I’m not a gaeilgeoir but I spent a day as an extra on Ros na Rún — here's how I got on

From fake drinking to silent sipping, Bernard O’Shea brings us behind the scenes of Ros na Rún

Bernard O’Shea on the Ros na Rún TV set with cast and crew. Pictures: Ray Ryan

When I was first asked to visit the set of Ros na Rún, I pictured myself striding in with the confidence of a seasoned TV veteran — getting my makeup done, chatting effortlessly in Irish, and delivering an unforgettable turn as “Man Casually Sitting in Café”. My brain was in for a serious Modh Coinníollach-induced meltdown, as I quickly realised my school Irish was about to be tested.

There’s something oddly surreal about stepping into the world of a soap opera you’ve only ever watched from the comfort of your couch. The Ros na Rún set isn’t just a collection of buildings — it’s a fully realised miniature village with its own pub, shop, and café. It feels alive, even when the cameras aren’t rolling. And for one day, I was about to be a part of it — albeit in the most inconspicuous, non-scene-stealing way possible.

Driving to the Ros na Rún studios takes you through some of Ireland’s most stunning landscapes. The winding roads of Connemara, flanked by mist-covered hills and rugged coastline, make you feel like you’re in a Failte Ireland ad. Then, just as you’re drinking in the romance of it all, you turn into a film studio car park, where an entirely different kind of magic happens.

Spiddal is postcard-perfect, a village that will always pass the audition for the above mentioned Failte Ireland ad. But once you enter the Ros na Rún studio lot, the shift is instant. One moment, you’re in a traditional Gaeltacht town; the next, you’re in a fictional Irish-language universe — where drama unfolds daily, and no character is safe from scandal.

Bernard O’Shea takes a selfie on the Ros na Rún TV set. Pictures: Ray Ryan

Since its first broadcast in 1996, Ros na Rún has cemented its place in Irish television history. More than just a soap, it has tackled some of the country’s most pressing social issues, from domestic violence to LGBTQ+ representation. It was the first Irish show to feature a same-sex kiss back in 1997, proving that, while set in a small village, its storytelling was anything but small-town.

But its most significant achievement? Keeping the Irish language alive on screen. While many of us (myself included) spent our school years wrestling with irregular verbs, Ros na Rún somehow manages to make Gaeilge feel effortless, engaging, and even —dare I say it — cool.

Over the years, Ros na Rún has had its fair share of unexpected celebrity visitors. Some of Ireland’s biggest stars — and a few international ones —have graced its fictional village.

Stephen Fry, a legendary comedian, actor, and language enthusiast, appeared on the show, bringing international attention to it.

Daniel O’Donnell, who the cast and crew absolutely loved, also took part in an episode.

Francis Brennan, the most charming hotelier in Ireland, brought his signature enthusiasm to the set.

Conan O’Brien, American late-night host and self-declared “lace curtain Irish”, visited the set to reconnect with his Gaelic roots.

Each celebrity added flair to the show, but more importantly, their appearances introduced Ros na Rún to a broader audience. Once thought of as a niche, the show proved its universal appeal.

Bernard O’Shea preparing for his day on the Ros na Rún TV set. Pictures: Ray Ryan

Of course, in my mind, I started imagining what role I would have played if I had shared a scene with Conan. Would I be his long-lost Irish cousin? His bumbling sidekick? More likely, I’d be “Man Carrying Groceries in Background”.

For those wondering whether a TV set looks as authentic in real life as it does on screen, the answer is both yes and no. Tigh Thaidhg, the legendary pub, looks exactly as it does on TV — except it doesn’t serve pints (a devastating discovery). The village shop is fully stocked, but you quickly realise some of its products are permanent fixtures, frozen in time. The café? Almost exactly the same as your local cafe, except there’s an entire film crew in it. It’s a world where reality and illusion exist side by side, and one day, I was about to enter it.

I had two roles during my time on set. First, I had to walk into Gaudi’s Bistro, sit down, and pretend to drink coffee while appearing deeply engaged in a silent conversation. Sounds easy, right? Wrong.

I realised that being an extra requires the patience of a saint and the bladder control of a camel. I knew I couldn’t actually drink the coffee. Instead, my plan was to mime drinking it — a skill I failed at spectacularly, as I accidentally “drank” from an empty cup. My second scene was in Cúl Chaint Café and will air in the season finale on June 12. It’s a monumental moment in television history — or, more likely, a moment where I’ll be seen awkwardly lurking in the background.

Bernard O’Shea on the Ros na Rún TV set with cast and crew. Pictures: Ray Ryan

I did, however, make a backstory for my character. He poses as a sales rep for a boutique chocolate brand, but he is a double agent running from the KGB and M16. Unfortunately for him, his car breaks down in Ros na Run, and eventually, he uses his broken Irish to order a lasagne in the cafe. Within 15 minutes, everyone knows who he is, who he’s related to and who his in-laws are because you can have all the spy agencies in the world looking for you, but in Ireland, we all know who everyone is. Even my imagined backstory had flaws...

