An Ex-Pat's View of America

It's my last day in Florida. After days of sub-zero Fahrenheit temperatures, the weather finally warmed up, and Florida feels at last like Florida. Mind you, I've been gone for so many years that I wonder if I know what Florida is supposed to feel like. Or any State in the Union, for that matter.

What got me thinking about this was a question posed by one of the resident's of Freedom Plaza, a retirement center for Seniors. This woman - and I suspect that she's near 90, and endowed with a wisdom beyond even her years and an energy and sensitivity that seems much younger - asked me: "Tom, you keep writing about how you find Ireland. Let me ask you: How do you find the United States? What changes do you see? What impresses you? What disappoints?"

Tocqueville, the 19th Century French political thinker and historian, was able to encapsulate his views of America in his treatise, Democracy in America. I am no Tocqueville, but the woman's question intrigued me. Therefore, and for what it's worth, some views from an ex-pat who hasn't lived in this country for 27 years, going on 28:

• The price of gasoline is higher than it used to be - and folks over here bitch about it. They should be thankful that they're not paying over 5 bucks a gallon. That's what I pay in Ireland for the stuff.
• Americans are out of work and they like to blame a lot of people - while it's true that many American companies have given away a whole slew of jobs by 'out-sourcing' skills to India, Malaysia, and similar (which makes me fume, by the way), I grow tired of the blame game. Yes, it's horrible when people lose their jobs (I've lost everything more than once). And it's also true that the greed of bankers, consumers, business people, congressional leaders, and regulators are to blame. But at this point - who cares? If someone is out of a job then go get one. If they can't get one, then start a business. I've been out of a job a couple of times. No one offered me much - just an opportunity. And I grabbed that with both hands, started a business, and began writing. I stopped blaming and started doing. I wish that people would stop bitching and do something constructive.
• America is not falling apart - this is one of my pet peeves: folks I know in both the United States and Europe, citing Rome as an example, seem to take pleasure in stating that the sun is setting on the "American Empire". To that I can only say: "BS". Americans are some of the most industrious in the world. They are innovators, doers (contrary to my point above), reachers of Moon Dust. While it may be true that the United States will no longer be the strongest economic power in the world (China will possibly pass us very soon), the country and its people will be able to hold its head high.
• Americans are extraordinarily giving - and not only with their money. With the smile of welcome that is on their lips as they greet a stranger; with the generosity of living that is in their hearts; with a recognition of how kindly fortune has smiled on them, and a willingness to give back. That is the America that I know. A kind hearted people firmly rooted to the soil of a great nation, who always seem to extend a giving hand when adversity strikes. That's always been the case. It was when I left and it still is.
• America has problems, but it will prevail - it is true that this country has its share of problems: a hurting economy; an enormous pile of debt; a racial question that even now does not seem to be completely resolved; high levels of crime; falling disposable income. The list goes on and on. When I left here in 1982, that list of problems was almost exactly the same. While nothing would seem to be solved, so much has also been accomplished. Yet so much remains to be done. I am concerned when I see educational funding fall, knowing that this undermines the country's most important resource: an educated citizenry. I grow desperate when I still see high levels of bigotry: against African Americans, homosexuals, Islam, and anyone else who doesn't quite fit into the 'accepted mould.' I become greatly concerned when I see our values eroded: when this country would even consider taking the word "God" out of the Pledge of Allegiance, I can only wonder what this country has become...

Ask me what I think of this country and I'll tell you: it's not perfect. It still has a long way to go. But its geographic beauty is stunning. Its people rich in intellect, determination, and benefiting from an unique melting pot of cultures.

In the past 27 years, this country has changed. Of course it has. Some changes have been for the better. Some have been for the worse. But my attitude to the United States hasn't changed:

This ex-pat still believes that it's the best country in the world.

The Soft Blessings of Ireland

Right now I'm sitting at my father's desk in his apartment at Sun City Center, Florida. He lives in Freedom Plaza, a retirement center for those of a certain age. A glass of wine (a nice Shiraz) sits at my right hand. I think of the day that's just set and think of the people that I've met here and smile. Maybe it's the wine, but I don't think so.

