Jack

Do you know of any famous people from Belfast? I do! I do!

My knowledge of the famous and infamous is... limited. Most of my friends learn this soon enough, when they name famous actors/singers/existentialist philosophers/whatever, and watch comprehension slide off my face like cheese off hot pizza.*

It's rare for me to discover someone who 1) other people know about, and 2) who I know about, like, and understand. It's extremely rare. One of these someones is:

(These three photoes are all over the internet... I'm not going to bother with sources.)

Who, I discovered when I got here, was born and raised here. Literally, right down the road. I have got off class and was bored and wandered down the same roads that he got off class and was bored and wandered down. I still think this is really cool.

Photo from http://dnausers.d-n-a.net/cslewis/brochure9.html (Jack's on the left - the other kid is his brother, Warnie.)


You do know who this is, right? Maybe not from the photos. He was an author, after all - the only photos you see are the ones stuck on dust jackets. This is C.S. "Jack" Lewis,** scholar, author, Christian apologist, expert in Rennaisance literature, sci-fi enthusiast (before it was cool), and all-around oddball genius. He’s best known for the Narnia books, and for the fact that he replied to every letter a fan ever sent, and for being friends*** with J.R.R. Tolkien. He also loved tea, thought sports were boring, and, yes, was from Belfast.

The infinitely kind Dr. Forbes arranged for half a dozen or so of her family and neighbours to go on a C.S. Lewis tour, on the logic that they could use me as an excuse, as you don't usually go on tours of a city when you live there.

The guide's name was Sandy. We got in a little bus at city centre. He pointed out the shop where Lewis, as a child, had wandered in and heard the "Ride of the Valkyries" being played (to advertise a gramophone, I think), and we got off and looked at the building where his father – Albert Lewis – worked, the place where the house was where he was born, the school he spent some time at (and hated), the church his grandfather was rector at, and so on. The guide quoted extensively from Surprised By Joy, which I haven't read, so it was all wonderfully interesting...

It was a quote from that book, in fact, that first sparked my... spiritual interest, I suppose you'd say... early in my teens. For the first time I’d heard a famous thinker quoted, from a nonfiction book, and I’d actually understood exactly what they were talking about. And he was writing from a similar direction to the one which I was coming from, so I found myself reading arguments that could just as well be addressed to me... also a rare and thought-provoking occurrence.

But really, if you want to know anything about Lewis’ books, go and read one. He was annoyingly productive as an author. There must be hundreds of the things. The Chronicles of Narnia, Mere Christianity, and The Screwtape**** Letters are some of the more popular ones, and each (I think) is worth a read. I'm not quoting him here, because, if you're reading this, you're probably friends with me on Facebook, and you probably see C.S. Lewis quotes all the time because of that. But back to the tour.

We got off once more and huddled round the gates at Little Lea. This was the house the Lewis family moved to when little Jack was still very little, and it's the house he remembers best: the house where his mother died, and the house where he would climb through the attics and hide in corners and read.

You can just see the peaked roof above the trees.

Our last stop of all, however, was The Seeker.

This is a statue, dedicated to Lewis, that stands in front of one of the city’s libraries. It doesn’t depict Lewis – the figure opening the wardrobe door is Diggory Kirk, the Professor from the Narnia books. He’s posed just opening the wardrobe...

Around the sculpture, in the pavement, Lewis’s name is written, with his date of birth – and date of re-birth – and with a description of him as a writer, a scholar, a teacher, a Christian... and an Ulsterman.

Belfast doesn’t widely advertise its history – though next year, the hundredth anniversary of the Titanic, has got people planning. But it seems to be proud in a quiet sort of way of C.S. Lewis. There’s a mural somewhere as well, and of course, there’s the study room at the QUB library:

Maybe I’ll re-read the Narnia books when I get home...

* I'm hungry.
** All anecdotal stories aside... seriously... what would you call yourself if your parents had christened you Clive Staples?
*** Who disliked the Narnia books because they were incoherent and allegorical, and described Lewis’ style as “pompous silliness.” Lewis, in turn, said (upon meeting Tolkien) that he ought to be smacked. Ah, true friendship!
**** I still think Screwtape would be a great name for a cat.

