For us emigration has been a gift. There were no tears when we left Ireland. We had been battered by the crash

THEY SAY THAT THERE are no new stories. That every story ever told is a variation on seven basic themes. There may be some truth to that. Certainly, it applies to the tale I will tell here. Our story, you see, is an emigration story. Not novel, then. Not new. But I think even old stories, even those worn at the edges from too much handling, are worth sharing.

Having laid the foundations of a permission in the first paragraph, I will make my excuses in the second. I cannot say that I offer a new tale, but rather one that is personal and true and, for those reasons, hopefully worth the telling.

For us emigration has been a gift. There were no tears when we left Ireland. We had been worn thin by the Celtic Tiger, and battered by the crash. But if there is anything to be said for such wholescale economic destruction, it is this; your old life may be gone, may be burned to cinders and ash, but you can emerge from the ashes of that old life. Changed by the experience, yes. Maybe bruised by it. But clean and new and ready to start again and this time do things differently.

We left in October 2011. We had been living in Galway, where it had rained solidly for the ten weeks before our departure. And when I say solidly, I mean every single day. At least, that’s my memory of it. Dark, full clouds that hung low over our heads, the moisture so thick in the air that even when the rain took a momentary break we could have opened our mouths and drunk.

We arrived in Perth at eleven o’clock at night, in October 2011. Our little girl was two, our boy soon to be born. Our temporary accommodation, booked online from Ireland, was located 40 kilometres south of the city, and our first night was punctuated with the sound of speeding cars, burn-outs and police sirens. We emerged the following day, a little shell-shocked, into bright sunshine, the sky a sudden, shocking blue.

The neighbourhood might have been shaky, but our short-term neighbours were great – by lunchtime we had two barbecue invitations.

We found a longer-term home, this time at the other end of Perth, 40km north of the city. We had arrived at the tail-end of a mining boom, and getting a place closer to the city was impossible. But distance from the city bought us proximity to the beach. Perth beaches are stunningly beautiful; endless miles of white sand and warm blue ocean and few people. I sat on the sand and watched our daughter play, worrying a little about sharks and big dumping waves. I told myself that she would learn to recognise rips and handle the surf, and maybe someday she could teach me.

Our little boy was born, he was beautiful. He had dark hair. Three months later the dark hair was gone, and as if adjusting to his environment, he grew a shock of white-blonde to replace it. Our little surfer dude. He didn’t sleep, not at all.

My husband started his new job. Eventually I found work too. Not as a lawyer and it was part-time work because of the children. And because part of this new life was the pursuit of old dreams. So I started to write a little.

Along the way we made memories, learned a few lessons. For the first few years in Australia we learned little but how to survive a week at work on approximately 45 minutes sleep. More recently the lessons have been a little more fun.

Here are some things Australia has taught us: Frozen nectarine daiquiris are the very best thing to drink on a hot day. On the other hand, drive-through off-licences are probably a bad idea. Also, putting up a tent in 43 degree heat is a singular experience. Swimming in bath-warm lagoon water afterwards is better.

For us Australia has been a slowly unfolding joy. The early years passed in a blur of new baby sleep deprivation and work. As things stabilised for us financially we started to find our feet, chose a neighbourhood where we could put down roots. We found a gorgeous local school for the kids, a school we can walk to, when time permits, across a sundrenched park. We found work we loved. I wrote a book, found a literary agent, found a publisher. Australia, it seems, is a country where dreams can come true.

We’ve had our ups and downs. Our little everyday successes and failures. A medical crisis that stopped us in our tracks. Great friends and family who helped hold us up until we could stand again.

None of this happened in a vacuum. There are real, necessary structures holding up our Australian society, providing us with opportunity. I can see that now. Perhaps when you have watched your country’s economy shake itself apart, it is easier to see the fragility of the systems that allow us to live safe and peaceful lives. I feel gratitude now for things we used take for granted.