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I went first to the Ordnance Survey Office to get a map of the country.
As a semi-state organisation it has a duty to provide certain services in Irish. I replied in Irish. I tried explaining once again what I was looking for. I really needed a map for the journey ahead; it would be hard enough to get by without having to ask for directions constantly. I tried addressing the man one last time, using the simplest schoolroom Irish that he must have learned during the 10 years of compulsory Irish that every schoolchild undergoes, but he covered his ears, and I was left with no choice but to leave.
It was not a good start.
Although it was still early I decided I needed a drink and headed to an elegant Victorian bar off Grafton Street. I tried simplifying the order - although how much simpler can you make, "I'd like a drink, please"? I have managed to get drinks in bars from Cameroon to Kazakhstan without any problem; if I had been speaking any other language I doubt it would have been an issue.
I tried pointing at what I wanted - the taps were lined up along the bar - but I made the mistake of talking as I pointed. I thought it safer to get one of the customers to translate for me, but they stared resolutely into their pints when I turned to them. Eventually, one young lad, taking pity on me, advised me to go to a cafe on Kildare Street. The city's Victorian plumbing was struggling to cope with the July heat and the place stank of sewage.
I could not help thinking it was a sort of ghetto, a sanctuary for a beleaguered minority. I knew the journey was going to prove difficult, just not this difficult. What I had not factored for was the animosity.
Part of it, I felt, stemmed from guilt - we feel inadequate that we cannot speak our own language. I decided to contact a talk radio show in Dublin to ask the listeners what they thought.
A few phoned to say that they had no idea what I was talking about. I asked in Irish, over and over again. Are you speaking the Irish?
This in turn made me feel guilty: She then bribed me as a child with sweets and treats to go on speaking it when I realised that none of my friends did. In fact, I had almost discarded it, regarding it as a dead weight around my neck, until TG4, the Irish-language television station, was set up in and I started making travel documentaries for it. After the radio show, I decided to visit the tourist office which, presumably, was used to dealing with different languages. The man at the counter looked at me quizzically when I inquired about a city tour.
I was beginning to hate this moment - the point at which the fear and frustration spread across their faces. They were just trying to get through the day, after all.
They did not need to be confronted by an unbending foot soldier of the Irish Taliban. I explained what I was trying to do. I asked if there was any other language I could use and they pointed to a list of seven flags on the wall. To be honest, I could speak five of them but I had promised myself not to, not unless it was absolutely necessary.
Eventually they located a charming young woman who spoke perfect Irish and was able to tell me everything I needed to know, but she was terribly nervous, believing her vocabulary to be inadequate. It was not; it was wonderful. It is an odd tendency that people often have an erroneous view of their ability to speak Irish, either over- or underestimating their ability - possibly a convoluted psychological legacy of the stigma attached from days when it was a sign of poverty and backwardness.
I might have been tempted to give up the journey entirely had it not been for something that happened during the radio phone-in. I was rapidly approaching a point of despair when some children came on the line. I found they spoke clear and fluent Irish in a new and modern urban dialect. They told me how they spoke the language all the time, as did all their friends.