A FIERCE FIGHT | June 17th 2008

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In a fit of pique, perhaps, Ireland has rejected plans to reform the EU. Julie Sell travels to this small country on the far-western fringes of Europe, with less than 1% of the EU population, to find out what people are saying ...

The flight from London to Dublin--where I'm headed to cover the vote on the Lisbon treaty, a controversial EU reform plan (see article)--only lasts an hour, but it feels much further. By virtue of its constitution, Ireland is the only one of the 27 EU member-states putting the treaty to a popular vote. As a result, this island of 4m is attracting lots of international attention. I stifle a giggle as I spot another journalist preparing to board the same flight: he is wearing a bush outfit, as if he's going to cover a war. All those pockets in the khaki vest do look handy, though.

I last visited Ireland 20 years ago, and was prepared to see a radically different place. I'd read all the stories about the Celtic Tiger, a country transformed in the past decade, and wondered if the charm had disappeared too. Between 1997 and 2007, the country had the fastest growing population and one of the strongest economies in Europe--for which EU aid received much credit.

My seatmate on the flight, Kitty Donnelly, told the sort of story I would hear often during the week. An octogenarian with sparkling blue eyes, Kitty left her home in County Offaly after the second world war to work in a London bank. When she left, her village had no paved roads, few cars, and people were desperate for work.

After she retired in London some years ago, Kitty bought a house back in the village and returns twice a year to spend time with her nieces and nephews. "Everyone's in a hurry now," she said. "No one has time to talk. That's what money does." People have nice houses, cars and paved roads, she admitted, but the pubs are closing and the village feels like it is losing its soul. "You think you can go back but you can't really. It's never the same."

Campaign posters line the road into Dublin. Some light-posts along the road have multiple signs. "Lisbon, it'll cost you," warns one. "Europe, let's be at the heart of it," says another.

After settling into my hotel, I jump in a taxi and head across the city (remarkably compact, by London standards) to attend a press conference held by the leaders of Ireland's three main political parties. They got a wake-up call a few days earlier with a leading poll showing opponents to the Lisbon treaty (which they all support) gaining significant ground. There is a sizeable foreign press contingent present, but I don't see the bushman.

Reporters are keen to ask the new taoiseach (as the prime minister is known) about comments by the French foreign minister, who warned that if Ireland voted no on the treaty "the first victim would be the Irish." He evades nicely. A couple of Irish journalists standing next to me are muttering about the French. They race off to file their stories as the press conference breaks up. The broadcast folks are lined up ready to smile as the cameras turn on, and I go in search of real people.

Walking north across the river to O'Connell Street, I turn off into some of the side streets. The remainder of my afternoon is spent accosting Dubliners in a variety of locations: the old flower and produce market (almost hit by a forklift at one point), in little shops, and on the street.

One of the more interesting characters I meet is Eamonn Murphy, who owns Mary Mediatrix of All Graces, a Catholic bookshop. His shop window is covered with anti-treaty posters. Gregorian chants waft out the door. When I identify myself as a journalist, he thrusts a brochure into my hand: "9 reasons why a conscientious Catholic citizen should reject the Treaty of Lisbon.

The walls of Mr Murphy's shop are plastered with the photos of babies he says were saved from abortion. I note that a senior Irish bishop has said the Lisbon treaty does not threaten Ireland's anti-abortion stance. "Even a bishop is not infallible", he responds sharply, "only the Pope is."

He bends my ear for another 20 minutes. When he starts railing against the French and Dutch governments for "stealing" the right of their citizens to vote, which he calls "a mortal sin," I know it's time to leave.

(Julie Sell is a regular contributor to The Economist. This column is part of a week-long diary about Ireland and the EU, published on Economist.com.)