Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland (3 page)

“It’s a restaurant where Danielle and I ate a couple of times, back in the dark ages when we were just kids.”

I recall hearing about how my aunt and Danielle spent a year in Ireland when they were in college, but I’ve never really asked about it before. Never really thought about it.

“So what brought you guys over here in the first place?” I ask as we walk along a cobblestone sidewalk that looks really old. In fact, as I look at the buildings, I realize that everything here looks pretty old. We’re walking down this alleylike street with colorful flags and banners flapping in the breeze, and there are street vendors everywhere, as well as musicians, and I can smell something really delicious cooking. It feels almost like a carnival, and I suddenly am totally invigorated, almost forgetting how long I’ve been sleep deprived and how stiff I am. I hear a street vendor calling out in a thick Irish accent, and it hits me—I really am in a different country! I am halfway around the planet.
I am in Ireland!

“Danielle and I came here on a goodwill mission,” my aunt begins, then stops suddenly, pointing across the street. “Look, it’s still there! Fionna’s!”

We hurry across the street and get seated at a small bistro-style table outside, and Sid begins telling us how she and Danielle came over here when Ireland was a dangerous place, during what she calls “the troubles.”

I
vaguely remember hearing about your trip to Ireland,” I tell Sid. “I mean, I know you spent some time here, but I just assumed it was for fun.”

She sort of laughs. “Well, parts of it were fun. I’ll admit that. But parts of it were truly sad. It was a difficult time. Danielle and I first became aware of what was happening in Northern Ireland when we took this political-science class together,” she begins. “Wed heard about the bombings, the senseless killings, all the hatred that seemed to be coming to a head between the Catholics and Protestants. It was in the news, but I suppose we hadn’t paid too much attention. Anyway, it was 1975, and we were about your age—”

“Huh?” This doesn’t make sense. Okay, I’m not that great at math, but 1975 sounds like a long time ago—like more than thirty years. “How old are you anyway, Aunt Sid?”

She laughs. “It’s no secret, Maddie.”

“She’s around fifty,” Ryan says bluntly. “Same age as my mom. Well, before she…you know…” Then he looks away, and I realize he’s still dealing with his mom’s death, and I wish I could say something to make it easier for him, but I have no idea what that would
be. So I turn my attention back to my aunt, hopeful we’ll move our conversation on to a happier subject.

“No way do you look like you’re fifty!”

She smiles and pats my hand. “Like I said, Maddie, you keep this up, and I’ll keep you around. Turning fifty wasn’t exactly a piece of cake for me.”

“So you guys came over here like thirty years ago?” I try to absorb these two facts: (1) my aunt’s that old, and (2) she and Ryan’s mom were right here in 1975.

“Anyway, Danielle and I were both in our second year of college when we took that political-science class from a professor who had just returned from Northern Ireland. The stories he told the class just broke our hearts. He showed us slides—these heartbreaking black-and-white photos of Irish children growing up in Northern Ireland among such hatred and violence and hopelessness. So by the end of our sophomore year, when this same professor put up a poster about an opportunity to help out at a summer camp that needed volunteers, both Danielle and I signed right up.”

“Where was the camp located?” I ask.

“On an old estate about thirty miles out of Belfast. A family donated this gorgeous piece of property with the goal of uniting Protestant and Catholic children in a camplike atmosphere. It was called a peace camp. They hoped it would provide a means for kids to learn to accept their religious and political differences before they became too biased.”

“Cool idea,” I tell her. “Did it work?”

“It seemed to. I mean, the campers arrived with some obvious
problems and prejudices, but after they started having fun and acting like regular kids, they seemed to almost forget their differences. At least while they were there. Who knows what happened after they went home.” She pauses as the waitress comes to take our order.

“Of course, those children are all grownups now,” she continues. “Probably in their thirties and forties.” She shakes her head and sighs as if this is hard to believe.

“I wonder how it affected their lives.”

“Well, that’s exactly why I’m here, Maddie. My assignment is to write a follow-up article about the peace-camp kids we worked with thirty years ago. I’ve contacted some former campers who agreed to interviews. And I’ve heard that one was actually involved in the Good Friday Agreement.”

