Bloomsday 2025 at the Irish Cultural Centre, Hammersmith, London

On Bloomsday, Monday 16th June 2025, my wife and I found ourselves packed into the Irish Cultural Centre (ICC) in Hammersmith for a screening of Joseph Strick’s 1967 remarkable film adaptation of Ulysses. To describe the atmosphere as ‘electric’ would be an understatement. The crowd was shoulder to shoulder, laughter rolled freely and a palpable reverence hung in the air. James Joyce, that mercurial maestro of the modern word who has put his legendary stamp on the world, would’ve been proud.

As a Dubliner who has lived abroad for many years, this cinematic version of a 20th-century literary classic had me hooked from the very start. The film’s evocative imagery of my native city from the 1960s instantly cascaded me back into that magical universe of an Irish childhood so familiar to me where the people, urban landmarks, language, accents and the atmosphere all spoke to my Irish soul – in a spell of revered remembrance. 

This film screening was far more than a literary homage; it was a living celebration of Irish culture. It helped me to reflect that the ICC isn’t just a building – it’s a pulse point. A place where culture, heritage, art, and, inevitably, some well-organised craic all come together with a distinctly Irish rhythm. A grand rhythm, to be sure. 

But if you think it stops at film, think again. The ICC offers a ceaseless flow of events that speak to what it means to be Irish and to invite everyone – yes, everyone – to join in. From foot-tapping trad music sessions to stirring lectures, hands-on workshops, lively film evenings and carefully curated exhibitions, the ICC is a home for both the heritage-seeker and the simply curious. With exciting plans to expand its library while working in conjunction with the University of Liverpool, the Centre continues to grow as a beacon of cultural learning and connection.

What sets the ICC apart is that it does more than reflect Irish culture – it amplifies it. Ireland may be a small island, but it has always had a disproportionately large voice in global cultural affairs. Whether it’s literature, theatre, music or political discourse, Ireland has consistently punched above its weight – and the ICC is a shining example of how that worldly impact is cultivated, maintained and celebrated away from Ireland’s shores.

And this isn’t just a local initiative. The ICC in London forms part of a constellation of Irish Cultural Centres – from Paris to New York, Buenos Aires to Montreal, Tokyo to Sydney – each flying the flag for Ireland in their own unique way. Together, they act as cultural embassies, creating an inclusive space where Irish identity evolves while staying rooted in tradition. It’s one-of-a-kind soft power with a generous soul. The ICC of Hammersmith holds the essence of Ireland in its hands and gladly shares it with everyone who comes through its doors.

But beyond the grand talk of culture and influence, let’s not forget the economic dividend. The ICC acts as a magnet – attracting visitors from all backgrounds who often, after a taste of the real Ireland in west London, find themselves booking flights to Dublin, Derry or Donegal. Tourism thrives not only on green fields and Guinness, but also on the cultural interest and warmth offered by places like the ICC.

Indeed, while the Embassy of Ireland rightfully handles matters of state, trade and diplomacy, the ICC does something equally vital – it wins hearts. Quietly, cost-effectively and with a proud lilt that gives this Centre of excellence its unique appeal, it proves itself an indispensable partner to official Ireland. At a time when public funding is under pressure, the ICC’s capacity to deliver impact per euro (or pound) spent is nothing short of heroic. And let’s be truthful, where else could you learn to play the bodhrán, discuss W.B. Yeats and Eavan Boland, watch an entertaining but perhaps daring indie film, and be offered a biscuit or a Guinness in the same hour?

As I left the ICC that Monday evening, the echoes of Ulysses still swirling about in my mind mingling with a faint, unmistakable smell of Tayto crisps in the air, I couldn’t help but smile. Joyce, ever the sly commentator on the human condition, put it best: “Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.” It turns out, after all the years and miles, home isn’t always a front door in Armagh, Athlone or Athenry – it can also be a packed room in Hammersmith, filled with culture, laughter and just the right mix of joy and openness. 

By ©Nicholas Mackey

London

June 2025