I had never intended to go to Ireland, the birthplace of my inherited religion.
I visited 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.
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. Calvin didn't ever suggest that I go to his native Ireland. He did speak enthusiastically about it.
And that's what did 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.