Seannacht i nGaillimh, part 2: Inis Meain

I decided to spend my last day in Galway on Inis Meáin. As I overheard a Frenchman saying on the bus:

“If you really want to know what is France, you do not go to Paris. With all this beautiful countryside, why do you go to Paris?”

Sometimes you have to out in the middle of nowhere if you want to learn where you are. Inis Meáin (the "middle island") is the least-visited of the Aran Islands. The ferry there was carrying supplies - a new TV, among other items, loaded by squinting, sunburnt men in caps into the sides of the boat - as well as people, and most of the people were locals traveling between the island and the mainland.

The boat was named Banrionn na Fharraige (that spelling might be off - I've not got my dictionary with me), which means "Queen of the Sea."

Now, my computer isn't letting me upload photos, so I'll keep this short for now and edit more in later (I'm sure you're all devestated at this sudden absence of pretty rocks). I went onto the island, and found a shop, which was closed. As was the other shop (there are two, I think, on the island), as was the hotel. I had no map, so I walked along for an hour or so until I saw another human being. She was sitting in a chair reading a book, in the yard, outside a house with a small sign that was advertised as a tea shop.

I tiptoed up and tried to look lost and friendly at the same time. She looked up, and greeted me - in Irish. Then she laughed and apologized at the look on my face.

Keep in mind that I've been learning to read and write Irish, not speak it - like most languages, it can be hard to recognize off the page.

It turns out the lady was from the Netherlands. She was a psychologist who'd learned Irish, moved to the Aran Islands, and decided that was they needed was a tea shop. I bought tea and banana bread. She stood next to the table and we talked for a while. She pointed out the path, and I paid and wandered off, and promptly got lost again.

It was lovely, though. All I could think, walking down the road, was, "Lord, let this not be the last I see of this place."

As I said, photos later.

Seannacht i nGaillimh, part 2: Inis Mor WILL UPDATE WITH PHOTOS

The boat was crowded but comfortable. It went fast enough to kick up sprays of salt water over everyone on the lower deck. It was named “Ceol na Fharraige,” which means Music of the Sea.  “Inis Mor,” by the way, means Big Island.* Inis Mor is usually where visitors go – it has bikes for rent, Aran sweaters for sale, and a Centra.

I acquired a map at the information station and made a plan of what to see – the Aran Islands are full of ruins and interesting historical sites.

When I got there, however, I found at I had instead was a killer headache and no idea whatsoever where I was on the map. So I went to the Centra and bought water and painkillers (noting that the receipt printed Go Raibh Maith Agat at the bottom), and then... wandered.

I was feeling a little disconsolate and more than a little lonely. I don’t do well travelling on my own. So when I found myself walking down a road beside a beach, I stopped, and turned, and stared. It was the most beautiful thing I’d seen all spring, including all the flowers in Belfast, and it was EMPTY. It was still too early in the morning for people to have congregated on it, and it was mostly on the weedy end, full of shallow pools of snails and limpets, and vast fields of pebbles and seaweed drifts, and the kinds of rocks that just beg to have mermaids perched artistically among them.

I came back up the beach three hours later, smelling of salt water, with my trousers wet through and seaweed between my toes. It was glorious.

The only problem with this was that I now had no idea where I was. The only person I met on the road was a dog, who walked with me for a while till we came to the sign that pointed upwards towards a couple bored donkeys and a hiking trail. Thinking that a trail had to go somewhere, I followed it.

Needless to say, I got hopelessly lost. There were cliffs, with huge green pools in the rock, high hilltops where all you could see were rocky shingles, wildflowers and small striped snails, and long lines of walls that separated the cows’ pastures.

I was very proud of myself for climbing over several of these without serious injury, though there were some nasty brambles that tried their hardest to change this.

I made it back to the pier before the boat left, though, and got a sandwich and some crisps from Centra because my granola bars were gone. I wandered through the sweater store, surreptitiously taking photos of the sweaters there for future knitting reference.