When my father introduces me to his friends, he invariably says, "This is my son. He's the fellow who lives in Ireland." And just as invariably, Dad's friends stare back with a look of bewilderment as they attempt to process the information.

"You live in Ireland?" they ask, not quite comprehending. "Do you like living there?" And often, I'm quite not sure what to say.

As I've mentioned in other entries on this Blog, I'm a self-confessed schizophrenic when it comes to my attitude regarding living in Ireland. On the one hand, I miss my American homeland with all of my heart. I'm proud to be an American, and that feeling gets spun into a web of romantic images of vast plains, and purple mountaintops, and a diverse people that are some of the best in the world.

But I also think of what has happened to me during the past 27 years of living in Ireland; of the gentle journeys that I've taken; of the honest steadfast people there; of the small miracles that I've been blessed to experience...

A number of years ago, I attended a writer's centre in the Beara Peninsula way down in West Cork. That centre, located in Eyeries, attracts writers and other artists from far and wide. Many come because of its setting right on the Atlantic Ocean. Stunning sunsets, amazing moons, the soft warm breeze swept in by the Gulf Stream; all create a mystical landscape that nurtures the creative spirit with a will to live.

I should explain that when I'm working on a project, I tend to write a lot. Twelve to fourteen hour stints are commonplace for me because once I enter the world of a screenplay it's difficult for me to escape. However, there are times when the words simply won't come, no matter how long I stare at the blank laptop screen.

This was one of those times. I had been sitting in front of my laptop for hours on end, but my fried brain simply refused to cooperate. I glanced at my watch: it was 6AM and I had wasted an entire night. I knew that I was blocked and had no idea at all of what to do about it.

I grabbed my camera and walked out of the still-sleeping centre. In the east, the still unseen sun was painting brush strokes of salmon pink on low scudding clouds. I turned toward a beach in the near distance, intent on walking across the sands and to the small village of nearby Eyeries.

However, I soon discovered that a stream blocked my way. I eyed it warily. It fed right into the Atlantic. The tide was high, and its depth was unknown. But its waters were clear and it didn't look too deep. I figured that I could wade across.

I stripped naked. Bundling my clothes together and placing those with my camera atop my head, I took a breath and stepped into the stream ... and immediately found myself out of my depth. I tread water against a stiff current, yelling at the surprise of icy coldness that set my teeth chattering. I pulled myself out as soon as I could, let me tell you.

For a moment I stood at the side of that stream, catching my breath. Then I saw the sun: it glinted above the horizon. Its warmth struck my nakedness, touching my soul with its bright steady fingers.

And I started to laugh. I laughed and laughed, my head full of the image of a naked Yank standing in an Irish morning sun. But I also laughed with the sudden joy of living, of having the good fortune to be in Ireland; of the luck that had made me turn right at a cross-roads in Wales back in 1980 that had led me to this exact spot.

It was as if I had been baptized anew, and that Ireland had given me a gentle blessing with the loving waters that ran through its living veins.

I put my clothes on and walked back to the centre. My writer's block had cleared. I finished that screenplay three days later.

So to answer my Dad's friends' question: "Do I like living in Ireland?" The answer is yes. Quite a bit.

Usually, anyway.

For more stories on one American's journey in Ireland, why not buy A Survivor's Guide to Living in Ireland, written by Tom Richards.

A Silent Night for Irish Ann

Recently, I was asked by my online publisher, http://www.escapeartist.com/, to pen a travel thingy about how we celebrate an Irish Christmas over here. I thought and thought - and the more I thought, the more I wanted to do something a little different. The result is a story about my Irish friend, Ann McGoona.

I thought I'd share it with you. Thanks to Susan Beverly at Escape Artist for bugging me to write this. You can find the original article at http://www.escapefromamerica.com/2009/12/living-in-ireland-a-silent-night-for-irish-ann/

Her name was Ann McGoona. A funny looking woman, she was a friend of my wife’s and I’d known her ever since coming to Ireland in ‘82. She was all smiles and laughter, and a serious side too that listened intently if you had a problem. Over the years, she and I had become firm friends. I liked Ann quite a lot because she always had a kind word and a welcoming laugh, and when I met her my day always became that much better. Even if I moaned about the constant rain in this country, she’d look up at me from her tiny stature of four foot nothin’ and say, eyes glinting, “Ah, it could be worse, you could be dead.”

