I tried my hand at Irish dancing for St Paddy’s Day. It did not go well

Sunday, 17 March 2024

Ahead of St Patricks Day, Stuff reporter Amberleigh Jack attempts at learning Irish dancing at Doyle Academy in Auckland.

It’s pretty humbling - as a grown woman - to have to wear a sticker on your shoe so you can tell left from right.

It’s even more so when you’re surrounded by a troupe of young, coordinated Irish dancers - some more than three decades younger than you - who have all long since graduated the stickered-shoe phase of Irish dance.

As a former gymnast, I like to consider myself someone who has a fairly strong sense of body awareness, but as a former child whose lack of finesse meant I was forced to retire the ballet tutu before I was even allowed to try one on, I’m well aware that my downfall is a severe lack of rhythm and grace.

And, apparently, an inability to tell left from right.

But still, when approached by the boss with the idea to head along to Auckland’s Doyle Academy, to train with a troupe performing at Auckland’s St Patrick’s Day Festival on March 17, I found myself agreeing to be schooled by a collective of Irish dancers.

They’re younger, more coordinated and likely have a childhood less filled with tripping over feet, fumbling through ballet attempts or straight-up walking into stop signs as mine.

But it’s St Patrick’s Day where, in honour of the patron saint of Ireland, the Emerald Isle is celebrated in all its glory. It’s too early for a Guinness, so Irish dancing it is.

As I arrive at the East Auckland studio on a Monday afternoon, a group of young dancers are already practising their way through leaps, kicks, skips and complicated-looking footwork.

Amberleigh Jack, centre, wearing black tights, takes a spot in line at Auckland’s Doyle Academy.

I’m filled with the kind of dread that has me questioning life choices that led to this point, as I try to get a headstart and mimic their movements as I watch on from the car park.

A young boy on a bench nearby didn’t even try to hide his laughter, which didn’t exactly fill this 42-year-old reporter with confidence.

I’m pretty sure that not even a star-shaped sticker could save me, now.

Auckland’s St Patrick’s Festival kicked off in 1995, founded by a group of Irish expats keen to celebrate New Zealand’s strong Irish connections.

These days it’s a day filled with music, culture, a Queen Street parade and - of course - plenty of the impressive sights and sounds of static arms while feet dance, skip, leap and tap in unison.

It’s pretty clear I’ll be sitting this one out, this year.

Academy director, Paula Doyle-Hunkin - thankfully - takes me aside before the class begins to run me through the basics. Not one to blow my own coordination trumpet, but I nail the warm-up of small hops, steps back and knee lifts.

The dancers showing off how it’s supposed to be done.

There may be an Irish dancer in me, yet.

Doyle-Hunkin tells me Irish dancing is largely about weight shifts, and - when in doubt - looking confident.

That confidence isn’t exactly high as I quickly fail to figure out which foot should be hopping and which should be stepping (don’t ask me the technical terms - I’m still at the phase of having “sticker foot” yelled at me).

I never get the knack of dancing in place, so each dance series includes an added move of me running back to my starting spot before trying again.

But, despite kicking myself in the shins (and my butt) multiple times, I’m still on my feet. I call that a win.

In fact, having graduated the private lesson stage, and learned the moves (kind of), I’m dragged - not entirely willingly - to the front and centre of the three lines formed in the South Auckland studio.

It’s group performance time.

I’m flat-footed while everyone is on their toes, writes Amberleigh Jack, centre, but I’m starting to get the hang of the basics.

The music starts, the pros show just how talented they are, working in unison, and the wheels of this wannabe dancer fall off.

I dance down the studio as everyone stays in place. I forget which foot is supposed to go where and I miss entire dance series so I can run back to my spot and try and pick up where I left off.

No sticker will save my lack of rhythm.

Still - perhaps surprisingly - the day isn’t a complete failure. I’ve learned a few movements. I kind of manage to keep in time with my troupe of young dance-mates, I laugh plenty and I don’t crash into anyone.

Still buzzing, and feeling pretty chuffed with myself on my return home, I volunteer to show off my new-found skills to my husband, and narrowly avoid a collision with the stairs as I trip over my own foot.

Look out for me at a future festival near you.