A History Lesson

Mom used to say life wasn’t meant to be easy or fair perhaps because life was neither easy nor fair to her but more likely because she was from Britain. The overarching principle I’ve encountered here that fuels the British way of being is that if its more difficult there must be an inherent good in it. Whether driving or cooking a steak or pick-your-activity, if there’s a more difficult way to do it the Brits are all over it.

Take standard transmissions...please. The vast majority of people here drive standards but why drive a standard if you can drive an automatic? “Oh that’s just lazy” someone told me. A pejorative term if ever there was one but my response is still “So?” Are they implying that switching gears is exercise? “But if you take your test on an automatic you’re not allowed to drive standard!” So take the test on a standard. Or just drive an automatic. And how is it that North America hasn’t imploded without that requirement? “It’s just the way we do things here” is the most honest answer and it’s delivered with a sense of pride from the same people that are planning their exit strategy. Most of the Caucasians I’ve spoken to here have either planned to emigrate or dream about it citing African immigration, a burgeoning underclass/crime rate and falling standard of living as their reasons. They can’t let go of their past but they can let go of their country.

It’s part of the British past to crudely, if at all, to mark their streets. In a village everyone knows everyone and everyplace so street signs are superfluous. It’s a friendly, know-you-by-name arrangement that extends to your locale. They’re fond of being “just down from the pub” and visitors are encouraged to inquire locally as to where so-and-so lives. They’re fond of 5 line addresses that include a name of the house rather than a number - everyone wants to live in “Rose Cottage” - and a neighbourhood rather than a postal code (Ireland still doesn’t use postal codes). But the folksiness of the village doesn’t extend to the city, much as they’d like it to.A teacher I met chided me once when I complained about the lack of street signs that North Americans don’t have the history to name areas by name. To their benefit. They don’t have “The Land of Our Fathers” chained to their collective ass like a grand piano thus allowing them to move into the future with its higher standard of living.

Here’s an interesting one; barbecue briquets. Remember them? You’d soak them in lighter fluid or plant cubes beneath them, set them aflame and an hour later you’d have sufficient heat to cook your evening meal. The gas Hibachi arrived in North America twenty or thirty years ago; mini canisters for the beach, big ones for the back porch. When I asked a girl at work why she still uses briquets with their mess, time, effort and carcinogens she responded “It’s better”. Must be, it’s more difficult.

The back porch here isn’t outside your back door. It’s at the far end of the yard obliging the would-be outside diners to trudge through their swamps (ok, the rain isn’t their fault) betwixt kitchen and table. Maybe they don’t want the smoke from the briquets near the house. Maybe they like to sit at the far end of the yard and admire Rose Cottage or feel the distance from house to deck extends the living area but what I know for sure is it makes life more difficult.

Like the tiny fridges. Kitchens here aren’t smaller than what I’ve seen in Canada or anywhere else but I’ve seen bigger fridges in hotel rooms. They necessitate more frequent shopping, prevent economical bulk shopping and force me to get on my hands and knees to examine its contents. Why? Because they see big fridges in the same light as big American vehicles; grotesque symbols of wealth that are unnecessary and expensive to operate. In part I agree. We’ve learned to get by with less fridge space here and I want to reduce my carbon footprint but less frequent trips to the store would have the same impact and be easier on my back.

There’s more, much more, like dryers that don’t vent to the outside (you have to empty the water cartridge) and gates around parks that make access more difficult but you get the idea. The question is why. Why do they make life more difficult for themselves? Most see the question as an affront as it questions their values and intelligence and their body language and tone tell me not to inquire further. There's some truth to the belief that if it's more difficult it's better. The stairs are healthier than the escalator and smaller cars/fridges are easier on the environment and the pocketbook but I’m guessing the real reason is lodged deeper. The Brits have been through hard times such as we haven’t seen in North America which, by and large, is peopled by those who sought a better life. The world wars weren’t felt as deeply across the pond but they came through them here with sheer grit and a stiff upper lip. They learned to get through it by doing more with less, by learning to live with the difficulties that life threw at them and adopting them with pride. Some lessons are just too ingrained to unlearn.

Our Irish/Scottish Tour II

“Ev ye bit?”
“????”
“Ev ye bk’d?!?”
“Booked, honey, I think he said booked”
“You mean, do we have a reservation?”
“Ach, peepl seperateh byuh commoon lengweg. This way.”
And so went our first interaction with a Glaswegian, the waiter at Andaluz. It was a Spanish tapas bar and became our default first meal as several Scottish pubs we tried said “nae” when they saw Luka. You’re not in Ireland anymore, laddie.

We arrived in Glasgow via a circuitous train route that included one car, one cab, one bus and 4 trains. A direct train from Liverpool to Glasgow is only 3 hours and was booked but as any traveller can tell you, just cuz that’s what you’ve bought and paid for doesn’t mean that’s what you’ll be doing and getting. Work on a section of track just north of London put the entire British rail system into chaos. The papers were full of stories calling for the heads of those responsible and fines in the millions of pounds were mentioned; exactly who was to get the money and who was to pay it wasn’t mentioned. I’ll be checking my mail.

Backing up further, we finished Ireland with a flourish. Our last night in town I went out to the Temple Bar district where, I was told, there’d be music aplenty. And there was. After enjoying a drum group in the street I wandered from cluster to cluster of smokers who gathered round the entrances to the various bars. I found one with Irish sounds and squeezed in. An hour later I squeezed out with the band’s CD in hand. A few pics and a few pints later (another bar, another Irish band) I slid into bed and bid goodnite to Ireland.