I especially enjoyed her outlook on Christmas. Not for Ann the commercial trappings of that season. Instead, she had the outlook and attitude of a child. And on an Irish Christmas of 2001, I longed to moan to Ann about how cold it was, how bloody frosty! And of the smoke that floated from the coal fires of the terraced houses, turning into a thick mist over the small Irish town of Navan. Oh, how I longed to hear her say, “Feck it. It could be worse, ‘cause you could be dead.”

But she couldn’t say it because she was dead. She was dead of cancer at the age of fifty-four, only a few days before Christmas.

Ireland at Christmas is a magical place. It is a time for family and friends; of kith and kin. Yes, it is much more commercial today than it was when I came here half a lifetime ago. But some of the traditions remain untouched. On Christmas Eve, we still light a candle in the window to welcome the Christ Child. Wives – and yes, these people are usually housewives – still mix the Christmas Pudding in an immense bowl, kneading the suet, breadcrumbs, mixed fruit and Guinness together until it’s just right. Then boiling in a pot for hours on end until the house smells like a baker’s. And finally pouring the Irish whiskey over it until it has just the right potency.

Christmas in Ireland is a time for children, which means that it’s a time for everyone because almost all of its populace are children at heart. And on Christmas Eve, the entire town of Navan still marches down to Mass, and within the draughty church that’s as old as the history of the town listens to the priest retell the story of a child born to a woman, and of His message of hope that was a precursor to his later dying.

Just as Ann had died.

On that almost Christmas night eight years ago, Ann chose to have herself laid out in a simple wooden box and placed in her parent’s front room. That house was tiny by American standards, and the crowd that came to celebrate Ann’s life could not possibly fit within its four walls. Instead, we gathered outside in the frosty narrow laneway and waited our turn to file past Ann. Inside, her family gathered at her head; a priest in attendance. And when it was my turn, I did what everyone else did: I entered the house to say goodbye. I picked up the fragment of fir tree, touching its silky needles into the bowl of holy water, brushing the droplets gently onto Ann’s forehead. Then, like the others, I walked outside to wait.

As I waited I looked up. On that almost Christmas Eve, the stars glittered overhead. A small mist gathered gently above the row of terraced houses, as if a ghostly wreath. In neighbours’ windows, candles were lit, only this time to say goodbye to a friend that they knew held no wrong. And then as I waited, the bells of the local church began to sing. And their song was Silent Night, Holy Night, and for a moment I thought of Ann and the friendship that she had for this Yank who was so far from home, and I knew that I would remember that night and that Christmas for as long as I lived.

Christmas in Ireland offers the simplicity of giving, love and laughter that many other cultures have misplaced beneath piles of torn Christmas wrappings. But it offers more: it offers a people whose hearts are filled with giving. Just like my tiny friend, Ann McGoona
Happy Christmas, Ann, wherever you are. And if I’m moaning about the rain again, let me hear you one more time: “Ah, for feck’s sake Tom, and give over. You could be dead.”

© Tom Richards and Storylines Entertainment 2009.

Tom Richards was born in Chicago but has lived in Ireland since 1982. He has no Irish blood in him whatsoever. Trust me! He is also the author of A Survivor’s Guide to Living in Ireland, a bestseller on www.escapeartist.com.

The Warmth of an Irish Christmas

All right. It's true. The cold winds of the economy, nature, and politics are blowing through the country like an out-of-control winter's hurricane. But while public servants might threaten to strike again; while flood waters might be burying houses, farms, and entire villages in the west under ten feet of water; while the government might be readying an early-December budget that's going to blow us all to hell and back; everyone who lives here has a little secret.

Christmas is just around the corner. And we're all looking forward to it, let me tell you.

So What's Special About an Irish Christmas?

