Megan Bradley • Ireland
My apartment is empty. My Irish roommates have gone home for the weekend, and I am the last American to depart for the States. My suitcases sit in a corner of my room, next to my bare twin bed. I anxiously check the weather as I jot down my to-do list for tomorrow: take out the rubbish, ring the post office about my missing package, check into my flight, leave one of the greatest experiences of my life behind me.
Last Friday, my Irish roommates took me out to celebrate the end of term. There I was, bopping away in my Santa hat to club mixes of Christmas songs I’ve never heard before (much to the dismay of Colette and Carolanne, who were singing along rather enthusiastically), when something in the lyrics caught me off guard. The full emotional weight of “going home” hit me unexpectedly. As my eyes began to water, I chalked it up to my tendency to become emotional at Christmas. Then Colette caught my eye, and the real tears began to fall. When Carolanne noticed the two of us sniffling together, she wrapped us in one of her momma bear hugs and it was all over. There I was, in the middle of the dance floor, sobbing like I’d just found out the truth about Santa Claus. Luckily Carolanne’s boyfriend didn’t seem to notice, but I think I made the nearby bouncer a little uncomfortable.
It sounds cliché, but where have the last four months gone? In just over 36 hours, weather permitting, I’ll be soaring westbound above the North Atlantic. I’m not sure if I’m ready to go. I fit in so well here without really trying, and I’m saddened to think about leaving. I love the general atmosphere of Ireland–relaxed, welcoming, always helpful. No one ever seems to be in a hurry, and no doubt this will prove troublesome when I return to Northwestern. I take most daily experiences for granted: meal times, food, the way people speak and the idiosyncrasies I’ve picked up. Recent political developments in Ireland have caused me to reflect more critically on my experiences here, however, and I’ve come to a rather uncomfortable realization: I, whether I feel like it or not, have been an extremely privileged visitor. When I first arrived here, I bemoaned the fees and paperwork required to register with the Immigration Bureau. In reality, the special historical relationship between Ireland and the United States made getting the government’s permission to live here quite easy relative to other foreigners. Like my fellow Americans, I endlessly complained about the Euro and what it was doing to my budget. But for people in Ireland, the recession is a very real threat to their way of life.
With a national debt of over 89 billion Euro, Ireland is beginning to run out of options. Both Colette, a 4th year university student, and Carolanne, a graduate student, are making plans to emigrate. Carolanne will leave as early as next fall to pursue her teaching certification in the UK. They first mentioned their plans while we were watching a news broadcast on the recent resignation of the Green Party from the current Irish administration, in which it participated in a coalition with Fianna Fail, Ireland’s republican party. “I can’t wait to emigrate.” At the time, the comment almost offended me as I clung to my final few weeks in Ireland. But as the situation has worsened, I have begun to understand why many young people are anxious to leave. It has only been recently, as tensions have erupted in student protests and community rallies, that I’ve paid closer attention to Irish politics. When I first arrived, it didn’t seem particularly relevant to me as a four month visitor. Now that I begin to think (and hope) about returning with a research grant to investigate more closely some of the topics I’ve been studying at UCC, I’m realizing that I can’t simply adore Ireland superficially. In order to say that I lived here for four months, I have to take the good with the bad. Otherwise all I’ve done is take a heinously long vacation.
I alternate hourly between being heartbroken over leaving and literally being unable to sit still with excitement to go home. Most of the time, though, I float somewhere in between, unable to conceptualize either experience. Despite the fresh dusting of snow and the Christmas shoppers bustling up and down Patrick St. under the beautiful tinsel and lights of Cork City, even Christmas seems surreal. Sometimes I feel like I’m just off on one of my weekend adventures, returning to Cork in a couple days to watch Emmerdale and Corrination Street with Colette and Carolanne. I miss my family, my friends, and yes–my boyfriend–in the States like crazy, and I’ll be so glad to see them. Bittersweet is an understatement. I know that my homecoming will bring with it a whole list of adjustments to be made, and I just hope I conquer the jet lag quickly so I can start on the reverse culture shock.
