I really, really like Cork – it reminds me a lot of Newcastle – a working class industrial port city that has had to reinvent itself for the 21st century. In Cork’s case that has meant, like most of Ireland, IT. Apple Computers has its European headquarters here and Amazon have just followed suit. Cork’s harbour is the second largest natural harbour in the world, behind Sydney and its position on the Southern tip of Ireland makes it an ideal distribution point for US companies.

Cork is casual and welcoming, and the people incredibly friendly. People were happy to chat or give you directions. And while there are stylish boutiques throughout the city, people here don’t take themselves too seriously and the attitude is very casual. It’s one of the first places since Rovaniemi that I didn’t feel out of place in my army pants. And there’s a good reason a hoodie and an anorak are standard dress in Cork – it may rain at any minute. In the 24 hours I was in Cork it rained four times (and that was while I was awake). [‘The Rocky Road to Dublin’ – Dropkick Murphys – yes I’m back to the Dropkicks – yes I know they are from Boston but they’re Boston Irish through and through]

It appeared that I had arrived in Cork on the night of a six nations rugby match between Ireland and England. While Cork is known for being Ireland’s rebels, they’re still fiercely loyal to the national rugby side and any hope of seeing a live band was quickly dashed. Every bar in town, up or downmarket was showing the match. The Irish are passionate about sport – be it rugby, soccer (and they call it that) or Gaelic football. I probably would have had a beer and even watched the game (when in Cork) but I was feeling really cloggy and in need of a cup of tea and some comfort food. I found it at a little place called Uptown Grill or something like that. A roast leg of chicken with mashed potato and mushy peas. And a pot of tea. The Irish serve tea with a meal like we would have a coke. A huge steaming pot of really strong tea, the way my grandma used to make it. It was perfect. Then I went back to my room and snuggled under the doona for a good night’s sleep.

While I was still fluey, the sleep (and probably the tea) had helped a lot. I got up, had my free hostel breakfast – toast with jam and tea – and headed out for the day. I thoroughly recommend the Bru Bar and Hostel – the staff are a mixture of Irish and New Zealanders and it is friendly and relaxed. The rooms are clean and comfy and they provide free wi-fi – no mucking about, you just log on. I was glad they made everything so easy while I was feeling sickly. My first mission for the day was making my way to Blarney. [‘The Wild Rover’ – Dropkick Murphys – a traditional Irish ditty gets the Dropkicks treatment]

Yes, I kissed the Blarney Stone. Yes, I am aware the locals piss on it. And no, you don’t have to worry about me talking more – the Blarney Stone is about the gift of eloquence (and I don’t think anyone would argue that I could do with that). And by the way, you don’t need to be so worried about bending over backwards to kiss it – there are two guys to hold you (and they take a photo) what you should be more worried about is the never ending really tight and steep spiral staircase to the top of the castle where the stone is. I paid for the photo this time 10 euros and it came with a certificate. If Santa charged 10 euros instead of 50, I would have got my photo there too.

Blarney is about 15 minutes by bus out of Cork – it is a little village around a common (heavy with tourist stuff of course) but what is interesting on the trip is the number of small farms and villages you go past or pass through on the way, all serviced by public transport. In Ireland, you really can live in a small village and commute to work. In fact it would take less time than getting to civic if you live in Kambah.

From the lush green grass and Friesian cows (they’re the black and white ones for the bovine illiterate) to the dry stone walls, the country around Cork really reminded me of Kiama. It’s hardly surprising since it was Irish immigrants who started the dairy industry in Australia. Which leads me to my next port of call – The Cork Butter Museum. Unfortunately no statues made of butter, but a plethora of artifacts for making the stuff and a history of butter in Cork, including the fact that the butter storehouses and market in Cork were for a long time the centre of world trade in butter. Fun butter fact – milch (milk) and the cow were at the centre of both the ancient Irish diet and mythology – they buried butter in the bogs in ancient times (a container of which was on display in the museum. Now you may question my interest in the butter museum (apart from the obvious kitsch element) but my family history is tied to the dairy industry in Australia (and gee with a surname like Heffernan, you wouldn’t guess that they might have been Irish dairy farmers originally). And one of my great uncles (Irish catholics come from big families so there are a few) built his own butter museum on the road between Kameruka and Candelo. I have no idea whether it still exists as the last time I was there was more than 20 years ago but I was interested to see the Cork museum, which was a lot better archived and presented than Vic’s museum – his was basically in a disused shed from stuff he had collected out of interest. [‘Amazing Grace’ – Dropkick Murphys from the album Live on St Patrick’s Day From Boston MA – this is the version of this song I want played at my funeral (not any time soon I hope)]

