Irish pub culture was what I really missed about home. So we tried to set up our own bar

I have lived outside of Ireland for more time than I have lived in it, and despite now living in Stockholm with my children and Swedish husband, I still call Dublin home.

Someone said to me recently that when you find a place to get coffee just how you like it, a hairdresser you can trust, and a new local to have a drink in, then you will feel at home. Because it’s the little daily things that fill your heart up, and home is where the heart is, right?

Hmm, tricky.

I don’t drink coffee, but the bakery on the corner of my road here in Sweden sells a lovely green tea. And I’ve been getting my hair cut by Christian on South William Street since I was 19. No one, and I mean no one, gives me new-cut confidence like that man.

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As for drinks at a local, Irish pub culture is something I have truly come to miss – so much so that, last spring, my husband and I attempted to set up a pub in our greenhouse, in the back garden.

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In a flash of genius, Philip and I named it the Greenhouse, bought a beautiful old wooden bar and stocked it with wine, beer and tequila (a personal drink of choice for various reasons that I do not feel obliged to justify).

As the summer went by, however, we realised that spontaneous pub visits aren’t a good fit with Swedes’ meticulous planning. After being cocooned for the winter, they make the most of the summer, with every weekend a chance for life to be lived. That means planning them out well in advance.

The Greenhouse therefore became an outdoor dining space in the summer, and a storage space for bikes and scooters in the winter. I was left looking for other heart filler-uppers, the daily moments in a new country and a new culture that would make me feel at home.

I realised that, for me, these moments would come from people – from old friends who go out of their way time and again because they know we don’t have family close by, and from new friends who have become old friends so quickly.

I even managed to get my dose of daily interaction with neighbours who gradually indulged my advances to chat even though every instinct was urging them, quietly and politely, to avert their eyes and distract themselves by staring at the path ahead.

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One man, originally from the very north of Sweden, has three springer spaniels that he walks separately throughout the day. He wears the same waxed vest with multiple pockets in summer and winter, choosing to add an old trapper hat and gloves only when it falls below zero.

He carries a dog whistle in his mouth, and when we stop for a chat he’s unsure how long our meeting will last, so he keeps it dangling from his lips. This means some of his words come out in a whistle, sending the dog waiting at his feet into near panic at the thought of missing an instruction.

Both man and dog are slightly on edge during our interactions, but one morning, after I said “Enjoy your walk” and continued towards home, he said: “I really enjoyed that small encounter.”

It made my day.

A mother I had always believed to be so reserved that I almost felt bad to intrude in her calm with a smile of acknowledgment at school drop-offs filled me with surprise as we waited for our kids to sledge down a snowy hill one Saturday afternoon. Bravely venturing beyond niceties after remarking on my Irishness, she released to the skies: “I don’t want to be just mellan mjolk!” This means middle milk, which is to say not full fat, not skimmed, but safely in the middle. Swedes are conditioned to stay in a middle-milk safe zone, so it was an act of total rebellion.

These are the moments that make me feel at home.

On the days I don’t feel much like talking, the man with his dog waves to me or I smile knowingly to Mrs Mellan Mjolk, and that fills my heart up with more warmth than any cup of coffee could.

I might still say that I’m going home when I need a good haircut, but my whole heart doesn’t remain in Ireland now. A tiny piece of it firmly resides in Edsviken. It might be tricky to drop into the pub for a pint there, but I don’t drink beer anyway. I prefer tequila.

If you live overseas and would like to share your experience with Irish Times Abroad, email abroad@irishtimes.com with a little information about you and what you do