Travel

Down here in New Zealand, I live in a town called Dunedin which is right at the bottom of the South Island. Dunedin has the most horrendous weather of anywhere I’ve ever lived (a list which includes Ireland, the north of Scotland, and Alberta, fyi). Apparently the subantarctic region starts at 46 degrees south - Dunedin is situated at 45 degrees 52 minutes, a latitude of which I am all too aware as I bike to and from university in horizontal rain and ferocious southwesterlies, day after day. It is a terrible place.

In my musical tastes, as in much else, I suspect I might be somewhat of a disappointment to those with romanticized notions of “Irishness”’; those who envisage a land of misty mountain tops and green fields, in which toothless old men knock back pints of Guinness, and where raven-haired beauties and feisty colleens stomp their feet at raucous fiddle-playing before bursting into a jig, then wrapping their shawls around them and skipping home to their thatched cottages.