The Motherland

Having not gotten around to writing these posts until the end I can say with certainty, I valued my trip to Ireland the most. I met and visited relatives that I didn't really know that I had before hand. I feel the best way to share this trip is to share the piece I wrote about it for travel writing. This is the final piece I revised for the class. First Natalie, and I helped Melinda celebrate her birthday in Dublin.

 

My Irish Family

A question posed to my dad on a whim resulted in a weekend filled with family history, stories, names, Irish humor, and distant cousins. Every household I visited welcomed me with the same greeting: a simultaneous hand-squeeze, hug, and kiss on the cheek. I’m still not sure whether this greeting followed some Irish form of Xenia or acknowledged family ties. They were my distant cousins, so distant that we weren’t really sure how we were related; if a genealogy term that fits exists, I don’t know it and neither would an average reader. John McGoldrick and my grandfather are first cousins and as far as I could gather they’ve never met. When stationed in Ireland during WWII my grandfather intended to visit John and his wife Lily, but never did, he was in Northern Ireland. John and Lily’s daughter Breda received my email about visiting. The way it seems to be with the Irish family, if you can contact one of them you can reach them all. Breda called her cousin Patricia and arranged my visit to the Homestead. She even planned to accompany me from her house in Dublin until her mother suffered a slight stroke.

In the car to her house and later to the bus station Breda told me of the two relatives who stood in line for the Titanic but never boarded, the wife who told her husband that he couldn’t go to America because he couldn’t get sponsored when in truth she feared he’d leave and never return. There may have been a baby on the way. Of Bridget-Ann Murray, who served as a judge in Philadelphia. With each of these stories I tried to connect how the people were related to me. I would need a genealogy chart of some sort to keep it straight; instead I succeeded in forgetting all of their names.

Breda left me at the bus station in Dublin with specific instructions of how to recognize Patricia: earlobe-length dark hair, a little heavyset—though I would describe her as full-figured and curvy. And her husband Martin, who would be driving: slender and lithe, hair combed to the side covering a growing bald patch. “Don’t tell them I said that, I’m only trying to think of distinguishing features,” Breda said.

Filing off the bus at Sligo, I glanced around and saw a man who could be Martin sitting in a car; he called out “Rebecca?” Unsure of whether he meant me—the name Rebecca has no relation to Heather—or was waiting for someone else, I concerned myself with rescuing my bag from under the bus. A woman fitting Breda’s description of Patricia approached me; she knew my name. Props to Breda for describing everyone aptly. Patricia led me to the car Martin now leaned against—it had been Martin who called out Rebecca, and his mistake became a running joke during my stay.

As the car turned off the narrow, winding road into a gravel drive that ran past a field and up to the house, Patricia and Martin apologized for the construction site. I saw a snug house with a crackling fire. A home—lived in. The small one-story white stuccoed house with dark trim looked like it belonged nestled among the Irish hills. The room inside was furnished with three dark upholstered armchairs; books and paper covered a rocking chair; a small TV in the corner, turned on to the X-Factor; a fireplace with mantel piece covered, in nicknacks, family photos, and a few candles, filled the room with a warm glow.

“Sit by the fire; you must be perished.” Martin pulled up a stool and practically forced me into the seat. I didn’t feel cold, but I enjoy the coziness of sitting beside fires.

After Chinese take-out and tea while sitting around the fire, Patricia pulled me into the next room to show me the photos of my distant relatives hanging on the walls. Martin said, “That room’s cold, she doesn’t want to look at photos.” Patricia pointed out various relatives. Then on one wall…

“There are my grandparents,” I said. They looked down from a photo taken at some cousin’s wedding in the states, when my grandfather still had mutton chops.

“Really, where?”

I pointed them out, and Patricia dragged Martin in, who put on the X-Factor in that room because I had to hear this band.

With ease they drew me into their Irish family humor. The banter called to my mind sitting around the dinner table with my own family. The content differed, but the atmosphere felt the same. Martin referred to me as Rebecca, making his mistake at the train station into a joke. Jason, their son, would say, “Dad, think of what you just said.” And Martin would smile and assure me that he knew my name. Then someone would chime in about Martin going senile, and that they would have to send him to a home soon. In response Martin said, "Just give me a bullet, and bury me."

"You know where you're going? Into the pit that's where,” Patricia said. They had just told me about a lake that would disappeared into the ground every now and then leaving behind a muddy pit. A folk story explained these features.