If you're Christian, or just like the spirit of the season, we all know that Christmas is celebrated in just about every country in this crazy world of ours. But an Irish Christmas is...well...a little different. I received my indoctrination to an Irish Christmas in December of 1982. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't exactly what occurred.

I'll start with the economics of the times: back then, in '82, I was almost penniless. But then the entire country was broke too, so I didn't feel unusual. My good wife Bernie and I counted out the small stipend that I'd received from my miserly employer of the time, and went into the town of Navan to go Christmas shopping.

In those days, the town's shopping district was quite small: a main street filled with assorted shops, chippers, and any number of pubs; and a tiny 'shopping centre' that even had a Penney's. We went wild! As I remember, I was able to purchase a pair of gloves and hat for Bernie (as I remember, she bought me the same), a doll's crib for our daughter, a small turkey and ham for the dinner (together with sprouts, potatoes, and bread); and a small bottle of whiskey to cheer the night away. Materially, it wasn't much of a Christmas.

But that's before the good stuff started.

Unlike Anywhere Else...

Christmas Eve in Ireland is quite unlike any other Christmas Eve I've experienced anywhere else in the world. That evening, my brother in law invited me out for a couple of pints of the black stuff. We wiled away an hour or so in the packed pub, exchanging Christmas greetings with the locals, before staggering through the crisp starry night and to the warmth of my house. There, a local priest was waiting, having barged in for a night cap before Christmas Eve mass. I must admit that I was staggered by the many times he went at the small bottle of Jamieson, and reckoned that he'd get through Midnight Mass with nary a care in the world.

After he left, my good wife and I wrapped up tight, put our child in her pram, and took a walk into the town. In those days, outdoor Christmas lights were foreign to this country. Instead, the warming glow of a single candle lit the window of every home, welcoming the Christ child once again into the world. It was an amazingly serene time: the frost covered streets were empty, not only due to the fact that so few people had cars back then, but because those that did were invariably home celebrating the season with their families. Through the small windows of the houses, we could make out parents putting secret lumpy packages beneath their simple trees. Few people then bothered with boxes to make their Christmas perfect. Instead, they would wrap up parcels any old way; dolls arms, toy rifle barrels, the heads of golf sticks would stick out every which way, as if Santa had been so busy that he simply didn't have time to do anything else.

We walked through the town and into the Church. There, our local priest - possibly feeling a bit better for it all because of the Jamieson that we'd proferred- celebrated Midnight Mass with his congregation. The Church was cold and dark, lit only by the candles on the alter and the Christmas lights that glowed warm upon the face of an infant Jesu hiding in his manger. For a moment, and despite the few hundred town's people that sat around me, I felt one of them, content in the knowledge that I'd at last found a place to call home.

Later, and after Mass, we wandered up to my wife's parent's house. There, my mother-in-law Kathleen had sandwiches waiting: thick slices of fresh ham nestled between white bread, slathered with hot Coleman's mustard. My father-in-law Luke handed us not only a cup of tea but a pint bottle of Guinness too. And for awhile, we sat around the coal fire that sparked and sighed and bathed the small living room in ghostly shadow. We whittled away some time with Luke telling ghost stories of the Banshee, and the time as a young man and he walked through the door to find a neighbor hanging by his neck. In Ireland, Christmas is also a time of ghostly tales, and so it was that night.

And finally we left, walking again through the clear starry night, accompanies by the glow of candles, and to our own home and its warming Christmas Candle.

Christmas here has changed so very much over the years. As the country has grown richer, the pile of material packages under the Christmas tree have also grown. Now, deep in recession, perhaps once again we'll learn to understand the true spirit of an Irish Christmas: a time of starry nights, and simple Christmas Trees. A time of empty, frosty streets and the warmth of family and fellowship.

A time of candles alight in windows, to warmly welcome friends.

For more stories about living and surviving in Ireland, why not buy Tom Richards' book, A Survivor's Guide to Living in Ireland? Just click here...

"Negative Feelings are Not in the National Interest!"...God

Introducing Brian Cowan, the head of our Irish government, a man elected (almost) by the people, and who, it seems, has now appointed himself as God.