We were ferried back to the mainland in time for dinner (granola bars and Guinness). I spent that evening trying to figure out where to go next, because it seemed silly just to go back (which was what I wanted to do).  

* Some place names sound better when they aren’t translated into English.

Holy Week & Easter

* Very enthusiastically, as will children anywhere when encouraged to make noise.

** She even brought out a blanket. It was like watching an infomercial. Are all those knitting needles slowing you down? Try a little crochet, and watch yourself create a baby blanket in a single night!

“By the time you read this, Easter will be past. Or will it? ... what we have is a seven week season of Easter... I think this is very important. The Christian faith is an Easter faith. Resurrection is central: no resurrection, no faith. It’s as simple as that... for a Christian, it’s even more important to celebrate it with worship and rejoicing than Christmas!... The usual interpretation of Easter is that it means you go to heaven when you die. It’s not my interpretation... It sounds dreadfully boring – all that harp-playing and Philly cream cheese? No thanks... Read the Bible, and you’ll soon discover that what the Lord’s resurrection leads to is altogether far richer and more exciting than that. It’s all about the renewal and transformation of creation itself...”

- Rev. Ron Elsdon

Easter in Northern Ireland... a bit late, I know. But it’s worth its own entry. The first week of break was Holy Week, and I spent most of it in church. I’m going to try and remember everything I did - so if this sounds like a list, I’m sorry. It was a lot to take in, and I’m still working through it in my head, even if I organize my photos and update my blog. But hey – it’s still Easter! And these two churches have kept me thinking, talking (and, often, fed) for nearly six months, so I’m going to talk about them as much as possible.

Holy Week began with Palm Sunday at St. Bart’s, where the children sang in front of the congregation.

In case I haven’t linked it before, this is St. Bart’s: http://www.stbartholomew.connor.anglican.org/wordpress/  



Where I sit on Sunday mornings.

Of course, this being Ulster, what they sang* sounded like “Shote hosannas tae ower Keng.” I still love the accents here... and you should read the above quote in a very proper English accent, as it’s a quote from the English rector’s letter in the parish magazine.

That night I went to Fisherwick. I was having trouble singing myself, because of being sick. But it was wonderful. The church was really throwing itself into the season, with a three-day prayer vigil – to pray for people to hear the word of God and make time for it in their lives - an art exhibit, and services of different kinds every night of the week. Trying, like Ron’s letter, to get people to really think about Easter as more than a day you just go to church on Sunday for.

This is Fisherwick: http://www.fisherwick.net/  

Monday, I probably should’ve studied, or cleaned my room, or done something otherwise productive. So I went to the zoo – more on that later. Let’s just say I was the only student who knew what a prairie dog was.

Wednesday I came in for the morning at Fisherwick, and found the place empty. There was tea and biscuits, and pictures and sculptures by local artists all arranged around the church. So I laid on the floor and drank tea, and thought and prayed and watched the sun shine in through the angels’ wings in the stained-glass windows. It was a beautiful day.

In the afternoon, I went hiking. In Belfast? Yes. I took a bus to Cavehill Country Park, and climbed to McArt’s Fort – that’s the bit known as “Napoleon’s Nose,” which supposedly inspired Swift to write about Gulliver on Lilliput. For people where I’m from – think Stony Man. I wasn’t tall enough, though, to climb into the cave on the hill. But it was fun. Afterwards I went to The Patchwork Goose, where you could hardly walk for heaps of yarn and fabric and hoops and this and that, and where I bought sock yarn, for knitting... feeling a little awkward as the shop lady had just spent a good five minutes expounding upon the wonders of crochet** at some other customers.

Pictures later.

Wednesday night was Fisherwick’s Taizé-style worship service. The choir did most of the singing, and the music was recorded, but I still knew half the songs by heart, including “Jesus, Remember Me” and “Bless the Lord, My Soul.” The minister had arranged them chronologically – with a song for each part of Holy Week. I’d never heard that done before, and it was beautiful.

