Homes…

I am Canadian. I was born in this country, raised in this country and have the deepest sense of identity in this country. I am proud to be a Canadian especially given the frightening arrogance of the leader of the country to the south of us. I will support Canadian goods and shops to the best of my ability. I will not go to the U.S. during this administration’s time in office as long as they are threatening us. I check labels on all that I buy and put back those that are from the U.S. I can find replacements.

But that’s not what this blog is about. Given that today is St. Patrick’s Day, this is about how I feel at home in two countries. My heritage is not 100% Irish. My dad’s side is all Irish with my grandma’s family coming from County Clare and my grandpa’s from County Cork. On my mom’s side, my grandpa came from Otley in England and my grandma’s family was a bit of a mishmash with French and German backgrounds. So I’m a fascinating mix.

A long time ago I made my first trip to Ireland. The plane landed and after deplaning I stepped onto the tarmac. I had one, almost heart stopping moment, when everything seemed to slide into place. It was the strangest sensation as though a piece deep inside me settled down. I could feel it physically. We had a grand two weeks travelling around the south of the island. We had a direct route planned and only booked the first night and the last night. There were plenty of ups and downs as my husband ended up in hospital in Cork City suffering from bronchitis. And yet, it was fantastic. It was the start for me.

I wasn’t like everyone we met. I completely confused the bartenders by asking for a side of milk and my Bailey’s in a tall glass with ice (I mix them - it’s like a Bailey’s milkshake!). I don’t drink beer of any kind, not even the beautiful looking Guinness. I drove the rental car with lights on - oh good heavens, there was so much concern from some of the old men that I would run the battery down! I did okay driving on the left, except when tired, but couldn’t get the hang of driving like a demon on roads that really didn’t look like two cars would fit.

That was my first visit. I’ve kept returning as I yearn for that feeling of having arrived home upon landing. In the years since that first trip I’ve talked with many people who have had ancestors come from the Emerald Isle who also have the same feeling upon arrival. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s some genetic connection to the land of your forefathers. I have a friend whose grandparents came to our country from Japan. I’d love to know if she feels the same thing on a visit to Japan. (She hasn’t gone yet, so I’m still waiting!) Is this inner awareness something that people in younger countries like ours will feel because the past has left a inherent longing in our souls? The only time I’ve been in England was running through Heathrow to make a connection to Dublin so I haven’t had an opportunity to test my theory or is it an Irish thing? Do the Irish hold that connection to “home” close and refuse to release it? Is it because of the why behind their departure? (Famine, prison ships, etc.)

Regardless of the reason, I am home in two countries, Canada and Ireland. I have a friend who is Irish. She likes to joke that I’m more Irish than she. Definitely not true but that link has been there all of my life. My inner voice that brings on stress quiets with the sound of Irish music - harp, flutes, horns, whistles, fiddles, and so on. The music pours out of my speakers especially in the lead up to St. Patrick’s Day. My apologies to my neighbours as I’m known to sing out at the top of my lungs. (My husband asked me how I knew all the words on that first trip to Ireland - easy! I grew up this way!)

My last trip to Ireland was last fall. It was the first time I visited on my own. While I’ve done both travelling around and settling in one place, this time was all about the rental cottage. I got into a routine from the start. I wrote in the mornings and toured in the afternoons. I mostly ate at the cottage although occasionally went to the pub for a meal. I climbed mountains and hiked through forests. I relaxed at night, except if I was at the pub for music, enjoying a book or a show downloaded on my iPad.

I greeted each morning with a smile and stepped outside to say hello to my neighbours - the sheep in the surrounding fields. I raised a hand in greeting to the farmer as he walked along the pathway, sometimes herding sheep ahead of him. I would listen to local radio as I drank my first cup of tea. It was peaceful but not lonely. I left the cottage each day to go on some kind of adventure. I never felt afraid - of the quiet, the isolation, or the strangers. The people of Ireland are primarily some of the friendliest you’ll meet. (Canadians are, too!)

I chose to go to places that were new to me. I visited a few favourites, too. It was comfortable and I found that I was living a very healthy life. I felt no need to reach for junk food to fill a hole dug by stress. Some might say that it was because I was on holiday. They wouldn’t be wrong. After all, holidays are supposed to be about relaxing and enjoying time away from the stresses and worries of our everyday lives. But, ultimately it was different than just being on holiday. It was home.

I am blessed. I keep writing that in blogs and it’s true. There are so many people who struggle to find their home in this world. They know where it is but it’s torn asunder by wars and famine. I’ve found two homes. Both are rich in culture and identity. Both have beauty and wonder. Both are welcoming. I hope that everyone gets to find their place in this world. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

The pictures below may have been shared on my blog before but I think they are worth sharing again as they tell the tale of my most recent trip to Ireland very well.