Now, as Christmas approaches, let's remember our emigrants. All our sons and daughters who, for whatever reason, are abroad. Let's remember that they get homesick too, and that this is a good thing. It means that they love you and miss you and maybe some day they will grow up and come home.

Is it just me, or were our emigrants treasured more before? Remember the 1980s. There was no money and no work, and many youngsters had no choice but to leave and try their luck elsewhere. They left in their thousands, to London and New York, often following their siblings, uncles, aunts and neighbours. Then every Christmas, they would return in their thousands, to airports with huge banners declaring "Failte Abhaile Welcome Home". There, in Arrivals, were the families in mad anticipation, waiting to welcome their loved ones home for the holiday. The emigrants were wined and dined, not let do a tap of work, brought round to the relatives and neighbours. The parish priest dropped in to say hello. Everyone was dying to hear the news from across the water. Then in January there would be that slot at the end of the news: The Returning Emigrants. We'd see sobbing mothers, stuffing brown sodas and fruitcakes into full suitcases. Younger siblings clinging to their br other or sister, knowing that they wouldn't see them for another year. The emigrants themselves standing in their winter coats and Christmas present scarves. She would be crying. He would be holding out bravely until the father gives him the firm handshake and envelops him into a longer-than-necessary hug. And then the parting, so heart wrenching and awful, that left us all wondering: Will it ever end? And then it did.

The 90's brought the Celtic Tiger and the tide began to turn. Even now, there is plenty of work and some emigrants are even coming home again. It is no longer necessary to traipse to England or Australia to try one's luck there. Things have never been so good. And yet, some of us have left - not from necessity, of course, but out of interest and a sense of adventure. We want to try something else, see something new. We want to put a bit of distance between us and our families - for a few years at least. And then sure, who knows? Sometimes though, it seems like we have been forgotten. The banner at the airport reads "Welcome to Shannon". You are lucky if your sister comes to pick you up, and the most interest that people have in your life abroad is a comment like "Sure, aren't you having a ball over there in California?". No one is really interested in your job, your house or your relationship. They just want to know when are you ever going to cop yourself on and come home?

It wasn't long ago that Irish mammies would clutch a letter from abroad, telling all who'll listen about 'Poor Jimmy slaving for the Yanks in Chicago' or speaking proudly about 'the youngest, Treasa, nursing in Australia'. They'd send them out lengthy bulletins with the family news, and the scandal in three parishes. They'd send St. Patrick's Day cards and Easter cards and the odd black pudding or "Limerick Leader". If anyone was going to America (no matter what part) they'd be given a packet of sausages for Josie. And some jam. Nowadays, you are far more likely to hear about "Bould Johnny who won't come home" or of "Sally, who's lost the run of herself and gone to San Francisco". Their parents are proud of course...mostly. But they also have a sneaking suspicion that their offspring are having far too good a time at the other side of the world. Now that emigration is no longer a question of necessity, it has become self indulgent almost. The amazing thing is though, no matter how much one enjoys life abroad, everyone has their days of homesickness and longing. You might be walking through Piccadilly Circus or Times Square, when suddenly, through the din of the traffic and the crowds, you hear some Irish music.

Some real Irish music that speaks straight to your heart. Just a snatch, but it is enough to make you stand and stare, but then it is gone. And you wonder was it ever really there? And you'll be lonesome that day. You see, just because you don't have to leave, doesn't mean that you don't miss your homeland. And yes, of course you could move home in the morning, but does that mean you no longer have the right to be homesick? I think that every Irish person who lives abroad (they are no longer even called emigrants, are they?) has had what I call the Airport Experience. Basically, there you are at Shannon or Cork, waiting for your flight to be called, when you find yourself in front of the 'Shamrock-y' display. You flick through the 'Views of Ireland' calendar, you chuckle at the leprechauns and you consider buying a feadog stain. Even the 'Grow your own Shamrock' begins to look interesting. A lump forms in your throat, and even if you are dying to get back to your Manhattan apartment and your cosmopolitan lifestyle, suddenly you realise that this is it. You are leaving again. You are leaving your home, the country that raised you and made you who you are. You are leaving the people you understand, and as much as you may deny it, the people who understand you. And what's more, you've chosen to go.

In the end, you buy yourself a 'Thirty Greatest Irish Hits' cd and then never play it as it makes you homesick. And none of your new, foreign friends understand what it is about the music that speaks to you, and makes you so lonesome...especially after a few beers. So, especially now as Christmas approaches, let's remember our emigrants. All our sons and daughters who, for whatever reason, live abroad. Let's remember that they get homesick too, and that this is a good thing. It means that they love you and miss you and maybe some day they will 'grow up and come home'. And of course, the odd "Donegal Democrat", "Finn Valley Voice" or bar of Cadbury's wouldn't go astray. Or even better, (as any emigrant will tell you), a box of Taytos. And yes, let's admit it, they probably are having the time of their lives, but at least it gives you somewhere new to visit.