On Thursday. Maundy Thursday, I brought my knitting with me and went to sit in the church. For the four hundredth anniversary of the King James Bible, they’d gotten people to read aloud during mornings and afternoons of the whole three days. I heard part of Isaiah, and Luke and Acts.

To people unfamiliar with the Gospels: Luke is the one that’s very narrative, includes women, the Magnificat, the shepherds, and “Blessed are the poor.” The author of Luke also wrote Acts, or the Acts of the Apostles, which tells what everybody else did after Jesus left – the conversion of St. Paul, and the stoning of St. Stephen, and so on. There’s a lot of emphasis on salvation being for all people. I like Luke. And it was really neat hearing it all read aloud, start to finish. You hear things that your eyes might skip over on the page.

Thursday night was the “Contemporary Praise” service.

Good Friday began with the early service at Fisherwick. It was a Communion service, and we sang “There is a Green Hill,” and “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” both of which I must’ve heard and sung a dozen times that week.

St. Bart’s had a short children’s service, later, followed by tea and biscuits while the children did crafts, making little paper baskets and things like that. This was followed by a quiet hour in the church.

That night was their Tenebrae service. That means... oh, here’s an explanation: http://www.kencollins.com/question-39.htm

Afterwards I went back to Fisherwick, where the choir sang Compline, and I sat and talked with people until the place went dark for the final night of the vigil.

Saturday morning, was breakfast at Fisherwick, served by the group of people going on a mission trip this summer, who’d spent the night up in the church. It was a full Ulster fry and it was wonderful.

But by then I was pretty much in shock, and I went and spent the day in my room, with a note on my door telling people not to talk to me till after Easter.

Easter Sunday!

Sunday morning was another breakfast – at St. Bart’s. It’s apparently a joke in NI that the only thing an Ulsterman can cook is a fry, so the men’s group does a huge fry breakfast every Easter morning, with nice tables set up and everyone invited. I sat next to Joan, an elderly lady who told me about her travels, teaching English in other countries, and how she never really learned to cook well because of the wartime rationing she grew up with.

You can tell it’s Easter when the church turns white, and when the clergy are standing around grinning like mad and handing out Cadbury cream eggs.

The Elsdons invited me to lunch at the rectory, along with a nice lady named Leslie, who I found out has guinea pigs and a good sense of humour. As before, Ron led me into the living room (or whatever they call it here), where I sat while he made tea. Then he came in, and Janice came in – and then left to change into shoes that weren’t killing her, having run about all week – and then Leslie came, with a bag of wine, and we all had tea and coffee and biscuits.

The rectory coffee table.

Tea went something like this:

"So," Leslie joked, "When's the follow-up post-Easter service?"

"Tonight, led by Leslie, readings by Meghan," retorted Janice, before drinking several cups of coffee.

“Ah, and his lordship has chosen to grace us with his presence,” said Ron, as the cat came in. Herbie climbed between the laps of Ron and Leslie, before he got bored with us and went to loll on his chair behind the sofa.

The rectory cat - Herbie, who is quite spoiled, and enjoying it immensely.

Both Janice and Ron were exhausted after Holy Week, and were glad to relax. We talked about travel and books and the silliness of the royal wedding. We had a lovely big lunch, with wine, and rhubarb crumble for dessert.

I came back later on for the Easter carols service, after which I went home, watched Godspell, ate cookies, cried for two hours, and slept.

Since it’s late, and I’m tired - I’ll stop there. Happy Easter, all!



One of the kitchens at 7 College Gardens, decorated for the season.

A Bit About The Irish Language

I know, I know. I have loads more to write about Dublin, and pictures galore. But that's too much work. So I'm going to write about language instead (and, across the Atlantic, I can hear your eyes roll...)

The basics: the Gaelic, or Goidelic, language group includes Irish, Scottish Gaelic, and Manx. Irish Gaelic is called Irish or, in Irish, "gaeilge." It is taught in many schools here, and though the language is by no means widespread, there are thousands of people who speak the language fluently in non-classroom settings (you can go look up actual statistics if you like), and many Irish in diaspora countries are trying to re-learn it.

