Like most special, dynamic and complex realities and feelings, it is difficult to do justice on paper to the magic inherent in our experience of Peter in Ireland.
For the last couple of years of his life, Peter spent a significant number of his weekends here and 2010 and 2011 were both rung in in the wilds of the Irish countryside. The good times are too many to list but I know some of the ones that will stick out are fighting the wind with lattés on Dun Laoghaire pier, climbing the Sugarloaf en masse, the introduction of the suitcase, "Leechy", 8 people in the bed on a Saturday morning in 56, getting lost in Chapelizod en route to cheer Jane, making a barbeque out of bricks and Jonny's dining-room chair, sailing the 154 on Lough Ree– George, Ellie and the Petes, Wacker's comedy fiasco birthday, Jonny's horseshow barbeque, celebrating an anniversary with fish and chips on Howth pier, Scotty's food-throwing test, chopping wood with Dad and James, lazy Sunday afternoons in Athlone, mussels and Guinness after a Burren walk, buying shoes in a charity shop off the Cork motorway en route to Jamie's wedding, match days in Searson's, Christmas dinner in Temple Bar. Peter was a huge part of Irish life; friendships were forged here and we never stopped laughing.
He transcended any cultural barrier and prided himself on the Irish words he had learned (all the important ones: srónín, prátaí, stocaí, rampaí). At the time of writing, his England scarf still hangs in Dublin where he left it. These weekends were pockets of sunny happiness. Go dtí go mbuailfimid le chéile arís