“Don’t tell her that, she has to sleep in that room by herself.”

Through the interruptions, the story they told involved a giant with a third eye in the middle of his head. Someone shot out the eye with an arrow and it landed, somehow creating the lake, or maybe the pit in the center. The logistics of the story never became clear to me.

In the evening, after a visit to Patricia’s brother, Patricia commented about the house: “It’s not modern, like Peter’s.” However, I felt the age gave it character, and family history filled it with life. My great-great uncle John Naughton built it in the 40s. Patricia worried about how others would see it, especially coming from the city. I protested that these qualities made the house special. Of course I may be a country girl at heart. I can imagine myself living on a modern day farm with the amenities of running water, all of which they had. Even the T.V. had digital; growing up I never had cable and when analog switched to digital we never bothered to get it. Patricia agreed, “Filled with happy memories.” She grew up in the house, a better place to raise children than town she and Martin lived in. I could imagine running through the hills, acres of fields to play in.

From a closet Patricia pulled out a plastic bag. “My grandpa was always working on something with his hands; I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.” She extracted a fish net she’d watched him make with a nail on a block of wood. The old skills have been forgotten.

The next morning, a little after noon, I put on wellies, and Patricia showed me around the homestead. Ozzy, their dog, ran ahead of us, ducking under the gate, then circling back and waiting as Patricia opened it. At the edge of an old orchard, where a clump of trees now grows in the corner, used to stand the cottage my great-grandmother Catherine Naughton grew up in before she moved to the states. Shoes squelching in the mucky fields, we walked through the homestead: old sheds, a barn once part of a house, tractors old and new, two horses, a bull and a young cow shut inside the barn. The bull, because of a tendency to run off, and the young cow because of a need to be dehorned so he couldn’t hurt the others in the field.

The cows approached as we entered their field, still keeping their distance, but showing curiosity. Patricia pointed down to a lower field, where once she drew water from the spring well after school. Wearing boots I ventured through the muddy barrier to see it. Patricia, in old sneakers, followed carefully. The well now overgrown served different uses, its water directed to the animals.

I will remember the laughter we shared while sitting around the fire talking, watching the X factor. Martin rolling cigarettes, while Ozzy leaned against his legs. The dog and his master forming one entity. Patricia adventurous with no concern about trekking through muck in the drizzle on a cold day. Jason teasing his father. Martin giving Ozzy the command to watch Jason. The dog’s eye intent on his target, and his defensive bark when Jason feinted at Martin. Patricia telling stories late into the night. The familial unity I felt part of.

Those few days, an unexpected treasure. At one point I dreamed of seeing Ireland. Later I thought I could visit the place my ancestors came from. I never imagined before this semester that I’d meet relatives in Ireland. I can’t quite fully believe I actually went to Ireland; it seemed a very distant impossible place to reach. Now it’s not so distant and I have a reason to go back: family to visit.

 

Bicycle Grease

My castle bike, has for the most part treated me well. (insert Well puns here). There was one day a couple weeks back when I went to ride it and the chain derailed. That day it took me at least 15 min. I'd been intending to go to town, but had to postpone that trip because by the time I'd washed the grease off I no longer had time to go before class.

Friday morning, we had to part with our bikes. In the morning before we had to return one of my lovely roommates, Melinda, and I took our last bike ride. We started off going through Old Well. I decide to try shifting the gears, and the chain derails. I'd successfully fixed it before, but this time the chain had fallen off both gears. As I worked to fix it, I commented to Melinda that ever body in Well probably knew how to fix a derailed chain.

Help came in the form of the dutch postman, pausing from his deliveries on the other side of the street to see if I needed help. At least I'm guess that's what he said, I only know a handful of dutch words. Using gestures, and pointing he guided me through the process of putting the chain back on. I didn’t have any trouble understanding him even though he spoke dutch throughout our interaction. 

Bike up and running again, I thanked him with my one word of dutch  (okay so not my one word, there are three that I use and I also have piked up a few food words like kaas). I happened to have napkins in my pocket, which I shared with him, he’d gotten a smidgen of grease on his fingers in the process of helping me. The postman returned to his bike and delivery rounds and then Melinda and I were off again, biking alongside the river.