Like English, it's confusing in that it's difficult to tell the pronounciation from the written language (unlike, say, Spanish). And it can be different depending on where you are: for instance, a word ending in igh is pronounced "ee" in one county, but can change to "ig" if you drive for a while. Also, there's lenition, by which a word is changed by other words in a sentence to start with different consanant sounds. And lots more like that. I'm interested in learning it because it's a beautiful, complex language, and I'm all for keeping languages alive (I was one of those kids who learned to write in Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs... yeah).

I loathe the attitude towards it held my many Americans who seem to think of it as a dead, fairy language that they can "translate" names and tattoos into as part of their heritage. And I use that word with all the wincing sarcasm I can muster. I feel almost embarrased to identify myself as Irish-American here. You can see the Irish get that look in their eyes, like, "Oh God, it's one of them," and I have to hastily add that my family came from Ireland, that's it, I've never drunk green beer or eaten corned beef in my life or searched for a fake family crest on Google. Really.

My name, written in Irish, is Peigín* Eilís Ní Fhoirréidh-Mhórdha. I have no idea how to pronounce the "Foirréidh" bit, but the rest would be PEG-een EL-ees nee WOR-ya (or possibly VOR-ya). The bit before the surname shows it's my maiden name... "Ní" is the female form of "Ó" and, and, because it's feminine, puts an "h" in teh beginning of the following word (so Mórdha becomes Mhórdha). This is because Furey and Moore both begin with Ó in Irish. If my name began with Mac, I think it would be Nic. Or Nhic.

By now I hope you'll understand what I mean by complex. Yes? Good.

Here is a list of Irish words, just for fun - I'm going to see what I can write from memory:

Apple – úll

Bell – clog

Blessing – beannacht

Boat – bád

Book - leabhar

Brother - deartháir

Cat - cat

Computer - ríomhaire

Cow – bó

Daughter - iníon

Dog - madra

Father - athair

Fish - iasc

Flower - bláth
Food - bia

Goodbye – slán

Heart - croí

Hello - (to one person) Dia duit

House - teach

Love - grá

Mother - máthair
Music - ceol

Please - le de thoil

Post office - oifig an phoist

Rain - fearthainn, báisteach

Rainbow - bogha báistí

River - abhainn

Shop - siopa

Sister - deirfiúr

Sky - spéir

Son – mac

Star - réalta

Tea – tae

Thank you - (to one person) go raibh maith agat

Tree - crann

Welcome - fáilte

If there's any words anyone wants to know... or tranlastions... I've got a dictionary and I'm signed on to an online translation forum. And I'm in Ireland. Just saying. And I do hope to spend time in the Irish-speaking part of Ireland, not Belfast or Dublin, but in the southwest around Galway... which I've heard is a beautiful area anyway... maybe I'll go there next week after classes, and plan out where I'll go over break!

Here are some signs in Irish and English, found in Dublin, featuring some of the more important** words:

And some others... signs from Trinity, and one of the street signs. All the street names are written in both languages as well. My personal favourite was Lána na Bó. I can't remember the English, but that means "Cow's Lane" and is just fun to say.

And, from my wonderfully productive YouTube searches, two funny*** little videos involving Irish:

"Fluent Dysphasia" (first of two parts): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zNI9eBGYpvw

"Fíorghael" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3Kv4fZ2SOE

More on Dublin later, I promise! Now I have to go write a paper...


* I know, I know... but my name's just not Margaret! I'm sorry! You shouldn't have given my sister and I the SAME NAME. She can be Mairéad.
** Food is very important.
*** Warning: British humour. Some Americans might find it a little slow or understated. Keep in mind, the best parts are at the end.

Dublin: Books, Harps, And Other Irish Things

          This past week - or, the week before I became ill - I took a bus down south for two days in Dublin. It was an experience. I’m still in shock from the sheer quantity of historical and cultural treasures I’ve been exposed to.

