Until a few months ago, I thought it was just me. Then I was talking to Ann (I've known her since I was a kid) about leaving County Mayo (in the west of Ireland) at the end of the annual summer holiday.
She said she could never stand it - and still can't. Leaving a place where everyone knows you, but where you can get away with murder if you want to. She told me that she gets a spell of mild depression that can last for weeks. Like the one I've got now.
Yet it can't be that rare really. For the last three weeks, I've had Mid West Radio on in the background, and about 50% of their muscical output are songs with that generic combination of Pedal Steel and Accordion about how people are abroad yearning for a little village and a homestead so dear. Songs with titles such as 'Four Pubs in Bohola' and 'The Boys of the County Mayo' - ones that manage to recite the name of every town in the County in order to maximise sales to the emigrant population.
And the other 50% of Mid West's output is even better than that!
Brendan Behan recites some old poem (it's in Borstal Boy, I think - I'm quoting it here from memory) that suggests that this is nothing new.
Since my journey's decided, my step will get stronger,I suppose there's always next year....
'till once more I stand in the plains of Mayo.
(Previous eulogy here)
PS: There is no prouder moment in Mayo than this one. On Sunday, The Green and Red of Mayo will trample the dirty Dubs at Croke Park to earn a place in the final. More on why that matters here.