Recently (like only yesterday, according to the radio), our beloved Taoiseach (translation: 'Leader' in Irish) was apparently instructed by his spin doctors to say something constructive that might mitigate against the despair which many Irish people feel regarding the current state of our national economy. I gather that Mr Cowan took this advice to heart. From on-high, and secure in his own fiscal safety net that includes one of the world's highest salaries for a government leader (he makes much more annually than even President Obama), our great leader uttered something like:

"People's negative feelings regarding the Irish economy are not in the national interest."

I heard this as I was driving to what is left of my company, and almost lost control of the car. Hence, I cannot be certain of Mr Cowan's exact quote. But the above gives an exact intent, if nothing else.

For those of you who do not live here, take heart! You do not have to listen to the utterances of the above crazy man. Those of you in America can at least hear the positive spins offered by the President, Ms Palin, the Leader of the House of Representatives, and even such authority figures as Fox News.

Here, we have to listen to the drooling oratory of madmen, of which Mr Cowan is a wonderful example. And his patronising drivel only serves to make those of us who live in Ireland realize one thing:

We're all fucked.

It Really Is a Terrible Beauty

Here, in this delightfully green and friendly country, we're putting up with one of the worst recessions known to modern Irishman - or woman for that matter. Only this past week, another thousand people lost their jobs. That may not seem like much, but in a country of only 4 million people it matters very much indeed. Unemployment is now well over 12 percent and, we fear, bound to go much higher. People are losing their homes to foreclosure. What makes this madness is the fact that the banks to whom they owe money are also broke. However, those banks have received billions in government aid as part of a bail-out program.

Out in the south and west of this country, the economy is made even more difficult by weeks of constant rains that has led to once-in-a-lifetime floods. Hundreds of people in the cities and towns of Cork, Galway, Athlone, and elsewhere are now homeless. Mr Cowan made it a point to visit these wastelands to commiserate with his people, and invariably take advantage of any photo opportunities that might be available. Unlike God Almighty, however, Mr Cowan was not able to part the waters which might have provided some practical help to his poor national constituents.

The country is in a shambles right now: people have no confidence. They have stopped spending. They're losing their jobs. They're losing their homes. The Irish are downright bruised and discouraged, and waterlogged by the rain and the torrent of bad news that has been going on for almost two years now. We need encouragement and vision and a positive outlook on the future.

And what do we get instead? A mawkish, patronising comment from the guy who is supposed to be leading us out of this mess, and that dismisses our feelings of doom and misery as "not in the national interest."

To that I can only respond: "Mr Cowan, get stuffed."

Yarns from a Wandering Yank

Every now and then the day job gets too much. On those occasions - and when the yearning to write creatively grows in my belly - I'll chuck it all for a week and head to an arts center. I'm sure there are such places in the States and elsewhere, but because I've been here so long, I'm not too familiar with the American varieties. Here in Ireland, and on such occasions, I'll throw my laptop and some survival gear into the car, and head north to County Monaghan and the Tyrone Guthrie Centre.

The residence, located in the small village of Annaghmakerrig in said County, is a little peace of tranquility. "This residential workplace (and I quote from their website) is open to professional practitioners in all art forms.... In a tranquil, beautiful setting amid the lakes and drumlins of County Monaghan everything is provided for including delcious food. Sir Tyrone Guthrie bequeathed his family home and estate to the State (e.g. Ireland) with the proviso that it be used for the benefit of artists. It was an inspired decision..."

Inspired is right. You should see this place, and the above photo almost does it justice. The great house, left to Ireland and its artists in 1971, is a virtual paradise. Located in a tranquil surrounding, surrounded by hills and forests, and resting on the shores of a modest lake, it is the perfect place to spin yarns, tell wild stories, create music, proffer jokes to other artists, and otherwise attempt to get some creative work done.

It is a veritable paradise for practitioners of almost any art: a range of studios are available for painters and pot throwers; a full sized dance floor is on offer for those with a bent toward ballet or modern or jazz or Irish traditional. The music room comes with a full size Grand Piano. And us writers know that a desk is available in each room with light, and electricity, and a whole lot of time and solitude within which to go creatively crazy.