I went with Maureen, who, as I’ve said before, is the other student from Warren Wilson in the same programme as me. We went to the big station near the city centre and bought round-trip tickets, for the long journey to the capital of Éire, all of two hours’ driving away. I made sure to bring my passport, and some other documents I didn’t know if I’d need (but better safe than sorry) in my backpack. We took the Bus Éirann. I could tell we were on the Irish bus because of the “Emergency Exit” signs:

And that’s how I knew we were in the Republic, as well: nobody stopped the bus. There was no check for passports, nor did I see a sign saying “You are now entering the Republic of  Éire” or anything to that effect. The change is in the language on the signs, from English to English/Gaeilge.

In Irish, apparently, a distinction is made between “exit” as a “way out” or an “escape,” and “exit” as a “point of departure.” This is why bus windows say ÉALÚ – EXIT but highway signs say IMEACHT.

But enough about language quirks. You’ll get more of that later on, no worries.

The landscape of Ireland is different from that of Virginia, but not too different. It wasn’t like going from the Southeast to the Southwest, which is like going to Mars. Here, there are the same big areas of farmland, clumps of woods, and the same rolling blue hills in the distance, but all on a smaller scale. There are more sheep than cows (in the States, there would be more cows), and fields are separated by hedges instead of - or in addition to - fences. The grass is alarmingly green. There are drifts of litter at the sides of the road, and every now and then a black shape boomerangs out from nowhere - this is a crow. It it's black and white, it's a magpie - and you hope you see a second one soon after.*

When we got off the bus, we were in the middle of the city. Like good tourists, we promptly went and ate lunch. But then we went to Trinity College for a tour. Maureen is out shopping for a grad school - she's graduating early, and going for a PhD or something in osteoarchaeology - so she's using that as an excuse to visit some pretty wonderful places.


Trinity was the big university in Ireland, and it may still be, I don't know. I didn't take in much of the factual content of our guide's spiel, though I remember the story of the professor who got shot, and obviously more important imformation of that nature.

Our tour guide with college buildings in the background. As you can see, Trinity is in a much older style than Queen's.  

I don't have a lot of photos from Trinity, because I spent most of the time in the library. This is where the Book of Kells is kept. Yes, that's right - the actual Book of Kells. For those of you who may not know, the Book of Kells is a beautiful, illuminated manuscript of the Gospels from the 8th or 9th century. It's said to have been created - or at least begun - in Iona, brought to Kells (in Ireland) because of Viking raids, and finally to Dublin for safekeeping in the 17th century. According to the Wikipedia page on the Book, it's "a masterwork of Western calligraphy... widely regarded as Ireland's finest national treasure."

And I saw it. There's a wonderful exhibit, where pictures and descriptions are up about the history, about medieval illumination, and symbolism, and more. In the final room, they keep parts of the book in a case, open to show the pages.

Upstairs, I walked through the Long Room. This is a long room filled with shelf upon shelf of old books, which are roped off to the general public. There are ladders to the top shelves, and white busts of famous dead people set at the end of each section. Halfway down is a case holding the Brian Boru harp. Though there is no actual historical connection to Brian Boru, the harp is still a precious thing - made in the 15th century, it's one of the oldest Irish harps in existance, and has become a well-known symbol of Ireland.**


Here are some links with pictures:


The first is a fun, photo-filled blog entry on the Book of Kells.*** Please, read it and look at the pictures - it's got more information than I've written, and the Chi Ro page alone is something everyone should see: http://bodyandsawol.wordpress.com/2010/11/11/a-most-mysterious-book/


And this is a picture of the harp: http://www.haverford.edu/engl/faculty/Sherman/Irish/harp.htm The site also has pictures from the Book of Kells, and other interesting things.


But, because I've gone too long without a picture, here's a photo of the ever-lovely Irish countryside. From a lot of people, that might sound sarcastic. I can assure you that from me, it's not. Damp? Grey? Green? Boggy? Love it.


Will write more later...

* "One for sorrow, two for joy..." and so on. I usually only see one.