As I prepare to leave, a particular Irish blessing sticks with me: Go n-éirí an bóthar leat. Literally, ‘may the road succeed with you’, or, may you have a safe journey. It seems fitting for someone to say this to me, but I return the gesture. Go n-éirí an bóthar leat, Ireland. May your journey bring you the peace and prosperity you’ve been looking for. I’ll see you…soon.
Slán abhaile (safe home) to all my fellow study abroad students returning to the home land in the coming days. I’d love to hear more stories from all of you, so come over to my place this winter–I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll have a good chat about it. It’ll be great craic. 
“I’m learning Irish, but why?”
A few years ago, an advert for Carlsberg beer ran on television that, while hilarious, drew attention to the fact that relatively few people in Ireland actually speak conversational Irish. Even fewer use it as their daily language. Native speakers (as opposed to those who learn it in school, as is mandatory through secondary school) are mainly confined to a number of gaeltacht, small Irish speaking districts concentrated in the south and west of Ireland. A really great Irish short film called Yu Ming Is Ainm Dom tells the story of a man who learns Irish and moves to Ireland, only to find that no one understands him. Although humorous, the film highlights the uncertain future of this ancient language in contemporary Ireland. The funniest, and most worrisome, moment occurs when Yu Ming finally wanders into a pub where a regular speaks Irish. As they begin to speak together, the barkeep looks to his mate and asks, “Here, didjya know ol’ Paddy could speak Chinese?!”
For many years, Irish speakers were considered backwards, and only recently has the Irish language, a variety of Gaelic closely related to the Scottish, begun to make a comeback. Parents can send their children to all-Irish schools, and students can spend their summers at camps where everything is as Gaeilge, in Irish. In the academic community especially, celebrating the Irish language is trendy–lecturers use the traditional spelling of their names, and there are frequent Irish-speaking events on campus. UCC offers special introductory Irish classes for visiting students, and its been really interesting getting a taste of this complex language. But if Irish isn’t used in daily conversation, why did I choose to study it? I doubt if I need to stress the cultural importance of language to the audience of this blog. The process of learning a language, even just a few phrases, leads to unexpected discoveries far more interesting than simply learning how to ask where the bathrooms are. Which, ironically, I do not know how to ask.
One of the most enlightening experiences I had during my 10 weeks of Irish class happened when I missed my regular class time, and attended another instructor’s class. My teacher is from Cork, and although she always pointed out where pronunciations and vocabulary differed from other parts of Ireland, I didn’t really understand what she meant until I couldn’t understand a word my substitute was saying. He is originally from Belfast, so not only was he speaking English with a Scottish-like accent typical of the North, but his Irish sounded nothing like what I was used to. There is a standardized system of spelling for writing Irish but very little standardization for pronunciation when speaking it. Munster, Ulster, and Connacht are the three main dialects of Irish, although there is even substantial variation within each of those. Hearing the differences first hand made me realize how amazing it is that such linguistic diversity exists on an island smaller than the state of Maine. At times, some dialects can seem nearly unintelligible when spoken aloud. The Irish are culturally tied to the land, and there is a strong sense of loyalty to the region in which you are born and raised. One of the first things you learn about someone is where their family is from, and this forms a very important part of each individual’s identity. Language is a way that the Irish display that heritage. It’s that heritage that many are now trying desperately to preserve by saving a language spoken fluently by an extreme minority.
If you ever find yourself in a gaeltacht, a few of these Irish conversational phrases might come in handy!
