. But something is missing.
Things were different in my day (now the clichés are really flowing). In my day, there was an unspoken contract which existed between the lift-giver and -getter. If someone was good enough to pick up a poor and often sodden wretch on the side of the road, it was your job – nay, duty – to provide a little light conversation and quirky banter to warm the road ahead. But this custom, it would appear, is no more.
Remember, romantic Ireland is dead and gone.
Picture the scene: I picked up a hitchhiker last week just outside Lisdoonvarna. We chatted a little but after a while she became quiet. Fair enough, I think, everyone has an off day.
Unperturbed, I turned up the radio and concentrated on the road ahead. Until we arrived in Galway that is – a lift of almost 70km don’t forget – and I noticed that instead of fulfilling her hitchhiking duty and making some sort of conversation, she had been listening to her i-Pod.
At first I hardly noticed, and when I said goodbye I wished her well and meant it. But now I’m not so sure. I got to remembering all the lifts I’d taken as a teenager, all the stories I’d told and been told, all the things I’d made up, all the craic which I had been a part of.
Romantic Ireland is dead and gone – but is it people like her who have killed it?
This was my niggling little problem. It struck a chord in my head and created a nagging itch that I just had to scratch. So, I did what everyone else seems to be doing these days when they are presented with a problem – I asked Facebook. And, believe it or not, Facebook came up good.
In just 12 hours, Hikergate gained more than 70 comments (on both my own private site and on www.facebook.com/ClarePeopleInteractive) and through these comments came wisdom and reassurance.
They say a problem shared is a problem halved (now this is cliché-tastic) but an outrage shared can sometimes make you understand that the problem isn’t as bad as you had thought.
Romantic Ireland is dead and gone, but if enough people are annoyed about it then maybe it can be brought back to life. Both friends and strangers rowed in with their two cents.
“Unacceptable! The very least that’s expected of you as the recipient of a free lift is some banter, preferably witty and bantersome,” said one.
“Part of the beauty of hitchhiking is talking to new people. It’s not just a free lift,” said another.
No, romantic Ireland is still alive, but I feel sorry for the people who just don’t get it.
Maybe the most telling comment came from ColliSon on Facebook: “The gombeen sold it for a song.”
Ain’t that the truth.