Rural lane dancers

A number of readers - it could be two, it could be 830, I'm not telling - have contacted me in recent months over my predilection towards writing about Dublin. "There's a whole country out there beyond the Pale, you know," says one chap from Westmeath.

Well, thanks for pointing it out, very kind of you indeed. We poor Dubliners are a bit corralled in here, M50 on one side and sea on the other. Many of us are too self-absorbed to realise there's more to Ireland than this over-priced, over-stuffed, over-rated city that's trying to pass itself off as a desirable place to live.

But not me. Sure aren't I well aware there are hundreds of miles of Ireland in my way before I can get to decent surf? (Frankly, this country would be far better if it was a quarter of the size with a tenth of the population. I could start a list now of the people we could happily do without, but I've only got 500 more words to play with. And that wouldn't even put a dent in it . . .)

So, back to the countryside. The Bavarian princess and I are just back from another trip to Clare. (Who'd have thought you could fit three surfboards inside a car that was designed in the Black Forest 20-odd years ago? Clever fellers, ze Germans.)

Whilst there, I reacquainted myself with the delicate art of country lane etiquette. Tootling along a winding little boreen and suddenly you are confronted with another vehicle coming in the other direction. Up pops the perennial question - who gives way to whom?

It's a complex dance, its rituals moulded in countless exchanges through history, from ancient Celts passing in the woods, to peasants doffing their caps deferentially to the Sasanach overlords, to bewildered tourists being scattered into ditches by boy-racers.

City types will soon be descending en masse upon their rural cousins' territory as summer approaches. With this in mind, Emissions, being a civic-minded column, is pleased to provide you with a quick guide to country road etiquette.

First off, the cardinal rule from whence all others derive. Get this right and you're halfway there. Simply put - always give way to the locals. And, once they pass, don't give them the stink-eye if they fail to acknowledge the fact you've snapped both axles in a ditch during your haste to get out of their way. Remember, you're on their turf. (This advice is especially pertinent if said local is a big ugly farmer in a Massey Ferguson. Believe me, I've felt the cold dread of having one taking a swipe at the side of my head with a slash-hook as he passes because he didn't deem my salute respectful enough . . .)

Secondly, and this is down to yourself, work out who you are not going to give way to and stick to it. It obviates the need for dithering at a later stage. A good rule of thumb is that might is right, but then that needn't always apply. (Personally, I prefer to hold my ground when I come face to face with a spotless 05 D-reg SUV on a narrow road. I bully my way straight through, letting 'em flounder in the gutter, unable to get out. Then I laugh at the big eejits, crying as they tearfully survey the cow pats smattered all over their precious status symbols.)

Thirdly, be nice to foreigners in rented hatchbacks. Not necessarily out of pleasantness or any desire to promote Ireland as an attractive tourist destination full of polite, accommodating motorists, but rather because they're usually driving in the middle of the road taking photos of hedges, oblivious to your looming presence.

Finally, once you get back to the city, remember you're not in Kansas anymore. Disengage your mindset of goodwill and consideration for others. Don't show weakness of any kind. Or you'll get eaten alive.

And all this without even scraping the surface of the intricacies of the salute, the hand-hieroglyphics that is positively Masonic in its complexity. Ah well, maybe another time, eh?