(The pronunciations I give are from the Munster dialect spoken in the south of Ireland)
Hello – Dia dhuit – “dee-uh gwit”
This phrase is actually trickier than you think. In Irish, everything has a deeper meaning. Literally, Dia dhuit means “God be with you”. It’s very impolite to simply repeat this phrase in response! Instead, say Dia is Muire dhuit (“deeya iss mwira gwit”). This means, ”God and Mary be with you. This can quickly become a cheeky game of “everything you can do I can do better.” Subsequent responses can add onto the phrase to create an endless list of names, always in the order of holiness. God and Mary can be followed by first St. Patrick (Pádraig), then St. Brigid (Bríd), and finally the patron saint of the province you’re currently in. So, in Cork, this could come out something like Dia is Muire dhuit is Pádraig is Bríd is Finbarr! What a mouthful! You’re sure to impress the lads in the pub if you catch them in the act and beat them to end!
My name is Megan – Megan is ainm dom – “Megan iss an-um dum”
I’m a student – Is mac léinn mé - “iss mock lane may”
I’m from America - Is as Meiricá dom – “iss ahs mare-i-caw dum”
Welcome – Fáilte - “fawl-chuh”
Please – Le do thoil - “leh duh hull”
Thank you – Go raibh maith agat – “guh rev mah agut”
Bye! Take care! – Slán! Tabhair aire! - “slawn, too-er air-uh!”
(Please click the title to view a slideshow of photographs)
In October, I took a trip sponsored by my study abroad program to the city of Belfast, Northern Ireland, a city physically divided by religious and political loyalties. Since that time, I’ve been trying to write a blog post worthy of what I saw and learned. My struggle to find the words to describe my experience are due mostly to my inability to explain the complex existence of Northern Ireland itself. Today, a lecture on contested heritage reminded me of just how complicated a story it is and how easy it is to favor one side over another when dealing with something so emotive, and which forms an important part of so many people’s identities. Nonetheless, it is these stories that need most to be told. Here, I make one final and humble attempt at sharing my piece of this history.
The Irish War of Independence ended in 1921 with the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty. Not surprisingly, it far from made puppies and rainbows out of 800 years of Anglo-Irish conflict. The division of the 32 counties of Ireland into two separate nations–26 formed the new Republic of Ireland and 6 became Northern Ireland, a country of the United Kingdom–was not the resolution many had hoped for. In the south, some could not accept a free Ireland until it was a united Ireland. In Northern Ireland, tensions between Unionists (those who supported the union with Britain) and Nationalists (those who desired a single Irish nation) continued to rise. In the 1960s, violence between the paramilitary factions of each side, known as Loyalists and Republicans, increased and in 1969 they erupted into a 30-year period of violent unrest called simply, “The Troubles”. The Good Friday Agreement brought peace in 1998, but this turbulent time has left both physical and emotional scars on the city of Belfast.
The drive towards “The North” as it is called is a strange one. Along the way, gas stations begin accepting both Euros and Pounds Sterling. The road signs change color and drop the Irish translation of place names. The dividing lines become white instead of yellow. Suddenly, I was on the outskirts of Belfast and not entirely sure how I got there. Did I bypass the border control, miss the giant welcome sign, over look the road marker? Real life is rarely as clear as lines on a map. There is no physical border between Northern Ireland and the Republic. At times, it was possible to forget that I was even in a different country (I almost mailed a postcard with a Republic of Ireland stamp). My exploration of the city began as you might expect — a stroll through downtown, a peak at the campus of Queen’s University, the requisite counting of pubs. Belfast seemed to me like any other bustling capital city full of life and teeming with energy. The next day, however, I was introduced to an entirely different Belfast. The Belfast of The Troubles. The morning began with a lecture on the Loyalist and Republican murals of Belfast by a local historian who has collected and researched photographs of the paintings for many years. Throughout the Troubles, paramilitary groups used murals to mark their territory and send warnings to their enemies. The walls in Belfast hold meaning. They are symbolic. They are divisive. They have been witnesses to violence, injustice, and desperation. Some of the most chilling images depict gravestones of men not yet dead. Another features a masked gunman who, like the Mona Lisa follows you with her eyes, follows you with the barrel of his rifle.