The other thing Cork has is a lot of is churches – not like Rome has relics but functioning churches. I was in Cork on Sunday so it was probably more obvious but there were also ads for charities urging people to give generously this lent. There are probably few other countries in the world where advertising can target a specific religion and be successful.

Cork also has welcoming people. And yes I am still totally in love with the Irish accent. And no, I haven’t found myself an Irishman to sweep me off my feet. My favourite Irish mannerism is a hallmark of why this country (or Cork at least) seems so welcoming. Instead of saying you’re welcome, they say ‘it’s no bother at all’.

So what idiot agreed to an 8am flight? That would be me, without of course, any regard for the fact that meant being on the way to the airport at 3.45am. Despite my concern, the shuttle bus turned up (early in fact) and the driver spoke enough English to get me to terminal 4. This was the first time I had caught a plane since arriving in Stockholm without spare undies so this time I was prepared – enough clothes to last a couple of days were piled into my onboard luggage. [‘Full Moon, Empty Heart’ – Belly – this is probably my favourite Belly song and perfect for a Sunday afternoon as the sun goes down over Limerick Junction, Ireland]

I had tried to check in online about three times without success ad when I arrived at the airport I realised why – I was flying into Ireland with a one-way ticket on a budget airline and there was no evidence I was leaving (despite the fact I was booked on a plane back to Australia in less than two weeks). As it turned out, the Irish border was the hardest one I have crossed so far. And despite being able to stay for up to 60 days, they want a date for when you are leaving as soon as you arrive. And they check your passport about six times before you actually make it across the border. Anyway, despite my concern, the airline check-in girl booked my bags through to Cork. At least this time I had undies.

Madrid’s Barajas Airport was the first major international Airport I had entered. It’s easy when you go through Hong Kong as a transit passenger and Helsinki airport was a lot smaller than SKSA. It was a convoluted process to get to the gate through security screening, downstairs, on a train to the terminal 4 annex, upstairs, more security screening and a passport check – I got my second passport stamp for leaving Spain. Now seeing as Ireland is part of the EU (they even use the Euro), I was surprised by the strict level of border control – EU citizens can live and work in Ireland. Finally, we boarded the plane and I settled in for the two and a half hour flight. Greater Madrid looked quite spectacular as we flew out before dawn. It dawns quite late in Madrid and the sun sets rather late as well, which probably explains the structure of the Spanish day.

Once I arrived at Heathrow, it was clear I had a pretty serious head cold – temperature, hacking cough and blocked sinuses – the whole deal. Between my Spanish flu and my lack of sleep, it was going to be a long six hour wait for the train. Most of the first hour was just taken up with getting through the security checks and to the correct terminal. First you walk for about 15 minutes, get on a bus and walk for another 10 minutes then you get your passport checked twice and have a biometric photo taken. Then you walk for another 10 minutes to get to the correct waiting area where you get the boarding pass for the connecting flight. First I sorted the cash situation and then I decided to have breakfast. I was in England (well kind of) so I decided it was time for my first fry up since leaving home. It was great and it was nice to be able to order without pointing and using hand gestures.

After wasting the day, suffering with the flu in transit, I had to pass through another passport check and a biometrics check before finally boarding the plane for Cork. Interestingly English isn’t the first language for the announcements to Ireland either. They are in Gaelic. But everybody speaks English. I arrived in Cork airport where it had been raining to yet another passport check (and another stamp) allowing me only to stay until March 6 – I couldn’t remember the exact date I had planned to leave Ireland. And the first thing I noticed was how green it was. Everybody tells you but you’re really not prepared. [‘Gepetto’ – Belly – kind of appropriate considering the Celtic sounding Clanaard was the genesis for this band.]