Just under the bridge and past the animals, it derails again. A test of my new learned skill and we’re off again. Third times the charm. The rest of the bike ride was lovely. And that is the story of how the dutch postman taught me how to fix a derailed chain.

Apologies for the very long blog hiatus

Well finals are done, papers are all turned in, I leave to go home on Wednesday and I have half a semester of blog posting to catch up on. That and laundry and packing. But first is is time for some well deserved sleep.

Edinburgh

A street in Edinburgh where the buildings curve

If I said I loved Brugge before, well I loved Edinburgh even more. As far as cities go, it's my favorite so far. (As far as places, my favorite is now the Irish country side, but that's to come in the next post).

Getting to Edinburgh the short version. Due to a taxi booking error Rebecca and I missed our flight to Edinburgh, decided to take a flight to Stansteed/London, and from there found a night bus to Edinburgh. While on the night bus a 'massive lorrie' whipped off the side rear view mirror. The bus driver and his assistant attempted to fix it, but it fell off again. We were transferred to another bus which took us to Edinburgh. We arrived around 12 hrs later than planned, but all we really missed was sleeping at the hostel. We saw some of the countryside and didn't miss out on much time in Edinburgh.

Our Hostel

The Tartan Wool Factory 

The Writer's Museum

We went to the Tartan Wool Mill where we saw the Tartan being made. We also discovered the writer's museum. Rebecca and I ate lunch in the Elephant House, the café where JK Rowling began penning H.P. Looking through my pictures though, I seem to have failed to take one of the café.

Cliffs

Dead Volcano

 I had a lovely hike up to the cliffs, and walked along the top. Than I hiked to the top of the dead volcano. The view was gorgeous, but my camera was not the best at dim lighting photos.

A better picture of what I climbed/hiked

The view, of Edinburgh and the glowing Castle

Failing at Blogging

I apologize for my lack of blogging. Partly it was due to course work. However there was time really, I just got lazy. The first weekend I missed blogging about wasn't extremely interesting. I stayed back at the Castle, and played a lot of settlers of Catan. We also went to the Thermal Baths, and walked around Düsseldorf in the rain. The subsequent weekend was much more eventful. We went to Edinburgh and it was certainly an adventure getting there. I don't really have time to do it justice, the week of midterms is not ideal for catching up on a blog that is almost 3 weeks behind (yikes). And lastly this weekend I just returned from Ireland where I connected with family members whom I'd never met, and had the most wonderful time.

Climbing the Belfry and the Trip Home

On Sunday morning we climbed the 366 winding steps to the top of the Belfry and looked out at a Brugge shrouded in morning mist. I wrote my travel writing piece for this week on the Belfry, using third person and a historical angle. I'll include it in the bottom of this post. After admiring the view and listening to the bells chime, we climbed down glad that when we climbed up it was early enough that we didn't have to step aside for anyone coming down.

View from the Belfry and the Stairs

 

The rest of the day we spent relaxing. We took our lunch to a canal away from the tourist center of Brugge and enjoyed the peace and quiet, before our train ride home. (Below on the left Natalie and Melinda, my roomies. On the right the house with the most roof steps that we counted (25) steps are a sign of wealth, the more the richer).

The trains ran smoothly, we got on bus 83, the bus that should have deposited us back in Well. Here were are at the bus stop in Gennep where we were stranded for 1/2 and hr. The bus route to well was a different 83 (the bus driver drove that one too). He went on his half hour break and came back and drove the route to Well. So eventually bus 83 got us home, with stopover in Gennep.

(Above: August and Natalie rocking out to ipod music. Right: Melinda being awesome).


And now some higher quality writing. Yes I realize I spell Brugge differently in the piece. Brugge is how it's spelled in Brugge. Bruges is the American spelling and also the spelling used in the poem I quoted.

Belfry of Bruges

The words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow still ring true today: “In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown;/ Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilt, still it watches o’er the town.” Climb the stairs; spiraling up, they narrow as they near the top. The steps, though darkened with age, haven’t been there since the Belfry first stood looking over the market square. Wire grating encloses the top for the safety of tourists, indicating the tower now serves as an idle destination rather than the safeguard of the city. and the viewer looks out through the rectangle grid. Spread out in the morning mist below, brick houses with orange roof tiling line winding cobblestone streets, and the occasional canal wends through. Gothic church buildings and other towers of importance rise above the town. These buildings, impressive from the ground, shrink when viewed from the top of the Belfry tower.