After the lecture, I had the opportunity to see the murals for myself as volunteers guided our group through the city. Not all the murals are militant or violent, and the murals along the International Wall feature symbols of hope and unity from around the world. Standing along that wall, I could imagine a day when the city’s scars have healed. As we drove towards the Peace Wall, however, I was quickly reminded of how fresh the memory of the Troubles is in the minds of Belfast’s citizens. At night, locked gates still barricade the road connecting the Protestant and Catholic working class housing estates. Even as we drove through on a Sunday afternoon, no one was walking down the sidewalk or sitting out in their garden. After allowing us a few moments to view several murals located around a small parking lot in a Protestant area, our tour guide worriedly ushered us back onto the bus. We drove for another minute or so, and then I saw it. An 18 foot wood and metal barricade topped by an even higher fence that stretched beyond my sight line. The name “Peace Wall” is somewhat of a misnomer. It secures peace by denying access, towering just high enough to block anything being thrown from one side to the other. When offered to have the Peace Wall taken down, residents declined. They are still not ready to trust their neighbors.
As our tour guide handed out markers and pens, and everyone searched for a place to leave their mark, I scanned the wall’s thousands of signatures. They range from the simple, “God be with you all,” to the humorous, “Aren’t ye all tired of this? Let’s go for a pint,” to the hopeful, “See you on the other side.” I cried as I stood there, overwhelmed by the physicality of this division. The ride back towards the center of Belfast was silent. As we turned southward for our journey home, police sirens and road blockades diverted our coach away from the motorway, which had been closed for “a security alert.” Nothing else was said except, “It happens often. Nothing to worry about.”
I don’t know what the future holds for Belfast, or for Northern Ireland and the Republic. It is still not something spoken about in casual conversation. I hope one day I can see the wall come down. And I hope I can go back to Belfast to see my piece of the wall in a museum exhibit, where it belongs.
You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.
Because of my schedule at Northwestern, I haven’t actually spent Thanksgiving with my family since high school. Honestly, I didn’t really think about what celebrating Thanksgiving in Ireland would be like until everyone skipped straight from Halloween costumes to Christmas tinsel. Suddenly Cork felt much further away from home than Chicago. Luckily for me, my Irish roommates Colette and Carolanne were more than happy to help fellow American Mary and me commemorate my favorite US holiday. Together we managed to cook up quite the cultural melting pot of a meal: Irish, American, and vegetarian! In place of the traditional bird, I made a lentil shepherd’s pie served alongside some Thanksgiving favorites: green beans, sweet potatoes, corn cakes, cranberries, and pumpkin cheesecake. In true Irish fashion, when we gathered around the table several members of the dinner party were still hungover from the night before, and the delicious spread was the perfect cure. My Irish roommates were blissfully stuffed, and Mary and I successfully staved off the homesickness for another day. After the meal we each shared what we were thankful for: good friends, good food, and good ol’ Ireland seemed to be the consensus at the time. By the next morning, I think we’d all changed our minds to leftovers.
Want to try our main course for yourself? Here’s the recipe! It’s really simple to make, and you can change it up however you like.
Ingredients
- 2 cups vegetable broth, divided
- 1/2 cup dry lentils
- 1/4 cup pearl barley
- 1 large carrot, diced
- 1/2 onion, finely chopped
- 1/2 cup walnuts, lightly roasted in a hot oven and coarsely chopped
- 2 Tbs soy sauce
- 1 packet of instant mashed potatoes
- 1 tsp all-purpose flour
- 1/2 tsp water
- salt and pepper to taste
Instructions
- Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit
- In a large saucepan over medium-low heat, combine 1 1/4 cups broth, yeast extract, lentils and barley. Simmer for 30 minutes.
- Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan combine remaining 3/4 cup broth, soy sauce, carrot, onion and walnuts. Cook until tender, about 15 minutes.
- Combine flour and water and stir into carrot mixture. Simmer until thickened.
- Prepare the instant mashed potatoes by following the directions on the package.
- Combine carrot mixture with lentil mixture and season with salt and pepper. (If your veggie broth isn’t well seasoned, you can add 1 tsp herbs de provence as well for a real “Thanksgiving-y” taste.)