We had an early start the next day and crawled into the cab at 5:30AM. A half hour later we joined the longest airport lineup I’ve ever encountered. It was the wrong lineup. We discovered that after we’d been in it for 30 minutes and only when a young headscratching employee started asking people where they were to and getting them sorted.

The flight to John Lennon airport (above us only sky) was quick n’ easy. Sue met us with her son Mick and the five of us and our five bags became a melange of people and packages compressed in her compact car for the journey to Warrington. Back in the land of cheap wine, I filled the vacuum created by Ms. Guiness’ absence with fermented grape juice and the day was spent relaxing with glass in hand.

One night there then onto a train to Liverpool where we were met by Gary, 1st mate to cousin Helena. Poor Gary, he not only got to play chauffeur, he surrendered his bed for the night as he and Helena gave us the honeymoon suite. Thanks, cuz! Helena’s hostessing skills didn’t cease with relinquishing her bed, she laid out a grand feast and invited an assortment of rellies and friends over. Cousin Chris (uncle Adrian’s son) was there as was cousin Pat (uncle Kevin’s daughter) as well as Auntie Eileen and a range of 1st cousins once removed. The next day we’d planned on getting on yet another train for the short trip to Ormskirk where cousin Caroline lives and where we were spending New Year’s but Pat said her and John were going up that way the next day anyway so how ‘bout if they give us a ride? Too cool says I and at 2:00 the next day were were on the M moving north.

Caroline and Peter live in a lovely country house their kids, Lucy, Fiona and James. Luka and James are the same age and instantly began playing and fighting with the energy that only seven year olds possess. I plugged my computer into their internet access and spent the better part of the day trying to post pics on the blog; I’m hoping it’s going to get easier.

The New Year’s party was at a friend’s house and was special because everyone brought their children. I often find myself excluded by virtue of having a child (see first paragraph) and loved the warmth that comes from celebrating special occasions with the whole family. So we rang in the New Year surrounded by friends and family and loved it.

Day two in Ormskirk was a lowkey affair as we weren’t leaving for Scotland til the 2nd and had a day to just hang out. It was a pj day for the Gojevic’s with nothing more than a video at 8 to structure the day. Peter had to work the next day and so we were again saved the bother of training as he drove us to the station for our journey north.

Our first night in Glasgow we strapped on some skates at the winter carnival fair downtown. There’s a carnival in most sizeable towns that include rides and games and they’re always setup in the main square. It’s a UK christmas tradition as are the pantomimes I mentioned in a previous post and what we did the 2nd night. It was, as expected, a raucous vaudvillian affair with corny jokes and glitzy costumes. The story of Cinderella provided the framework for them to do their song and dance numbers and they even squeezed in a gymnast doing her feats of stretch and swing.

Edinburgh is a 1 hour trainride from Glasgow and worth the time. It gave us a chance to see the Scottish countryside and spend a day exploring this beautiful ancient city. A single day, however, didn’t do it justice. We spent almost three hours at the Edinburgh castle, home to the Scottish crown jewels and several tons of history. But it was freaking cold and snow dusted the surrounding hills so on the return to town center we chose indoor seats on the double decker tour bus. The town center had its own carnival in play so while we did skip the rink, Luka insisted on being flung about in subzero temperatures on one of the rides.

Our last night in Glasgow Deb took Luka to a movie and I went looking for live music. The guidebook recommended “King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut” so off I went. As usual, I was twice the age of the oldest person there; you’d think I’d get a senior’s discount or something. To give you an idea of the type of venue and the music, there was a sign beside the stage urging the performers not to attempt crowd surfing. The music was solid rock, competent, even talented and I’m continually impressed with the quantity of talent out there. There’s a touch of sadness to it too. They dream of ‘making it’ and many have the talent to impress but with every city full of wah wah huts... there’s only so much airtime.

I left King Tut’s and drifted in the direction of our hotel but wasn’t surprised to find myself in another bar lured in by the sound of a penny whistle accompanied by harmonica, guitar and drums. This was an older crowd who appreciated the folksier sound. I tapped, I drank, I left with their cd.

And now it’s back to work. Shopping, laundry and four weeks of night shift await.

Our pics of Ireland (click on any pic for the full screen version)

Our travelling companions on "Paddywagon Tours"
They were mostly Australians with a few Kiwis and another Canuck couple. Luka was the only child and became the bus mascot.






The Cliffs of Moher. Very impressive...but windy. Those people on the top of the cliff had climbed over the wall to flirt with disaster. Hope this isn't as fuzzy when it's posted, it's a lot clearer on my computer screen.











Don't we look warm n' toasty?

















Every once in a while the clouds would part and give us spectacular coastline views.
















...and amazing sunsets












A thousand years ago it was a castle.
















So there's this ancient monastery where St Patrick
learned his trade and converted the pagans to
the much more common Catholicsm of today. It was a site for pilgrimages for centuries and now is being restored. The tombstones go back hundreds of years.















A family affair















Doing dishes
at the hostel
on Christmas morning














They say this was Queen Victoria's favourite
view in Ireland and she had a house built
across the road.






















I never got tired of the Irish coastline









Our first day back in Dublin















And the next day I headed out to
Edenderry, the city from which my Irish ancestors spewed forth.















Claire and Christy, my 2 surviving cousins and still living there, just down the street from the church where my grandparents were married.




















Luka's pet on the journey, his new iDog from Santa







My new motto