The Irish fantasy is relevance

A land that celebrates fairies, leprechauns, and rainbows is bound to carry a few misplaced real-world ideas. Ireland does.

My dear Ireland is in a pickle. EU-style protester roadblocks have choked off petrol deliveries to roughly half the country. The government’s response? “Wait it out”—which is to say, do nothing. I know this firsthand: Alden’s honeymoon was disrupted by the blockages.

The broader EU habit of unrest is perplexing—fits thrown over things largely beyond local control. Ireland, for example, has no real influence over a war with Iran. Historically, it hasn’t projected military power at all. It stayed neutral in World War II, offering help only at the margins. When your leverage is limited, abstention becomes policy.

That said, EU membership hasn’t been an unqualified disaster. According to my distant cousin Martin O’Gara, who still lives in County Mayo, EU money has improved the infrastructure. Alden, however, reports the roads around the Ring of Kerry remain as narrow and nerve-wracking as ever—though that’s part of Ireland’s charm. What Martin laments is the bureaucracy.

Martin is a sheep and dairy farmer. His land includes Corskeagh—my ancestral patch, so to speak. He told me that when an animal died, the old way was simple: dig a hole and be done with it.

Now, when a cow dies in Éire, the process reads like a parody. First, cover the carcass—officially, to prevent disease spread, though it feels like something out of a zombie movie. Then call the local farm agent, who arrives to confirm the obvious: “Yep, it’s dead.” Only then can the farmer contact the disposal service—the knackery—which will haul it off for rendering or incineration. Rendering means that the carcass still has some uses. After that comes the paperwork: the death must be logged in an EU database. All within 24–48 hours.

Britain had mad cow disease. Ireland didn’t. Still, the EU decided everyone needed the same system—because bureaucracies tend to beget bureaucrats.

Fuel blockades, dead-animal registries, speech regulations—none of it appeals to me.

But Ireland? Still one of the prettiest places on earth.

Kelly Burke was born in Knoxville, where he spent his younger years, followed by high school years in Atlanta, where he graduated from Georgia Tech and Mercer Law School. He has been in private practice, a magistrate judge, and an elected district attorney. He writes about the law, politics, music, and Ireland. He and his wife enjoy gardening, playing with their Lagotto Ramanolo named George Harrison, and spending time with their grandchildren. To see this column or Kelly’s archives, visit www.kellyrburke.com. You can email Kelly at dakellyburke@gmail.com.