- Pour mixture into a 2 quart glass casserole dish. Spread the mashed potatoes on top.
- Bake in the preheated oven until browned on top, about 30 minutes.
- ENJOY!
Special thanks to my sister-in-law and her mom for introducing me to this delicious veg-friendly dish!
What kind of airport doesn’t have Starbucks open at 6AM? I guess it shouldn’t surprise me, given Ireland’s lack of respect for coffee. I’m writing as I sit at Cork International Airport waiting for my 07:30 flight to Heathrow. Following my long standing tradition of arriving at the airport insanely early, I’m here insanely early. Worse yet, this airport is about the size of a large gymnasium, and I think there are actually more places to buy tea than there are gates. When I went to the counter to have my boarding pass reprinted, the Aer Lingus clerk seemed genuinely surprised to see me. Oh Ireland, sometimes you’re just so damn endearing.
I realize, of course, that this is deplorably my first post since October. Everyone tells you that your time abroad is going to fly by, but I guess no one ever really understands what they mean until it happens. The academic system here in comparison to Northwestern is such that, well, I’ve had so much free time I haven’t known what to do with it all. Ironically, this has resulted in having plenty of time for adventures and no time to write about them. Since the semester has started, I’ve gone on a weekend homestay in Mallow, Co. Cork; explored Belfast, Northern Ireland; traveled the scenic Ring of Kerry; enjoyed the festivities of the Cork Jazz Festival; lost my Rocky Horror Picture Show virginity; visited Madrid and Toledo with my older sister; and shared the tradition of Thanksgiving dinner with my Irish roommates.
“But Megan! That all sounds so awesome! How could you not tell us about it?”
I know, I know. I actually feel really badly, and I promise to tell you as many stories as possible over the next few weeks. It will be a challenge amidst the final essays, exams, and goodbyes looming over my head, but what kind of Irish girl would I be if I backed down? For n ow, I’m off to London and then Paris to celebrate Thanksgiving with two of my closest friends from the States. Its been Christmas season here since the day after HAlloween, but I refuse to miss out on an excuse to stuff my face in the City of Lights. The calories don’t count on study abroad, right?
According to Maurice Fitzgerald, bringing up any of these three topics gives you an equal chance of starting a pub brawl. GAA stands for Gaelic Athletic Association, the Irish equivalent to the States’ NFL. If you happen to carry an undying devotion to the latter, you may want to avert your eyes because I’m about to describe to you how and why the GAA kicks the cleats off American sports. Maurice (or Muiris Mac Gearailt as he’s known in Irish) is the pride of County Kerry when it comes to Gaelic football, one of the two sports organized by the GAA. This past weekend during a UCC trip through the Ring of Kerry, we stopped in Maurice’s hometown of Cahericiveen. He was kind enough to share with us what the GAA means to him, his community, and his country.
When you look at the rule book, Gaelic football is sort of a quirky game of soccer. Fifteen players on each side play two 35-minute halves on a rectangular field (called the pitch). The object is to move the ball up the field by kicking it, passing it, or bouncing it off the ground every three steps while running (any more is traveling). There are two ways to score: into the soccer-type goal for three points or over the bar into the football-type goal for one point. I could explain all the rules, but it really makes no sense until you see it action, so take a look.
More important than how to play Gaelic football is the role the game plays in communities throughout Ireland. Like so many other aspects of Irish life, the GAA revolves around the local church parish. Each parish has its own GAA club, and there’s a strong sense of loyalty and tradition instilled in its players and supporters from a young age. Sons proudly play for the same team as their fathers and grandfathers before them, in the community where they were born and raised. This goes for not only local parish clubs, but county teams as well. There is no greater honor than to represent your county in all-Ireland play, and it’s a dream that little boys carry with them their whole lives.