“What’s that?” I ask as I set aside the menu.

“That’s when the IRA agreed to disarm,” Ryan informs me, “several years ago. It was a huge thing for Northern Ireland. A lot of people thought it wouldn’t work, and it was a little rough at first. But the bombings and shootings have really gone down since then—on both sides.”

I glance at him, curious as to how he knows so much about this. I mean, I don’t exactly live under a stone, and I do know that the IRA stands for the Irish Republican Army, and I think they formed to drive the British Protestants out of Ireland, or something to that effect.

“It really was a monumental step for unity in Ireland,” says Sid. “Of course, the Good Friday Agreement hasn’t solved all their problems, but it was a big shift toward peace.”

“I don’t like to sound ignorant,” I admit, “but I guess I don’t know that much about all of this. Like how it all started or why. Well, other than the fact that Catholics and Protestants seem to hate each other. But I don’t really get that. I mean, aren’t they both supposed to be Christians?”

“It’s pretty complicated,” says Sid. “And it goes back hundreds of years. In a nutshell, it has to do with Northern Ireland wanting independence from Britain, wanting to be reunited with the Republic of Ireland.”

“The reason the religious aspect is messy is because most of the Irish are Catholics, and most of the British are Protestants,” says Ryan. “And the history of Catholics and Protestants, particularly on this side of the globe, is that they don’t get along. So this whole Irish-independence thing starts to look like a religious war too.”

“Sort of like two cultures colliding, and neither one of them wants to accept the other,” continues Sid.

“Why don’t the British just go back to Britain?” I ask.

“That would sure make the Irish happy,” says Ryan.

Sid kind of laughs. “Yeah, if only it were that simple. But, unfortunately, it involves things like money and land and pride.”

“But it seems like the two Irelands should be reunited,” I protest, feeling sorry that the country has been divided like this. “It seems wrong that they’ve been split apart if they’re both really Irish.”

“Keep in mind that a lot of British people live in Northern Ireland,” explains Sid. “Some have been here for generations. They think of it as their home, and it’s not like they’re going to just pack up and leave.”

“Why can’t they stay but let Northern Ireland be reunited with the rest of Ireland?”

“That’s sort of like asking why the Native Americans can’t have North Dakota back,” says Ryan.

“Huh?”

“In other words, it’s complicated,” says Sid.

“Well, I don’t see why people can’t just get along,” I say as the waitress brings our drinks.

To my relief, Sid changes the subject by telling us a little more about where we’re going to be staying today.

“Connemara is one of the most untouched regions of Ireland,” she explains, sounding a bit like a travel brochure. “The town we’ll stay in is called Clifden, and it’s by the sea. Really pretty and quaint. I’ve booked us a bed-and-breakfast for three nights. It’s in one of the oldest buildings and in the center of town.”

“Sounds nice,” I say as I take a sip of what is supposed to be Coke, although I’m skeptical.

“One of the men I need to interview tomorrow lives north of Clifden,” she continues. “I’m not sure how long it will take, but I figure you two can kick around town while I get my interview. Maybe you can rent some bikes and see the countryside, or take a ferry tour to one of the islands, or just hang out and do some shopping.”

“Or maybe take a nice long nap.” I yawn as I look down the narrow street we’re sitting beside, and I’m struck once again by the fact I am really in a foreign country. “These old buildings are so cool,” I say as I study the stone structure directly across from us.
The large double doors are painted bright blue, as are the flower boxes, which overflow with red geraniums and lots of other bright blooms that hang down several feet.

I point to the carved sign over the door that reads
Céad Míle Fáilte
. “What do you think that means?” I ask my aunt.

“As I recall, it’s ‘welcome.’”

“That’s a pub,” Ryan informs me.

“A pub?” I ask. “It looks more like a hotel to me.”

“He’s right,” says Sid. “It is a pub. But pubs in Ireland aren’t like the ones at home.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, most of them are more of a social place. They serve food and often have live music or some other form of entertainment. And here’s the kicker: unlike back home, they allow children inside. It’s kind of a family place, really.”

