Shane Hegarty's encyclopaedia of modern Ireland
These days, a strange thing happens when you cross the Border. The road narrows. The surface worsens. The traffic backs up. Then, when you meet Northerners, they tell you how much better the roads are in the Republic, so they are. And a shiver runs through you. Something has shifted in the order of the universe.
Gradually, though, our roads have improved. Gradually, of course, in the sense in which glaciers gradually move down a valley. We didn't get here without problems. Cost over-runs, delays, archaeological scandals, environmental protesters, signs warning of traffic delays until we're all very, very old. Enough projects were held up by rare snails that you wondered how, if there were so many of them, the snails could really be so uncommon.
Of course, many of those who built our roads will have come to this land in search of regular work and decent pay. They poured in from such places as Preston and Manchester in the hope of a better life across the water. So, ultimately, a smooth sliver of motorway will run all the way from Larne to Rosslare, forming a Tarmac alimentary canal through the country. It will be lined with those solar-panel emergency phones that have you hoping you don't break down at night; will be punctuated by forlorn lines of bollards, so drivers won't know if the work is starting or ending; and will throb to the aggression of Northern drivers who, apparently baffled by the metric system, generally interpret the speed limit as being 120mph.
Or maybe they drive so quickly because, 50 miles into the journey, they've realised that there won't be a rest stop at any point along the way. That they'll have to drive from Dundalk to Dundrum with their swelling bladder tight against the seat belt. All because of some ingenious thinking from the National Roads Authority, which decided to rewrite the accepted rules of the motorway. So what if every other country makes sure that at regular intervals along their motorways there will be a garage, a Little Chef and a mildly post-apocalyptic toilet? That's for everyone else. The Irish can cross their legs better than anyone. We have bladders made elastic by years of binge drinking.
Perhaps we should take this as a challenge. The National Roads Authority's logic, in fact, had to do with making sure that bypassed towns didn't lose valuable business. So, having built the motorway to take the traffic out of the small rural town, they've made sure to direct the traffic back into it. That's a paradox you wouldn't want to think about while driving; otherwise, your head might explode miles before your bladder does.