CAMPY-FRIES

You know what's cheaper than going on holidays? Surrounding yourself with foreigners and pretending that you're in their country. Or simply sample some minute aspect of an exotic society with a bit of imagination, and you never have to go too far from home. Thus, a trip to the the local offy for a few cans of Dutch Gold becomes a vertible Whirlwind tour of the Netherlands. Or, for the truly adventurous, a sip of Tiger transports you to 19th century India, as part of a pompous upper-class toffee-nosed safari hunters, tracking down a particular ferocious - well, tiger. Also, when you are abroad, a quick swig of the Guinness will stave off homesicknesses, by instantly injecting a bit of tooralooraloo into your heart, transporting you to a typical irish location, such as a dirty bus stop in the rain surrounded by pot-bellied farmers and bling-laden scangers.

The last of the Americans have now left Cork; the wind billows through the Leeside Apartment blocks, melodiously rustling some stray plastic bag - a remnant, perhaps of some trip to tescos from a bygone era to buy macaroni and cheese or peanut butter and jelly. The boisterous hubbub that emantated from there on a friday or saturday night has given way to the clumsy fumble of some nightclub refugee, foot-scraping and shuffling down the ghostly alleyways surrounding Leeside. I can no longer pretend I'm passing by Little America, I can no longer fool myself that I'm visiting a microcosm of the USA. Meg, the last American did give me something of an American sending-off however, when she - along with the penultimate american, Paul - suggested we should go camping for a night somewhere in the Cork surrounds. We bussed it to Clonakilty, whereupon we hiked out to Inchadoney in the blazing sunshine. When we arrived the sun was obscured by clouds and remained so for the rest of the trip. That did little to dispirit our emprise though; we found an empty stretch of beach and camped in a sheltered crevice in the rolling mossy dunes, that seemed to go on indefinitely with not a soul in sight.

One illegally set fire later, and the camping trip was underway. The primal animal in me dug out a very effective hearth, which was a refreshing change, for normally the primal animal in me just makes me into a desperate-for-lovin'-but-still-can't-really talk-to-women tit. Here's where the yanks introduced their national campside cuisine, which was a benefical experience for me coming from a country where such outdoor gastronomy remains undeveloped as our camp food must come under the "can it be eaten raw in case it rains which it definitely will let's face it" category. So I tried some of that peanut butter and jelly stuff, fire-cooked hot dogs, and of course, "S'mores". Now these things consisted of crackers not unlike Liga between which lay melted chocolate and marshmallows browned over the fire. Tasty, but of a level of sweetness only really suited to the American palate. Every bite, though delicious, had a sort of diabetes-rapping-at-your-door aspect about it that had your teeth partially anatomised in your head and had you hankering for a slice of Mr. Brennan's best bland loaf afterwards.

The next day we had a quick bollock-shrivelling dip in the ocean, followed by the best sandcastle in the universe. I nerdly employed medieval building techniques,though I've yet to see a medieval castle with dismembered crab claws protecting a portcullis made out of broken mussel. Despite my slightly cultural American experience, I discovered that I couldn't deny my Irishness; for, in spite of the constant cloud cover, I was red as an embarrassed devil. I shone like a hellish lighthouse and I had people coming into my bedroom at night to develop photographs. Try to heroically convince people that "oh it doesn't hurt, really" when there's people draping their washed bedsheets over you to dry them off. Since then, I've been heating bathwater for needy families, and my dead skin can be seen in the form of a snow-scene in the latest Neil Jordan film, where I'm frantically rubbing my arms from a heightened winch off-camera onto Stephen Rea's head.