One of the most surprising aspects of my visit was how welcoming the cast and crew were. Gráinne Bleasdale (Michelle) walked me through the set and gave me a crash course on not embarrassing myself. The wardrobe and makeup team —Blánaid Ní Nuanáin, Gearóidín Ní Mheachair, and Lorna Orr — were meticulous. The level of attention to detail was staggering; they knew exactly what every character wore in every scene, down to how a scarf should be tied.

I’ve worked in television productions for the last 25 years, but I never truly appreciated just how much effort goes into every single second of footage. The truism in acting is “hurry up and wait,” but for the crew, it’s “hurry up and never stop moving”. Lighting, sound, continuity, set dressing — every department is an army of professionals working in sync.

Bernard O'Shea on Ros na Rún TV set with cast and crew. Pictures: Ray Ryan

What struck me most wasn’t just the effort of the cast but the sheer logistical gymnastics required to make a soap opera function. Unlike a big-budget film that can afford weeks on a single scene, Ros na Rún shoots multiple episodes at once, meaning one minute you could be filming a Christmas scene and the next, you’re in a summer storyline.

Before my visit, I hadn’t fully grasped how passionate Ros na Rún’ s audience is. It’s not just a show — it’s a cultural touchstone, and its fans are deeply invested in the characters and storylines. Culture Night 2024 saw the set open to the public for the first time, and 100 fans travelled from across Ireland — including Dublin, Kildare, and Tipperary — just to step into the world they’ve watched for years. What’s even more remarkable? Many of them, like myself, aren’t Irish speakers. They follow the subtitles, embrace the language, and see Ros na Rún as a vital part of their identity and, more importantly, a part of their day.

One of the biggest reveals on the night was how emotional the cast was. There were genuine moments of connection between them and a much wider audience. Yes, the soap is watched in large numbers in Irish-speaking areas, but if there’s ever proof that Irish isn’t just surviving but thriving, it’s right here.

Bernard O’Shea on the Ros na Rún TV set. Pictures: Ray Ryan

Ros na Rún sits comfortably at the top table of national language soap operas like its Welsh counterpart, Pobol y Cwm, or its Basque equivalent  Goenkale; it plays a vital role in Irish culture. Shows like these don’t just entertain — they preserve identity, language, and heritage. For many Irish people like myself, Gaeilge lives in schoolbooks, exam papers, and nostalgic recollections of Peig Sayers’ misery. But on Ros na Rún, the language breathes and evolves, spoken naturally in homes, workplaces, and the village pub. This isn’t a polished, museum-piece version of the language — it’s alive, conversational, and colloquial, proving that Irish isn’t just something to be learned but something to be lived.

Bernard O’Shea on the Ros na Rún TV set. Pictures: Ray Ryan

Ros na Rún isn’t just a TV drama either; it’s like the University of Irish Soap Opera Studies, a launchpad for talent, and a cornerstone of the Irish screen industry — except instead of a graduation cap, you get a pint in Tigh Thaidhg. The show has been a proving ground for actors, directors, writers, and crew members who go on to work on Ireland’s most significant productions. If you’ve worked on Ros na Rún, you’re ready for anything — whether it’s a feature film or a big-budget drama.

Many professionals who adjust the cameras, fine-tune the lighting and perfect the costumes on Ros na Rún bring those same skills to significant productions across the country. Ireland’s film industry is booming, with substantial international projects like The Banshees of Inisherin showcasing our cinematic potential. If you can keep continuity on an 83-episode-a-year soap where a character might be having Christmas dinner in the morning and dealing with a summer love affair that afternoon, you can probably handle anything Hollywood throws at you. 

Many people don’t realise that shows like Ros na Rún are the backbone of the Irish industry. They provide steady jobs, train the next generation of talent, and serve as a launching pad for careers. And the best part? Many of those who “move on” come back — older, wiser, and now explaining things to the next round of fresh-faced trainees. It’s a beautifully Irish cycle of success.

Bernard O’Shea on the Ros na Rún TV set with cast and crew. Pictures: Ray Ryan

A few years ago, I visited Skellig Michael; I learned monks used to pray for their benefactors. Those “benefactors” essentially couldn’t be arse praying for themselves and used the monks to up their heaven tokens for their day of judgment. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. 

Ros na Rún are like modern-day monks, safeguarding the Irish language through sheer passion and dedication. I have all the resources to regain a part of my national identity, yet I don’t. Instantly, I wondered why I let this happen to myself. It’s not a teacher’s fault, it’s not a government’s fault, it is no one’s fault, only my own. I and only I decided to let a vital part of my identity slip away from my thoughts and tongue.

I’m not a gaeilgeoir, but like most Irish people, I want the language to thrive. Being on set made me realise how vital shows like Ros na Rún are. The show’s growing bilingual fans — some fluent, others following along with subtitles — prove that it has the proven potentially be a larger part of the wider TV landscape.

As my time on set wrapped up, I had a newfound respect for everyone who made this show possible. Would I do it again? Absolutely. Would I be any better at pretending to drink coffee? Probably not. Would I change my backstory from a double agent to a man in his 40s trying to relearn his native tongue? Absolutely.