But the house has its share of ghosts, let me tell you. And on many an occasion I've felt the skin crawl, swearing that some long-dead visitor has decided to give me a helping hand with a particular story.

Of course, there was one night not too long ago. I'd come to the Centre to work on a horror screenplay, Banshee. Ghosts and bloody ghouls were swirling through my head anyway. And as I was working on one particular scene - a scene in which the full moon rose and the Banshee wailed, I happened to glance out the window.

My room faced onto the lake. And there, above that nearby body of dark, still water, at some ungodly hour of the morning, the full Moon rose. And I could swear that I heard a bump in the night, and a whisper of garments, and the sigh of an old woman behind me. I turned but of course no one was there...

I'm going back to the Guthrie Centre soon to work on a new screenplay that I'm considering, and to write a companion book to A Survivor's Guide to Living in Ireland - this time a travel book with the tentative title: Yarns from a Wandering Yank. While I'm there, perhaps I'll bring all of you along too.

You never know. Together, we might see the full Moon rise and the screech of the Banshee as it washes over the dark and lonely Irish countryside.

Retire to Ireland! Or So Says Forbes Magazine

Recently, I received an email from my favorite publisher, escapeartist.com, stating that they'd been contacted by Siobhan Maguire, a hard working reporter for Ireland's top newspaper, The Sunday Times. Siobhan, in turn, had contacted escapeartist in that she has been tasked with writing an article about Retiring in Ireland. That article, in turn, has been prompted by the following:

In its Oct 15 2009 article 'The 10 Best Retirement Havens', Forbes Magazine ranks Ireland as Number 5 on their list. Not too shabby, I must say. Forbes notes that Ireland ranks high on the list for the friendliness of its locals, as well as its 'rest and relaxation' index. The beauty of the country is also noted, as well as the (relatively) low local taxes.

Their article - and a chat with Siobhan - started me thinking. If I were an American living, say, in Michigan, would I want to consider retiring in Ireland? And if so, why would I? What are the benefits of retiring here? What are the downsides? What would I have to do to gain permission to live here?

Manana...Irish Style

I had an Uncle in Law named Bernie, a true fisherman if there ever was one. Bernie lived in Navan, of course, and spent most of his time on the Boyne River, rod in hand. The man was forever tying flies, and grumbling at his poor luck in landing a salmon...but I'll say this about him: he knew how to live a stress-free retirement. Bernie's idea of a day out was throwing his rod over his shoulder, packing a couple of sandwiches and a flask of tea in his fishing bag, and walking off down the river for a day spent in the misting Irish rain.

He'd whistle to himself as he strolled down the river, with nary a care in the world. The man lived to be 89. One day, he must have decided that the fishing would be better on the other side of that Great Divide in the sky, because one morning he simply refused to wake up. He passed away with a secret smile on his face, and I suspect that he was already considering the casts that he'd use in God's fishing grounds.

Bernie had the right idea: he'd let his worries wash off his back as easily as shaking the rain from his broad fishing hat. And many Irish that I know do the same thing. Maybe it's genetic (and God knows that as a non-Irish person I can sweat the small stuff - as well as the large - most of the time) but many Irish friends of mine - including my good wife - have the ability of saying 'manana' to themselves. Perhaps they see a bigger picture: of life filled with gentle rivers, sweeping green hills, and verdant golf courses. They know that life isn't about the stresses and strains that we're faced with daily, but rather about friends and family; holidays and celebrations; a pint and a laugh with friends.

For that reason alone, this attitude toward living that is at the heart of many Irish souls, Ireland is worth considering as a retirement destination. But there are many more reasons to consider moving here.

Lower Costs of Housing - buying or renting a house in Ireland hasn't been as inexpensive in over 5 years. Now that the Celtic Tiger has met its much publicised demise, finding yourself a little corner of Irish heaven in which to call home is affordable. For instance: a newly refurbished 2 bedroom cottage with lake frontage on Lough Ramor is being sold for €90,000 - that's approx $135,000. Go to http://www.daft.ie/ for more information on hundreds, if not thousands, of affordable Irish properties.