Most of my qualms with American sports come back to the big salaries and bigger egos that seem to be synonymous with professional athletics. You can hardly turn on the TV or open a magazine without reading about the love life scandals or less-than-respectable behavior by pro athletes. Even Ireland knows all about Tiger Woods’ personal life. What are Irish Gaelic footballers’ personal lives like? They’re construction workers, city planners, pharmicists, school teachers, and college students. When you turn on the TV to watch a match, you aren’t cheering for some overpaid college dropout with two mansions and a Bentley, but your second cousin, your neighbor, the local grocery store clerk, or your dad’s best friend.
Even at the county level, they receive no compensation for playing the sport they love, only the admiration of their community and country. And unlike American pros, there are no contracts and certainly no trading. A player who left his team would be, well, a trader. By strict definition Gaelic footballers in Ireland are not professionals at all, but the term ‘amateur’ is hardly appropriate. GAA athletes commit to the same rigorous training programs and healthy lifestyles as any professional althete and devote the same amount of time to their sport. Ticket proceeds go not to athletes and managers but to the GAA, who in turn supports local clubs at every level, from primary school kids to the young at heart. Instead of seven digit salaries, Gaelic football players receive the support of the GAA both on and off the football pitch. Maurice told us that the GAA is like a family that cares for its own, no matter what. The Association gathers around a player whenever he’s in need, whether it be an injury, a personal struggle, or a family emergency. Even emigrants to the UK or elsewhere can find work and support through their local GAA.
As Maurice put it, “Gaelic football is part of the fabric of Irish life. It’s part of who we are.” I was lucky enough to be in Ireland to watch Cork, my host county, achieve every county’s dream of winning the All-Ireland title. The day of the game, as I rushed back to my apartment to grab my forgotten camera, everyone yelled, “You’re going the wrong way!” Clearly I must be lost, because where else would I be going except the pub? I can’t really describe the energy in Cork that day. When the final buzzer sounded, it was total mayhem. After twenty years, Cork was back on top. The celebration quickly spilled into the streets where music filled the alleys and red and white banners waved from every building. It was amazing.
Purple will always be my favorite color, Coach Fitz, but red and white now have a very special place in my heart.
I’ve gotten used to hearing that phrase in response to most of my questions. The Irish certainly have their own way of doing things.
Always look both ways (and ignore what you see)
During my first few days in Ireland, I had about four near-death experiences. As if the whole driving-on-the-opposite-side-of-the-road thing wasn’t bad enough (thank goodness for the “Look Left” and “Look Right” signs at crosswalks), most Irish drivers seem to take the traffic signals as suggestions. I gave Dubliners the benefit of the doubt, since city drivers aren’t exactly known for their grace. Now that I’ve been in Cork for a while, I’ve come to realize it’s simply how things work. Pressing the button for a pedestrian signal is really just a formality; I don’t even wait to cross anymore. The Gardai (police officers) we met during orientation weren’t even sure if there is a law against jaywalking. “Just…don’t get hit, okay lads?” Thanks for the advice, Pauly and Carroll. Complicating this driver-pedestrian relationship are the narrow roads. I thought the road I take to campus was a one-way street until I noticed cars parked going both directions—and on both sides. What do you do when you meet a car going the opposite direction? Why, you pull up on the sidewalk of course. Sometimes getting to class is an obstacle course of delivery vans and taxis. Throw in a few school children running this way and that, and you’ve got a party. This may also be a good time to mention that the aforementioned narrow street has one, two, three pubs on one block. And a liquor store. Venture out into the country (or the “hinterland” as they call it here) and the roads get narrower, windier, and generally more terrifying. Solution? When you’re driving around a curve, kindly blast the horn to alert any approaching vehicles that you’re about to collide with their front bumper. And remember: livestock always has the right of way.