“Seriously?” I look back across the street and have to admit that it does look like a pleasant enough place, but even so, I have my doubts about children in drinking establishments. “They really let little kids go into the bars here?”

“They’re not
bars
, Maddie.
Pubs
. Of course, kids come with their parents, and they don’t serve juveniles alcohol.”

“But the drinking age is lower here,” says Ryan.

“How low?” I ask.

“Eighteen.” He grins like he’s pleased by this fact.

Now I’m not too sure what I think about that. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t tasted alcohol before, but it’s not something I’m into. That’s partly because I’m a Christian and partly because my parents,
who are pretty conservative, made me promise when I was about thirteen that I wouldn’t drink either. Sure, I’ve broken that promise a couple of times, but I was always sorry afterward. Anyway, I know my parents wouldn’t be too thrilled if they discovered I was over here partying in Ireland. But I must admit the idea of being “legal” is kind of interesting too.

Our food comes, and I am pleasantly surprised to discover it’s really delicious. I mean, it’s only a ham sandwich and fries (or what they call chips), but everything about it is really superb. “I didn’t know they had such good food in Ireland,” I say as we’re finishing up.

“Why wouldn’t they?” asks Sid as she puts her credit card with the bill.

“Well, my friend Katie said that English food is pretty disappointing.”

“This is
not
England.” Sid winks at me. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Aye, lassie,” says Ryan, putting on a pretty good Irish accent. “We Irish dinna take kindly to being confused with those Brits across the way.”

“That’s pretty good,” I tell him. “But then again, you do have Irish roots. It probably comes naturally to you.”

Of course, this only encourages him, and he continues with his Irish chitchat as we walk back to the car. Soon we are on our way again. I’m not sure if it’s the food or the driving or just the excitement of being here, but despite my lack of sleep, I am feeling wide awake and enthused about everything.

“This is so incredibly beautiful,” I say once we’re out of town and driving through some very lush, green countryside.

“It’s not all that different from some places in Washington State,” observes my aunt.

“Maybe,” I reply, “but the houses and everything look so much older and more charming.”

“That’s true,” she says. “They definitely have lots more history. But their climate is very similar to the Northwest, although I believe they get more rain.”

“More rain?” I question this. “I didn’t think anyone got more rain than western Washington.”

“Trust me,” says my aunt. “Ireland does.”

“In fact, it looks like we’re going to get rained on up ahead,” says Ryan.

Sure enough, in about five minutes the sky grows seriously dark, and we are driving through a deluge.

“Must be how it stays so green,” I say as I watch the wiper blades swiping furiously back and forth and hope our little car won’t hydroplane off the road.

“Connemara is one of the wettest parts of Ireland,” says my aunt. “I think I read that some parts of this peninsula can get up to three hundred inches of rain a year.”

“Three hundred inches?” I echo with disbelief.

“I think we must be driving through that part right now.” Ryan actually ducks as a big truck whooshes perilously close to us (on the right side of the road, which still seems totally freaky to me), and as it goes by—so near that I think we’re going to scrape
sides—it pushes a wave of water over our car, and it feels like we’re riding in a submarine.

Sid slows down, and I think we all take a collective deep breath. “Driving around here can be a little unnerving sometimes,” she finally says.

“Do you want us to help out?” I offer, not sure that I’d really be much help. I probably would’ve totally lost it back there with the truck.

“I wish,” she says. “But you have to be twenty-five to drive a rental car over here.”

“Too bad,” I say, feeling relieved.

“Aye, lassie,” says Ryan, “ya can drink, but ya canna drive.”

After about ten minutes of intermittent showers, the rain seems to be letting up some, and Ryan actually spots a gorgeous double rainbow off to our left.

“That must be our promise for a good visit,” says my aunt. Then she puts on the brakes so quickly that I actually grab the seat in fear.

When I look out the front window to see why she’s stopping, I’m surprised to see a small herd of sheep meandering across the road. They have curly wool that resembles dreadlocks, long rounded horns, and cute dark faces.

“I think those are Scotch Blackface sheep,” I announce, pleased that I’m finally able to contribute something a tiny bit informative.