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I had never intended to go to Ireland, the birthplace of my inherited religion.
I been visiting countries arbitrarily in the early part of the first decade. When I left Amsterdam, I picked Seville over Barcelona with no reason to select those two cities in the first place. Spain itself was less arbitrary. I'd learned some Spanish, long before. [Castilian, that is. The native tongue in Barcelona is Catalan, I would learn.]
I got an apartment in Seville, then a job; then lost that and the apartment too. An ex-housemate, who had moved across the old central district, told me I could stay at his place. There, I met an Irish lad, another visitor there.
Calvin and I were both impoverished, and with little to do in the Andalusian heat we spent a lot of time talking.
There in Seville, many of the old city streets are bedecked from three-and-four-story rooftops with white canvas to hold out the direct glare of the sun that bakes the region. Many residents go to seaside, so hot it is during the summer in this little city. A co-worker said to me when it was 40° (104F) in June, "imagina agosto."
Calvin didn't ever suggest that I go to his native Ireland. He did speak enthusiastically about it.
I'd gone to places with less reason. There were jobs in Dublin at that time. And I really only had enough money to buy a plane ticket and go somewhere. It was enough to make a decision.
I lived in Dublin, Kilkenny, and Cork - mostly Kilkenny - and was in Ireland for 8 1/2 of my 11 years in the European Union.
There aren't any landmarks or evidence of the "go-preachers" in Ireland, the "tramps" who began a religion there, furtively. They were probably a nuisance in every community without making or doing anything useful.