Built in the 13^th century, the Belfry served as a lookout tower. The bells warned of danger, announced a variety of important events. They rang a different sound for every message. Now the tourist climbs hears them ring the quarter hour. A symbol of the city both politically and economically, the Belfry tower housed Bruges’ important documents, and the halls below contained the flemish cloth market.

During the middle ages the Belfry watched over the most important trade center for the north-west of Europe. Merchants and guilds flourished, Grote Markt below bustled. Along with prosperity came revolts, as the divide between the merchants and the workman grew. Revolt broke out in 1280, the Belfry a casualty consumed in fire. The fire destroyed the city archives. Twice more the Belfry burned and each time they rebuilt it, a living emblem of the city’s vitality. For another century, trade, artisans, and guilds flourished in Bruges, then political instability saw the end of it and Bruges was left behind in the industrial revolution, Antwerp stealing the position of most important trade center.

Now in the scene below tourists fill the square. They gather around the statues of Jan Breydal and Pieter de Coninck, sitting down for a rest, to chat and eat a snack from one of the two booths below the tower. They have no idea they sit by men who led Bruges in victorious revolt against French rule. A line of people stands in the square, and it is unclear what they wait for until a horse and buggy clatters across the cobblestones, stopping in front of the line for new passengers. They wait to see the city by a more old fashioned method. The horse and buggies meld into the historic background of the city, with its carefully maintained medieval style houses. Down a winding off-street on the square, a group of American students sits enjoying waffles outside a small eatery. The proprietor’s brother-in-law complains about the lack of music concerts, while praising the cleanliness of Bruges. He explains that to paint the window—here he gestures to the large decals of a waffle, sandwich, and spaghetti adorning the glass—the design must be approved by the city. This management stands as testament to the tourism that has replaced lively trade as the sustenance of Bruges.

I Fell in Love with Brugge

For any computer geniuses who may be reading this: I have a lot of photos to share, what is the best/easiest way, should I use flicker? what do you recommend.

Now Brugge

Brugge is a gorgeous, picturesque, clean city. The only detraction are the masses of tourists, but if you wander away to the quieter streets you will find them empty and peaceful. A city of cobblestone streets winding through brick houses with steps up the roof facades. The bricks are orange, brown, tan, yellow, red, and a few have even been painted (whitewashed in most cases). As you wander away from the center square you encounter canals, with bridges. The canals seem to be organized in a haphazard manner and don't all have streets running alongside them. I found it a little hard to follow the canals, I kept encountering brick buildings I had to walk around.

Jaci, Tess, Kai, Dan, and I (those of the group who went on the Maastricht day trip) arrived in Brugge at around 10 pm or so. The first train took forever to leave, it was late, and then we stood on the train (it was crowded) waiting for it to leave for half and hour. Luckily we made our connecting train. We reached the hostel, and joined the rest of the group. The rooms in the hostel were actually quite decent, and we had them to ourselves (our group was broken into 3 rooms one of 6, one of 4, and a double).

After a shower to shock one awake (it was cold). We went for breakfast. We found a place that was open, and ate waffles with chocolate—delicious.






After waffles, the flea market. A square filled with food (baked goods, cheese, meat (bleh), good food not fair food), clothing (from fashionable and over priced to the bargain prices the older women were examining). We scored on some sweaters. I was on the look out because I was concerned I didn't have enough layers for when the weather turned. I got a cardigan, sweater, and turtleneck for a total of 13 EUR.

But wait, there's more. We went followed the market down a street. Demonstrations of vegetable slicers in dutch?, and cheese samples. Another square at the end of the street, this filled with flowers, plants, and produce. There were even live animals. Chickens in boxes, hopefully being sold as laying hens. And bunny rabbits. I petted all of the bunnies. I was concerned of the fate of these bunnies, the only practical uses involve them dead. But on my way out I saw a girl (probably in her late teens) holding a black and white one. I saw her put it in a cardboard box. From the way she was holding it, she was buying it to love it.

Next: Choco-Story, the museum that tells the history of chocolate. At the entrance a sample of chocolate. The most delicious part, at the end a demo, and sample. In between interesting documentation of chocolate from when it was mixed with blood (Aztecs and Mayans) to present day. The reason why dark chocolate is superior to milk is the chocolate sugar ratio. Way more chocolate in the dark. The milk is just mostly sugar. Probably also why dark chocolate is thought to be healthier.



