The Long Irish Goodbye

Pat Kenny

In Ireland, the only thing longer than the rain is the goodbye.

You don’t leave an Irish house. You attempt to. You announce it multiple times. You rise, you sit, you hover awkwardly by the door like a man negotiating Brexit terms with his relatives.

The Irish goodbye is activated when you announce your intention to leave: ‘Well, we’ll head on so…’

Once those words are uttered, the host springs into action:

• The kettle is re-boiled (‘Sure you’ll have one for the road’).

• The biscuits return (‘They won’t eat themselves’).

• A recent funeral is aired, which triggers many minutes of gossip on who’s dead, dying, or suspected of both.

Eventually, you make it to the front door. There, conversations intensify as this is prime time for:

• Discussing how dark it’s getting.

• Discourse over which route you should take home.

• Debating whether it will rain (‘It’s holding off… for now’).

That is often accompanied by standing in the doorway to block your exit.

The cruellest trick of the Irish goodbye is the Reopened Topic: the conversation you thought was settled an hour ago, suddenly resurrected with fresh passion.

‘Ah before you go, did I tell you about Cousin Seamus and the septic tank disaster?’

Now you’re locked in for another 20 minutes, because nothing in Ireland is more captivating than someone else’s domestic catastrophe.

If, if, you break free and get to the car, you’ve only won the first battle. The host will follow you outside, often in slippers and no jacket, to:

• Make you roll down the window.

• Hand you leftovers.

• Remind you to ‘drive safe now’ like the N4 is cursed and no one ever returns.

Even as you reverse, the conversation continues. In extreme cases, you may find yourself halfway down the boreen with the host jogging alongside, still delivering gossip.

‘Lovely to see you. Did you hear about Bridie’s hip replacement?’

Let’s not forget the tactical guilt deployed at many occasions during the visit:

• ‘We never see you any more.’

• ‘You’re always in a rush.’

• ‘Ah, you’re too good for us now.’

It’s emotional hostage-taking, but with tea and ham sandwiches.

Scientists believe the Irish goodbye developed as a survival tactic against cold, isolation, and relatives who cannot cope with silence.

When you spend 70% of the year inside due to rain, conversation becomes your national sport – and leaving cuts into valuable talking time.

I recently visited my Auntie Mary for a ‘quick cuppa’. Four hours, three teas, two sandwiches, and an unsolicited weather forecast later, I was still trying to leave. The last resort: a neighbour ‘just popped in for a minute’ – which turned into a mini wake for someone still alive.

Finally, as I physically backed toward the car like a man negotiating with wild animals, Auntie Mary delivered her closing line: ‘Well sure you’ll have to come again soon – before we’re all in the grave.’

I merely nodded. Because there is no counter-argument to Irish guilt delivered in a wool cardigan.

An Irish goodbye isn’t a departure. It’s a process. A ceremony. A shared national inability to just say ‘bye’ and mean it. And during it you’ve consumed more tea than the British Empire and China ever dreamed of. Because in Ireland, the visit may end – but the goodbye never really does.

Slán for now.

(But not really.)

Inklings Writing Group meet on Tuesdays at 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm, Annebrook House Hotel. (Pat performed this piece at the North West Midlands Hospice event held in Kilbixy Church).