Tourist-herding
As I’ve mentioned before, many of Ireland’s most interesting archaeological sites sit in the middle of agricultural fields or along vaguely marked trails. It’s easy to see how a wandering tourist might get lost without proper supervision. And why hire a human to do a job a sheep dog will happily do for free? Upon arriving at Cahercommaun Cashel (an Early Medieval fort of earth and stone), a border collie trotted out the front gate of the little cottage next to the entrance. We excitedly offered our hands for an ear scratch, but rather than responding to our coos, he paused, decided that the tall lanky academic in the jumper must be in charge of us, and pointed his nose towards the gate. Not only did he lead us up the quarter mile climb and across the meadow to the site, but stopped here and there to make sure he hadn’t lost anyone to what my professor called “just a bit of a walk”. (Bit of a walk my arse, Tomás. My glutes are still burning) About 25 meters from the cashel, he barked as if to say, “Here we are!” As Tomás began to lecture, our guide took a seat and at last enjoyed the fruits of his labor—the undivided attention of those of us who couldn’t hear a darn thing Tomás was shouting over the blustering winds sweeping across the 30 meter cliff. Suddenly, his ears perked up and it was all business again. He started pulling at our wrists. When that failed to get his message across, he ran in worried circles, frustrated with the dense lot he’d apparently gotten stuck with. Two minutes later when the sky darkened and unleashed the most impressive horizontal rain I’ve ever seen, he sat under the stairway of the viewing deck with “I told you so” written all over his face. The storm quickly blew over, and we clambered down the embankment into the center of the ancient fort. Our trusty sheep dog quickly positioned himself between us and the edge of the cliff, ready to herd us to safety if we got too close. When we headed back down the hill, he was more than happy to lead the way again. That darn dog was nipping at my heels all the way onto the bus.
After an amazing weekend in Dingle, a little seaside town on the west coast of Ireland, six friends and I climbed exhausted onto Bus Éireann Route #275. I had planned to spend the first leg of our two-part journey home to Cork studying for my archaeology exam, but I should have known better. Even as the final passengers were boarding, I already had my eyes glued on the rainy harbor, taking in the last moments of the trip and remembering how magical the glitter of the sun had been on the water just a day before. I had spent the whole day exploring the coast, picking wild blackberries and watching dolphins playfully swimming amongst the tourist ships and fishing boats sailing out to meet them. It was like something out of storybook, and I didn’t want to leave. Almost without my knowledge, the bus began its slow lumber through the narrow streets of Dingle and out into the countryside. I managed to get as far as opening my notes before I was once again distracted by the scenery rumbling past my window. In the midst of my daydream, the man sitting next to me pointed to the notes on Mesolithic settlement patterns I held in my lap and asked, “What are ya studyin’ thar, loov?” I told him I was an American studying archaeology at UCC, and for the next hour and a half, John (the name I’ve chosen for him, since we never did introduce ourselves) was my tour guide. At first, he just pointed out little things here and there, and shared what he knew about the archaeology of the area. But when I commented on the beauty of the landscape, I received a response I did not expect.
Looking out the window, I saw green valleys divided into pastures of every shade of green. A giant patchwork quilt tucking small gray stones to rest against the dusty mountains sheltering the valley from the sea. But John saw something completely different. With a degree in environmental studies, John saw his beloved landscape dying at the hand of first English and now EU legislators who make decisions from afar in an effort to get the most for their money. Under penal law, the English forced Irish farmers onto the worst land, passing legislation that denied them the ability to acquire additional acres. Forced to divide what little they had among their children, the plots became smaller and smaller with each generation, eventually becoming so small that they couldn’t sustain the family who was left to cope with the consequences of foreign rule. In my patchwork quilt, John saw the scars of long-overcome oppression. In my beautiful wind-blow mountains, John saw EU mismanagement that has resulted in overgrazing and severe erosion, leaving the land barren and unforgiving. In the States, we’re used to seeing mountain sides covered in evergreen trees. But in Ireland, the acidity of commercial spruce forests is killing the salmon that have run in the mountains’ streams for hundreds of years. As I listened to John and tried to view the scene outside my window from his perspective, my heart was breaking for Ireland. Even Ireland’s close ties to the States (over 40% of Famine Era emigrants made their way to the US) have left a negative mark on the landscape with American-style motorways and housing developments ill-suited to the Irish way of life.
