When I first went to Ireland in 1962, it seemed like a foreign country – more foreign than France, even though the inhabitants spoke the same language as I did. Dark and shabby, Dublin still felt like the Dublin of Ulysses, and though Joyce was long gone, we had the boozy and boisterous figure of Brendan Behan to personify the spirit of the natives. They talked more, they drank more and, above all, they had religion. You were aware of that as soon as you boarded the Aer Lingus plane for Dublin, as there were always two or three priests or nuns on board, seeming to guarantee a safe journey for all of us.