Finding Gold at the End of the Rainbow

Originally entered in the Travel Writing Contest, I am now posting to new groups.

Being handed a hot cloth after a long night's flight was a nice gesture, but mine was so hot that I was surprised it didn't come with shaving cream and a razor.  While my wife Barbara had been to Ireland before, this was my first trip outside North America and the hot cloth was only the first of many unexpected experiences on what was to be an eye-opening trip.  I should have known from my upper middle class American experience, that surprises were in store, but I was young and naïve in 1987. 

Sydney Oliver greeted us at the Shannon, Republic of Ireland airport with open arms and a gigantic smile proportionate to his physique.  The husband of Barbara's high school exchange sister Jeanne, Sydney had become like a brother to her.  After stowing our luggage in the boot of his car we were off to their home in Northern Ireland.  We traveled close to half the distance on the Motorway.  Once we left the comfort of the Motorway, we found that what we thought were main roads, were held to a different standard than in North America.  Between towns and cities, the primary roads often snaked through countryside that was bordered with tall grasses or obscured by hills.  Where Americans are accustomed to city streets eight feet wide per lane, these roads, the main roads, are frequently not wide enough for two small vehicles to pass side-to-side.  We weren't quite sure if Sydney was in the usual habit of driving in excess of 100 kph on these roads, or whether he may have been practicing for the Irish Rallye later that year.  Unexpected encounters with approaching micro-rockets, brought gasps of terror from us, and a laugh from the driver.  I was too tired to care, but I think Barbara left permanent marks in the door handle. 

We stayed with the Olivers in Ballygawley, west of Belfast, during our ten days in North Ireland.  They were renting an old farmhouse at the time.  By European standards, it wasn't really an "old" farmhouse, being built only in the 1800s.  They heated the house with coal in the fireplace and had no central heating system.  This amazed me, as I was under the delusion that all non-Third World countries would have full electricity, plumbing, and heating as we experience in the US.  I learned that due to the fight for Irish independence that had gone on since shortly after 1900 Northern Ireland was economically depressed.  Constant fighting since 1919 had left a wake of bombed or burned buildings, families with dead or imprisoned breadwinners, and a fear to discuss the politics of the region in public due to potential reprisals.  Around the house, this economic situation played out in several ways. 

The hub of family life was the living room and with good reason.  Being the only heated room in the house, Mum, Dad, kids, and baby came here for the warmth of fellowship and the heat of the coal burning fireplace.  Whether sitting and talking or navigating the room, it was a veritable obstacle course due to the clothes line hung with nappies in the middle of the small room.  Coal soot floated gently in the air.  I remember thinking how ridiculous it was to hang the clean nappies next to the coal fireplace just to have the coal soot land on them as they dried.  I quickly dispelled my prejudices, however, and soon didn't notice the flying particles.  When the coal truck came for its weekly delivery I was able to help unload bag after bag of coal.  Standing on the coal truck, looking out over the farm land, and tossing bags of coal to Sydney, I felt like I had drifted back in time fifty or a hundred years. It was unsettling and confusing to realize that our friends' primary source of heating fuel was something I thought had ended at the turn of the twentieth century. 

Bath time, without shower, included a couple inches of hot water in a tub courtesy of a very small hot water heater.  Jeanne's brothers, who were both plumbers, informed me that central heating and large hot water heaters were just taking a foothold in homes at the time.  The systems they installed were very efficient, but were viewed as luxuries.  However, there was a treat waiting for us at bedtime on those cold March nights.  Jeanne would slip a hot water bottle in our bed to warm it up and place a space heater in our room.  They treated us like royalty at their personal sacrifice. 

Making one's way around the kitchen had its own form of culture shock.  The normal size for a refrigerator was slightly larger than the one I had in my dormitory at my university.  This was the case in every home we visited. Milk was delivered daily and was considered "dear."  I quickly learned the difference between mashed and creamed potatoes when I used a generous amount of milk in making what I called mashed potatoes.  I was very embarrassed to learn that I had overstretched the Oliver's budget by accidentally making wonderfully smooth creamed potatoes.  