I know, of course, that I now have only one side of the story. Had our time together not been cut short by our arrival in Tralee and subsequent transfer to different buses, I would have asked John what’s being done to promote sustainable agricultural practices and what kind of future he sees for Ireland. Although he did express his general disdain for Bono and a concern for other social issues in Ireland, such as the Travelers (Ireland’s troubled gypsy-like community, another lasting product of English subjugation), John is unmistakably proud of his country. “If you don’t have a place to live, [the government] will give you one. We take care of each other.” After three weeks in Ireland, I’m beginning to see things less as a visitor wooed by the foggy footbridges and picturesque vistas, and more as a temporary resident with a vested interest in what happens here. In 20 years, I want people to look out their window on the road to Tralee and see what I saw, not lifeless hills with no stories left to tell. The fight isn’t over yet, old friend. Erin go bragh.
Although the semester doesn’t begin at University College Cork until the end of September, I’m taking a four-week early start session offered to visiting students. Courses range from literature to modern history to business and marketing, and all of them offer students a new perspective on Irish culture. I chose the course in Irish archaeology not just because of the anthropological insights that can be gleaned from the discipline, but also because Ireland’s landscape is full of stories. It’s literally living history. Today was my first trek into the Irish countryside with my class, and I’m already falling deeper in love with my experience here.
“Beware of bulls,” read my field trip safety instructions. Duly noted. While some of the grander archaeological sites in Ireland are owned by the government and maintained by the Office of Public Works, many sites sit on private farmland. Case in point, the first site we visited required traipsing through a cow pasture. Lucky for us, the all-female residents seemed rather accustomed to visitors. While Garranes Ringfort isn’t terribly exciting to look at–the early medieval defensive structure is reduced to a series of circular ditches and embankments covered in thickets and the occasional cow pie–it’s seen its fair share of action over the years. Originally the residence of one of the hundreds of petty kings in Ireland during 5th to 7th centuries AD, the area became the mythic home of the fairy people in modern times and even a choice spot for having affairs. Who knew? Drombeg Stone Circle (pictured above) has hosted everything from Bronze Age celebrations of the winter solstice to clandestine Catholic masses under Protestant rule, and everyone from pot-smoking hippies to drunken archaeology students have returned to the site to re-imagine and reenact the past. I’ve realized over the last few days that what attracts me to Irish archaeology is not so much the original sites themselves and what they can say about the ancient culture that built them, although that’s certainly important, but the layers that can be peeled back to reveal something about the changing culture of the present community. I’m excited to see what stories the landscape will share with me over the next few weeks, and potentially the next few months as I continue my studies.
You know what’s weird here? The palm trees. That’s right, palm trees. I may never get used to the fact that the Gulf Stream has managed to carry palm seeds all the way to the southern coast of Ireland. But here they are!
After one week in Cork, I’m already loving it. Cork is smaller and quieter than Dublin, but don’t dare confuse ‘quaint’ with ‘boring’. During the week, St. Patrick’s Street is buzzing with shoppers, tourists, and locals buzzing in and out of the English Market, through side streets, and across the footbridges into the residential areas of the city. Come lunch time, many businesses and offices close down for a few hours, and the city takes a collective sigh. At night, the real characters come out as young and old hit the pubs on Oliver Plunkett Street and Washington Street. Cork quiet downs a bit on the weekends, and I can already tell that Sunday afternoon tea and toast will be a favorite tradition of mine over the next few months.
As I’ve quickly discovered, all things technological here will be keeping me continually on my toes. The light switches? You’ve got to push them DOWN to turn them ON. You’ve also got to switch on each outlet individually, as well as the stove (which is called a ‘hob’ or a ‘cooker’). The internet is slow, and has a bad habit of going out completely when you need it most. Case in point, despite my valiant three-day effort at uploading a slideshow tour of my neighborhood, you’ll have to make do with a link to my Picasa album. On that site you’ll also find albums with pictures from Dublin and my other adventures.