** It's on the money. It's on the beer.  Everywhere.  

*** YES, A BOG.

Saint Patrick's Day

Lá Fhéile Pádraig sona duit!*

Saint Patrick’s Day started Wednesday night. I went to the Inter-Chaplaincy Saint Patrick’s Day event at the Student Union. This was advertised as a ceilidh beag** so I thought it wouldn’t be too scary. It was fun. There was a ceilidh band, so, acoustic guitars, a harp, fiddle and whistle. There were a few worship songs and jigs, and then the chaplains paraded in bearing huge quantities of pizza. There were a lot of people there (I can’t guess the number of a crowd if it’s above fifty or so) so they had a speed-meeting getting-to-know-you game, which I can’t remember a single name from. But it was still fun – it’s good to remind people, I think, that the holiday is in fact a saint’s*** day, however many people use it as an excuse to get drunk and wear stupid hats.

The only bad thing about study abroad in a city is having no friends. Every activity that you have the opportunity to participate in is with other exchange students, and you have nothing in common with students from Europe or Asia, and really want to get to know Irish students, but every event that goes on has hundreds of people at it, so it’s near impossible to get to know anybody. I mean, you can’t even hear people talk. I desperately wish there was some kind of small-group activity going on, but I haven’t found it. At least, it doesn’t seem to exist independent of clubs (by which I mean nightclubs). I am an antisocial drinker – I like drinking, sometimes, but I hate loud noise and drunk people, which is a problem when it comes to socialization in a big city.

End rant. *sigh* Anyway....

Did I go to the parade? Yes. I went to the parade. Did I actually see any of it? Surprisingly, yes. While one of the downsides to being small is the inability to see over anybody else, one of the perks is being able to worm one’s way into just about anywhere. Thus, after a few minutes of patient worming across the City Centre street, I made it close enough to see the parade. I’d never been to a Saint Patrick’s Day parade before, so it was exciting - and this one has a colourful, home-made look to it, not like the big parades in the States. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

There was a H & W float, and a lot of people in bright costumes waving streamers, a Chinese dragon on poles that danced in a circle, a school marching band, and more – scroll down for pictures. The crowd was just as entertaining. From the languages and accents heard in the thick of it, at least half the people there weren’t native Irish. But don’t get me wrong – there were plenty of those there, too. The street was a huge, chattering sea of green, lots of children on shoulders waving paper shamrock flags, and there were also plenty of sequined bowler hats and other such tasteless accessories. A few people had even found tricolours and wrapped themselves in them like bath towels.

The crowd watching the parade - a lot of children on shoulders!



What is this? I don't know...



... but it was followed by a troupe of children on unicycles!

One of two artistic fish, carried by people in front of...

... the Harland & Wolf shipworks float.

And the Chinese dragon, obviously a time-honoured Saint Patrick's Day tradition!
Note: girl at the far left lives in 7 College Gardens as well!

The blue people were my favourite. I have no idea what they were supposed to represent (if anything) but they were pretty. They spun their bird streamers round and round, and it looked as though they were caught in the middle of a flock of big, bright birds, such a contrast to the dull colours of the city.

These came after the blue people - the yellow and green, and then the pink and purple!

Then - your friendly Monster Muppet Man!

Finally, a band of marching Scottish pipers.

As I said - exciting!

There were also police officers. Everywhere.

The College Gardens students meandered over more or less together. After the parade, the others disappeared to go off drinking. This was interesting, as I didn’t want to go off drinking, especially at noon, and didn’t know the way back to College Gardens. So I wandered around City Centre for a while, and then went shopping. I’d been wanting to find some tights or long stockings (there are only so many layers you can get a pair of jeans over). I went to a charity shop on the corner. I love charity shops – they’re the little British equivalent of thrift stores. Instead of the DAV or the CHKD, you get Oxfam and the Marie Curie Cancer Centre shops. You get the same shelves of suspicious paperbacks, disorganized clothing, and deranged-looking ceramic animals like pigs and geese and elephants that you wonder why anyone would buy in the first place. It’s fun.  