Eating at a restaurant was a real treat for our friends.  We enjoyed two meals out that I particularly remember, not for the food especially, but for what made them unique to our limited American experience.  On Friday night we went to a fancy restaurant at a farm that only served meals two nights a week.  When making reservations they had the interesting practice of providing the menu over the phone and asking you to put in your order at that time.  The meal was absolutely outstanding and the four of us had to loosen our clothing to get into the car for the return trip.  Sunday, after attending church services, the entire extended family got together and went out for a meal.  Apart from the delicious food, we had a rousing bout of laughter as we compared word use differences between American and British English.  Examples include napkin/diaper, rubber/eraser, and Cheerio (like our cereal Cheerios)/Goodbye.  I related a time my mother requested a napkin three times while dining in Great Britain, not realizing this meant a diaper.  Another interesting aspect to these meals was the strange appetizer we received.  The Northern Irish seem to have a traditional first course of canned fruit cocktail.  Even at the expensive restaurant, where we went on Friday, they served us canned fruit cocktail in a cocktail glass just as we would serve shrimp cocktail in America. 

The "Troubles" preceded us everywhere we went.  Coming into Ballygawley the night we arrived, we drove by an overturned burning car, and Sydney told us later we were fortunate that no private roadblock had been set up.  Driving through Belfast, we saw burned and boarded buildings that stretched for blocks, most having been constructed of concrete.  Every police station we passed, in every city and town, regardless of size, was surrounded by a twenty-foot fence or wall topped with spiraled razor-wire, each having a security gate equipped with a camera.  One day, on a drive in the countryside, we passed a lone house on an open stretch of road and Jeanne began whispering to us.  She told us the home belonged to the local chief of police and that the windows were bulletproof.  Even in a moving car in the middle of nowhere, she was compelled, by force of habit, to whisper about The "Troubles." 

This pervading paranoia took hold of us as we traveled on our own.  We borrowed the car and took a day trip into Enniskillen, in western Northern Ireland.  As we approached the town, the road was surrounded by black uniformed soldiers wielding assault rifles.  They were out in pairs searching the roadside and stopping the occasional vehicle.  We learned, upon our return, that there had been a shooting shortly before we arrived and the British army was out looking for those responsible.  Our friends were worried about us all day.  Fortunately, none of this spoiled a delightful day of sightseeing and shopping.  I came home with a wonderful wool walking-hat that I purchased in Enniskillen. 

Another day, we went shopping in downtown Belfast in a district that is blocked off from vehicular traffic.  Its entrances are also guarded by police and army officers.  Being a public place, it is a potential target area for The "Troubles."  When Barbara had visited Jeanne in 1977, she was told not to wear certain colors (red, white, or blue for British or green or orange for Irish) to avoid being a shooting-target.  At the time, she was also subject to random searches.  Things had settled down quite a bit since then, but we still didn't take a chance wearing certain colors, and no one frisked us. 

All was not darkness and despair, though.  The people we spent time with were "lovely," as the Irish would say.  The Olivers and Kittles (Jeanne's extended family) were eager to show off their home land.  We were taken to fine restaurants and given tours of their country, which must have been hard to do with several young children and a limited income.  The Kittels are a fascinating Protestant family.  One of her brothers married a Catholic woman and lived in Belfast.  The three brothers worked together as plumbers and at least two of them raced automobiles, either on a race track or in road rallyes with Sydney, Jeanne's husband.  Jeanne's sister-in-law knit us sweaters from Irish wool and helped us pick out the patterns and types of wool. 

Sydney drives heavy road construction equipment and took us to work one day to show us the machines (I hesitate to call them trucks) he drives and the rock sorting equipment they used on the construction sites.  What an amazing world he lives in.  I cannot imagine driving almost sideways in one of those monsters, but he loves it. 

Barbara collects fine Belleek china and Tyrone crystal, so one of the highlights of our trip was visiting both of these factories.  Surprisingly, the original one hundred year-old Tyrone factory in Dungannon is still in use today. At the time of our visit, it seemed as if the building looked much as it did shortly after its inception.  The lack of twentieth century production technology only made the tour more interesting.  Housed in an old, poorly lit building, these beautifully crafted crystal objects seem to deserve a more modern environment.  However, generations of fine craftsman have done amazing work in this facility and it was a delight to see some of them at work.  Surprised to see piles of shattered crystal throughout the factory, I was told that the rejected pieces were recycled and reused.  Like a phoenix, the glass shards are reborn into pieces of elegant beauty. 

The Belleek tour was just as captivating.  We were able to see this gorgeous china being crafted in a small work area. Belleek is delicate china, often with intricate designs.  Many of the pieces are very small and the attention to detail is quite breathtaking.  While neither Waterford nor Belleek are inexpensive, we were able to purchase a couple of wine glasses from Waterford and a few pieces of Belleek.  The prices were unbeatable, even with shipping, and were packed with blow in foam.  