Going through the museum at our different paces, the group split up. I ended up coming out of the museum by myself. After part of the group and before the rest. So I started wandering around Brugge on my own. It's the type of city you can do that in. Eventually I ran into Rebecca, and we went to Our Lady's Church where Michelangelo's Madonna and Child is. I sat in front of it trying to understand why it was special. Sometimes seeing too much art, it all starts to look the same, and one has to stop and consider a piece to see it's value. Then we met up with others for dinner. Pasta for 4 EUR–almost more than I could eat, deal.

After dinner the entire group we booked a hostel with went out to a bar. We were in the back room, and at first it was just us. There was classical music playing and no smoke. It was nice to be able to just chill, and talk. I got a hot-chocolate. A few people were a little tipsy by the end, but no one was really drunk. Everyone was just happy.

It wasn't the alcohol either, 4 of us weren't drinking and everyone was happy before the bar.

Belfry at Night

Back from Brugge

I apologize for the lack of posts, I was doing a fair amount of reading for classes, and then also trying plan and book trips, and research places I am thinking of/ interested in going to. I went to Brugge this weekend and loved it. It is a very peaceful and cozy city, very pretty. I'll post more tomorrow. For now here is the piece I turned in for my travel writing class on Thursday. It is on Amsterdam. There are photos at the bottom to accompany it, but hopefully my description is good enough that they are unnecessary.

Violated Sanctuary

In the inner city of Amsterdam there is a small courtyard, the last of its kind from the middle ages. It would be a secluded place to live if it wasn’t so old, if it didn’t contain a hidden chapel from the days when Catholics were forced to worship in secret, if it didn’t contain history, if it wasn’t a place of notice, if it wasn’t beautiful. But it is all these things and tourists tramp through clicking cameras.

This courtyard was a site we visited on our walking tour of Amsterdam. Our guide briefly told us that the courtyard was one of the last in Amsterdam, and to be quiet because people lived there. But told us nothing of the actual place before we walked in, all I know I found out later. I remember the entryway was a rather unassuming door in a white washed wall, then a tunnel—dim in comparison to the bright day.

Upon emerging from the tunnel, the courtyard is picturesque. Islands of green perfectly cut grass adorned with statues, and trees, are surrounded by tall brick buildings. There is one wooden building, dark—it is one of the oldest in Amsterdam and one of two wooden buildings in the city’s center, another reason to see the courtyard. Looking left there is a deep recess between two buildings, one white washed and the other red brick. Religious pictures on the far wall, look like decorations a child pasted on a doll house wall, unframed and surrounded by swaths of white. Central in the courtyard is an old church. A brick facade rising to a steeple, and double doors of a rich wood with swirling iron hinges. Now this church is the English reformed church; when it was built it was a Catholic chapel and the courtyard around it housed the Beguines, chaste women who cared for the sick and elderly. And then there was the Protestant reformation and Catholicism was outlawed, except for in private. And now we come to another attraction in this courtyard, the Begijnhof Chapel.

Our guide said we were going into the Chapel, and then turned away from the church. To the building across, a simple whitewashed one. The ‘hidden church’ was built for the private Catholic worship.

We entered the hidden chapel and it seemed wrong to take pictures, but everyone else was flashing their cameras filling the place of seclusion with the click of shutters, and I wanted pictures too. An older man with thinning gray hair, a gruffness about the edges, his stomach pushing slightly at a red and white striped T-shirt, entered the chapel. He took a candle in a red votive candleholder, lit it and set it beside other glowing candles. He stepped around to the pew in front of the candles and knelt down to pray. The cameras desecrated the place of worship. The place was not an out of use historical building, it was a church and every lit candle was someone’s prayer. Not only did the cameras violate the place, my camera prevented me from absorbing its essence. I wonder if the use of cameras to remember has clouded our memories, if we have lost some valuable skill and must work to get it back.

We left the chapel and returned to the courtyard. Walking purposefully through the courtyard, someone, I think a dark-haired man carrying a black shoulder bag pushed through one of two metal bars that formed a gate. One was engraved with “Alleen voor Bewoners” and the other read “Residents Only”. I don’t distinctly remember what the person looked like, and am even doubting now whether it was in fact a man, I’ve since read that the houses are still home to single women. What I remember most strongly is thinking: what would it be like to live here in a private place with no privacy?