The Friendliness of Her People - I've written about this time and time again. But it's true. The people here really are friendly, and welcoming, and usually accepting. Yes, and depending on where you live, they can have a 'village mentality' which occasionally means that they'll know your business before you do. But chatting over the gate with a neighbor, or having a pint with a friend, or simply strolling up to a stranger to ask directions - leading to a chin-wag that can last an hour - is one of the charms of this country that I most value.

The Beauty of Her Character - Ireland is beautiful, and make no mistake about it. From the shore just north of Dublin, to the hills, mountains and cliffs of the west coast, this country is a veritable picture post card of pleasing geography. What I love most about Ireland, however, is the simple solitude that is available almost anywhere. I find nothing more enjoyable than taking a walk along a country road; smelling the fragrances of heather and green fields in the air; of the simple quietness that allows one to hear a bee bumble busily in a nearby rose bush, or a far off cow moo her pleasure. The simple beauty of this country is rarely matched.

The Cultural Crossroads of Her Fabric - Ireland is a tapestry of interwoven - and sometimes conflicting - cultural cross-currents. Here, in this little island that measures slightly more than 300 miles long, rests a history that stretches back millennia, but that also contains a highly skilled and educated people, and one of the most potent centres of technology in the world. Here, and within miles, you can visit a monument to Bronze Age engineering (Newgrange, which is only 5000 years old, and by many archaeologists' reckoning, is older than the Pyramids), and the latest chip fabrication plant in Leixlip County Dublin (Intel, one of the world's most profitable tech companies).

Doctors and All Things Medical - we have some great hospitals in this country, and some fine medical practitioners. In my opinion, the medical community really is concerned about the people that they serve. And it's still relatively inexpensive: about €50 to visit your GP.

The Cost of Living - okay, and I'll admit it: Ireland has a bad press when it comes to the cost of living here. For years, the country managed to price itself out of the reach of many visitors -and residents, come to think of it. But the good news is this: prices here are falling rapidly. Everything from the electricity that we use to the vegetables that we buy is becoming less expensive. The downside, of course, is that the economy is still contracting as I write this. But the good news is that it's more affordable.

Access to Europe - Ireland is within an hour of Dublin, 2 hours of Portugal, and within easy access of all of the Continent. Cheap flights (http://www.aerlingus.com/ or http://www.ryanair.com/) and ferry travel (http://www.irishferries.com/) make visiting other countries and cultures inexpensive and enjoyable.

The Downsides of Retiring Here

I'd be remiss if I didn't point out the negatives to retiring in Ireland.

It rains a lot. And I mean A LOT. This year, November has been one of the wettest months on record. But that doesn't stop you from taking a walk, drinking a pint in a local pub while being warmed by a peat fire, or chatting with a neighbor over a cup of tea. Dress for the weather, and it's still a wonderful place to live.

It's also true that Ireland has high levels of 'unseen' taxation. While it's true that those incomes aren't hit as hard as many countries at source (that is, we pay less in Income Tax and social security taxes than many), we are hit by a wide variety of so-called 'stealth' taxes. See my article about the costs of living in Ireland for more information.

Too, being an ex-pat can be a lonely and emotionally draining experience. I've written about this before, but it's something to keep in mind. If you're considering retirement in Ireland, or any other country, remember that the culture will be different to what you're used to. The people are different. They will have different attitudes and beliefs. What I will say is that this is part of the experience of living overseas. If you move with the right attitude, you'll do just fine. But don't be surprised if you battle moments of self-doubt about your decision, or occasionally wish that you'd never moved at all. That too is part of the emigrant journey. And as I always say - if I can survive abroad, so can you.

So What Do You Have to Do?

If you're considering a retirement to Ireland, you will have to prove that you will not be a financial burden to the country. To that end, you'll have to apply for a 'Self-Sufficiency Visa' in which you'll have to spell out your financial wherewithal. Too, you will probably be asked to prove that you have sufficient health insurance. For more information, visit the Citizens Information website, and their Retirement section.

For more information on living and surviving in Ireland, why not consider purchasing Tom Richards' book on the subject. Just click here.