We spent some time shopping in the smaller towns, too. Enniskillen, and our trips to the Belleek and Tyrone factories, were more tourist oriented.  Shopping in Dungannon and Ballygawley, however, afforded a much more relaxed context in which to experience the local color of the villages and the citizens who lived there.  Walking on narrow, often cobbled, streets with Jeanne was great fun.  We went into her favorite establishments and met her friends and shopkeepers.  I came home with a beautiful three-piece wool suit and Barbara bought some wonderful linens.  Everyone was quick to remind us that they were English and not Irish and loved to joke about our accents and the differences in word uses.  No one could get over the fact that we have a cereal called "Cheerios," which is the same word they use to say goodbye, "Cheerio."  

Our most exciting part of the trip was visiting the Giant's Causeway on the northern coast in County Atrium near Bushmills.  This should be listed as one of the Eight Wonders of the World.  Legend has it that the causeway is the result of an Irish giant defeating a Scottish giant.  As the Scottish giant retreated, he destroyed a bridge between Ireland and Scotland out of fear of the Irish giant.  In reality, the causeway is the result of a stretch of six-sided basalt pillars formed when the volcanic rock cooled and cracked into a formation cascading from a cliff-face into the ocean.  It is quite fascinating to walk out on these about one-foot wide pillars of stone, each looking exactly like the next, except for their height. 

We had a life-threatening episode while at Giant's Causeway.  The day we arrived was very windy and blustery and so there weren't many others at the center when we were.  The walk along the cliff face reminded me of several Sherlock Holmes stories – dirt path, wind blowing, sheer drop-off into the cold ocean on our left, vacant fields on our right, and a dog howling.  Once we were down on the basalt formation itself, the wind seemed to increase.  We carefully explored and Barbara stepped out onto an isolated cluster of basalt, mostly surrounded by the raging water, to take my picture.  Suddenly, just as she was going to take the picture, a gust blew her over and almost into the ocean.  She held on for dear life, literally, as I ran to her, helped her get back to her feet and escorted her to safety.  We decided that we had seen enough and walked back to the Visitor Centre. 

Barbara had spent the summer after high school in Dublin, Republic of Ireland, on a short-term mission assignment.  While visiting Northern Ireland, we took a day trip by train to visit the mission work in Dublin and to do a little sightseeing.  The train ride from Belfast to Dublin was uneventful, though we were constantly on our guard for a bomb threat or other signs of The "Troubles."  Coming into Dublin is an awe inspiring sight as one gazes over the river at centuries-old buildings, cathedrals and coal burning smokestacks across the skyline.  Coming out of the green countryside, this makes quite a striking contrast, especially when looking at the beauty of the architecture. 

I had the pleasure of meeting Lester and Judy Honson, the missionaries Barbara worked with, and who had played a significant part in her life.  We were able to watch a parade that passed by the mission and then visit a local cemetery where gravestones go back hundreds of years.  I was still having a hard time adjusting to the differences of European and American housing and standards of living, though.  On the bright side, I was appreciating people's attachment to ancient traditions and was making connections to things I had learned in history classes and in books I had read.  

My family has always valued traveling and I have felt fortunate to take vacations all over the continental United States, parts of Canada, and border towns in Mexico. Also, Barbara and I lived in the U.S. Virgin Islands for a year shortly after we were married.  I have had the privilege of seeing the majestic purple mountains, the golden waves of grain, the painted deserts, alligator-ridden swamplands, and tropical rain forests.  I have lived in the Northeast, Midwest, Southeast, and the Caribbean and visited everywhere in between, enjoying each slice of cultural life.  However, my brief time in Northern Ireland had the most personal impact of any trip I have ever taken.  I was able to meet people I had only read about in the newspapers.  They lived in a country that I thought would be similar to my own, but was surprised to find it much more complex and rich in cultural aspects than I ever anticipated.  While perhaps a typical tourist might only see the beauty of the Emerald Isle's loch's, castles, and rolling countryside, I was able to participate in the everyday life of the great country of Northern Ireland.  I witnessed first-hand the frustration of feeding one's family and keeping them warm.  I felt the fear of having my life placed in jeopardy whenever I left my home.  And I saw results of decades of civil war, as neighborhoods were emptied after repeated bombings.  Finally, I lived with people who gained my respect.  They were proud of their heritage, were quick to show genuine hospitality, and expressed hope for their future and their children's futures.  They taught me that riches are not found in wealth so much as in heritage and values.