‘Whiskey is spelt with an ‘e’.’ That’s what my writing colleague told me 20 years ago after I’d asked him to comment on a short story of mine – he thought the story was alright but made it clear that I’d spelt whiskey incorrectly. ‘That’s the Irish way,’ he said, in his broad, multi-generational Australian accent.
I too have Irish ancestry, though it dates back well over 200 years, so I took his point. And ever since, no matter what I’m working on, even a column for a newspaper, I make sure that whiskey has its ‘e’.
A couple of years before the writerly conversation with my colleague, I visited Ireland – I did the typical young Australian thing of chucking everything in, donning a borrowed backpack, and flitting off on adventures overseas. First I trained it across Canada in the North American mid-winter; I was told that it would look just like Tuggeranong – it didn’t. Then I flew over the Atlantic and landed in London; being someone who also has English ancestry, I was told that I’d definitely ‘feel something in Old Blighty’ – I didn’t. I caught the train to the top of Wales before riding the ferry across to Ireland.
Dublin. What a city. Eire in general. All the faces seemed so familiar, as though I could tap a random person on the shoulder and they’d turn around and say, ‘Ah Nigel, you’re home!’ Which is absurd: I’m as Irish as a glass of water. Still, I spent six weeks backpacking up the west coast, from Caherciveen to Inishboffin, which is like spending six weeks backpacking from Batemans Bay to Wollongong. But I loved every minute of it, despite the rain, and the insidious damp, and the pale light. The conversations. One in particular, with a village shopkeeper. She: ‘You have that Paul Keating as a prime minister.’ Me: ‘Yes, he’s a republican.’ She, deadpan: ‘And look at what republicanism’s done to Ireland.’
Regardless, when it was time to catch the ferry from Belfast to Scotland I had an Irish accent and now wore an emerald-green coat that made me look like a walking field. A fortnight later, when I made it back to London, I found myself even more in love with Ireland, and even more out of love with the UK.
Had I become radicalised?
If so, my radicalisation has only ever manifested itself in spelling.
Whiskey is spelt with an ‘e’.
(First published in Panorama, The Canberra Times, 13 July 2013.)
9 comments
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July 20, 2013 at 9:16+00:00Jul
Gabrielle Bryden
Love the way the postcard is half full of asking the question hope you love the postcard – hahaha 😉 My grandmother was Irish from County Cork and my Mum did what you did – she travelled from Australia with some girlfriends and hitchhiked around Ireland (scuse me if I’ve told you this story before) before getting married.
July 21, 2013 at 9:16+00:00Jul
Nigel Featherstone
Postcards: gotta love ’em! Nice to know that you have Irish stock too. I bet your mother had a brilliant time during that trip – has she ever been back?
July 22, 2013 at 9:16+00:00Jul
Gabrielle Bryden
I think she went back a couple of times (she’s not with us any more otherwise I would ask) – my parents were always travelling somewhere or other – but she was always talking about that trip so it had a big influence on her 🙂 When I think about it, it was quite a bit thing do do when she was young – single woman hitchhiking with other women in a land far away.
July 23, 2013 at 9:16+00:00Jul
Tristan
As usual, really liked this piece, Nigel. I’ve got Irish, and English, heritage too, but, despite hearing good things about both and being only a short train ride away a couple of times, I’ve never had the desire to visit either place. I think I just figure that I’ll get there sooner or later.
And funny, isn’t it, how offhand comments made on your writing sometimes have a habit of lingering.
July 24, 2013 at 9:16+00:00Jul
Nigel Featherstone
Hi Tristan, interesting that the names ‘Tristan Foster’ and ‘Nigel Featherstone’ both have Irish/English ancestry. Though perhaps it’s not that interesting/surprising after all (!). But I did love Ireland: perhaps it’s the irreverence that I loved the most, that sense that everything can be taken the piss out of (dreadful sentence, that).
And offhand writing comments? We’ve all got them in our lives, haven’t we?
August 5, 2013 at 9:16+00:00Aug
Sarah St Vincent Welch
Nigel, whisky/ whiskey is one of my most checked words when reviewing student work for grades or publication. Does it have a romantic allure that it must be woven into stories? Do they really drink it? Where does it fit in characterisation? I could only come at sherry and cask wine back in the day. It’s one of those words where I always pause and think now HOW do you spell that? And have to look it up for the e or no e. Now I know. Thanks for the enjoyable read, as ever. Did you kiss the Blarney Stone (I did!) Thanks for making me recall my travels in Ireland ( the tanks and soldiers on the streets of Belfast I’ll never forget, as well as the friendliest bunch of people in the world).
Regards
Sarah
August 5, 2013 at 9:16+00:00Aug
Nigel Featherstone
Hi Sarah, thanks heaps for your comment. As to THAT allure, yes, I do think whiskey (notice the ‘e’?) means a lot to writers. It’s probably because most writers are just a little unhinged, don’t you reckon? And I’ll never forget the tanks – and soldiers with machine guns pointed lazily at the drunk Saturday-night crowds – in Belfast either. Amazing country, isn’t it. Such a beautiful place, and thoughtful, friendly people…who have had such shit to deal with. Life huh? Who’d do it?
August 14, 2013 at 9:16+00:00Aug
Mark William Jackson
Ooh, you’re pushing my English buttons, not love the UK! I have a strong urge to visit Ireland, although I wish I’d made it before they banned smoking in pubs. But will definitely make it there as soon as possible, sooner if you can guarantee that I won’t run into Bono.
August 14, 2013 at 9:16+00:00Aug
Nigel Featherstone
Hi Mark, good to hear from you. Yeap, sorry, England didn’t work for me. But I do thoroughly recommend Ireland: so much drinking to do, so little country. And about Bono? Well, when I was there my local friend made the mistake of driving me past Bono’s house. It looked like Gracelands. Needless to say, we then got thoroughly trolloped at the nearest pub. Funnily enough, my Irish friend was allergic to beer – how does THAT work?