It was an awful morning, cold and damp, wet and windy. Joey looked out at Dublin’s grey streets and thought there would be people all over Ireland staring at the sky, saying it’s a terrible, terrible morning – sure it looks like it’s been up all night. It was just like the Irish to make a joke of their weather. The seasons ranged from bad to worse – if you could call them seasons; didn’t it just get wetter and wetter only. The same could be said of the place Joey had come from just five weeks ago, though half a world away it was the other way round. A gale took the breath from his lungs and the coldness of the day reached a part of him that hadn’t felt a chill like it in a very long time.
The second his feet touched Irish soil, Joey knew he was in a very different place. The peculiar Iris
