As the ferry nosed into the pier at Rosslare on the Irish Sea coast, the foot passengers fell into line to disembark. A lone carrot-headed American co-ed turned around to ask about onward train connections. I said I was hitch-hiking, myself. A moment's silence, then: "Can I come too?"

Gaye was wrapping up a year in the British Isles before returning to college in Rhode Island. So began six days of innocent companionship – Irish landladies were far too uptight to tolerate anything more.

We found the locals hospitable but rarely travelling far; the roads quiet and the towns often drab. Gaye and I walked many an Irish mile, but one morning an American girl, touring alone, pulled over. Not comfortable with the ‘stick shift’ or keeping left, Cathy soon offered me the wheel. Together we three explored the Ring of Kerry, the Dingle Peninsula and the Cliffs of Moher, the Emerald Isle’s finest coastal landscapes. Gaye and I would stay in touch for the next ten years.

October, 2001. Ireland was poised to introduce the Euro. Arriving in Dublin, I picked up a rental car and ventured once more onto Irish roads, far busier but bereft of hitch-hikers. The northern summer was long gone and dense fog shrouded many a morning. Now the Irish towns were freshly painted and smugly prosperous; each night we lodged in smartly-furnished B&Bs whose landladies’ sons and daughters were travelling the world. Ireland had become unrecognisable.