There was a French family there while I was there, so I got to listen to the parents wrangling their children in exasperated French. I asked the lady behind the desks where people here went to buy socks and tights and things. Almost everyone here wears them under everything, so far as I can tell, even shorts – because it’s cold and damp all the time, you do not want to go bare-legged or wear skirt without anything under them.

I was pointed towards Primark, across the street. Remember how I said there’s no Superstores of any kind? Well, the clothing department in a big store in the States – think Target or Wal-Mart – apparently exists independently, here, in the form of Primark. It’s the kind of place where there are lots of children yelling, lots of sale racks, disposable drinks cups perched on displays, and there are displays of huge heaps of shirts and skirts falling off hangers with signs saying “NOW 50% OFF” and "£1." It's my new favourite clothing store, I've decided, and when I wear holes in all my socks I'll head on back.

Afterwards, I went home. Things were pretty mellow for the moment.

However, I knew there'd soon be a big, noisy party. But luckily I had plans for the night – or, for the next couple hours:

The main table in front of the church. The lady in the blue coat is Janice, the curate.

 Every year on Saint Patrick’s Day, St. Bart’s sets up some tables with snacks, hot tea, and coffee, and gives it out for free to passersby. The theory is that the drunk students will be distracted and get some real food inside them to offset the alcohol, which, speaking as a college student myself, is an excellent idea. In this city things can get crazy bad the week of the 17th - there's posters up in the houses, and e-mails sent out, warning exchange students and pleading with the natives. People just start drinking, and don't stop.


Of course, in addition to this practical concern, it makes a lot of people very happy when someone comes down the sidewalk with a tray saying, “Free sandwiches! Free sweets! Biscuits! Rock Cakes! Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!”


Some people stayed at the tables, and some people went to houses where they knew there’d be parties, and some people went up and down the streets. The block over had crowds of students all up and down, and I emptied a whole tray of sandwiches and tiny sausages in minutes. Hopefully, it did some good.

These splendid people are Ross and Elizabeth, who are from different churches and came over to help out.

I signed up for 4-6, and had to leave by 6:30 because I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes, despite the paper cups of hot tea I kept drinking, more to hold than for any other reason.

I’m now very determined to finish knitting these woollen socks. Watch it get warm the moment I bind off. Just watch.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

*I’m pretty sure this is how you say “Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.”

**“little party” (pronounced kay-lee beg)

***Saint Patrick – Patricius – was actually born in the place that’d later be Wales. He was taken to Ireland as a slave. Just saying.

No leprechauns were involved in the making of this holiday. Unless, of course, the fairies get drunk and go out dancing as well, and need new shoes.

Amhráin As Gaeilge

No. Despite the title of this entry, I haven't learned Irish in a week. But I'm still trying.

As anyone will tell you, a good way to work on learning a language to to watch TV in that language. There's an Irish-language channel, TG4, so I tried searching for videos from it on YouTube. I found several weather forecasts, some odds and ends of this and that, and - best of all - a series of traditional Irish songs set along cute, animated cartoons.

The series is called "Anam an Amhráin"* and it's kept me entertained for a whole week, now. I can even understand some of the words, with the added help of the pictures. For instance, in the cheerful dancy "Bean Pháidín" the speaker is saying "It's a pity I'm not Pháidín's wife," I'd go to Galway with [?] Pháidín, I wish Pháidín's [actual] wife would break her legs and all her bones.

This is why I love folk music.

The second is about a little girl who wants to go... somewhere, the third is about a crazed goat, and an unfortunate guy passing by, and the goat goes and... I'll just let you watch it... the fourth's about a pirate queen, and the last one is a sad one about a spider.

Bean Pháidín http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STBpc3rxrT4&feature=related
Gréasaí Bróg http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBtd-VA4FAA&feature=feedf
An Poc Ar Buile http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNCdENob0ZQ
Óró, Sé Do Bheatha 'Bhaile http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0NfY-ElcPo&feature=related
An Damhán Alla http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGhrpgns0_g&feature=related

Enjoy! Or something.