Day 9
We are
heading for Glasgow today which will require the resources of a ferry boat. In
spite of the current peace treaty, one can still feel a bit of tension in
Belfast, and Northern Ireland as a whole, as evidenced by the presence of war
murals on the sides of buildings, and the Catholic and Anglican areas of town.
Somewhat like living in East Berlin before the wall came down, and the tension
of that sort of environment; at least for a citizen of a western nation.
On a side
note, it is a bit strange for me to be in a province “ruled by,” if this is the
correct phrase, a monarchy, and to be distantly related to the Queen’s
grandchildren, and her daughter-in-law, Diana, before that. Nonetheless, I
believe royalty to be so much cow manure in a chef’s salad.
Resuming our
tour, we left the Stormout Hotel, and drove back through the center of Belfast;
passing murals which refreshed both sides of the conflict, and mentally
visiting the propaganda of each of the antagonists. One mural on the Catholic
side of the wall depicted Bobby Sands who died of purposeful starvation after
about 70 days in the confines of his prison cell.
Speaking of
walls, we drove past rows of walls that contained spikes on top which dated to
the pre-1998 era, and had never been removed. At one point, we stopped by a set
of murals which had to do with women’s rights. Our driver allowed us to get out
and view them “face to face.” And since hundreds of people had left graffiti on
the murals, including slogans and autographs, I signed our names with a ball
point pen before re-boarding the bus. (Perhaps I will stand there again one day
and view the faded remains of our names).
We
culminated this part of the journey by stopping at the Europa Hotel for a
bathroom visit. Strangely enough, or so it seems to me, anyone is allowed to
walk in off the street and use their restrooms.
We are now
preparing to board the ferry for the grand old land of Scotland. I commented to
Diane MacDonald that, no doubt, we were both excited about seeing the country
in which our ancient origins lay.
As we
prepared to board the ferry, our tour guide allowed each of us to share what we
liked most about the trip thus far. I said that I especially like the Giant’s
Causeway, but that my wife “went nuts” when I climbed two of the stacks of
stone. Another fellow said that he could identify most with the stud farm, and
referenced his wife as his favorite mare of all time! (LOL). One lady shared
that she had seen the name of one of her ancestors on the Titanic’s manifest;
who had apparently drowned in that accident.
As I write
these words, we have both boarded the inter-nation, 670 foot long ferry, along
with our tour bus, and our belongings, for a 2.5 hour passage to my 3x great
Grandfather’s ancestral homeland. Although Isham was, apparently, born in what
is now Northern Ireland, his parents were Scottish. So very poignant to have
been in the country in which my ancient grandfather lived, and which he, to my
knowledge never saw again. His heart was in Ireland. My own in Scotland; the
land of his forebears.
Jean and I
just went out on the promenade deck and experienced the chill of the Irish Sea,
and I can tell you it was colder than any area we have visited on this tour.
The food of
choice on this short voyage seems to be sandwiches, and having just eaten one,
I found it to be more bread than ‘guts,’ and cost a grand total of seven
pounds, (or about $9).
In
retrospect, hearkening back to something I witnessed several times in Belfast
(and, subsequently, Edinburgh), we saw young men seated on the pavement, with
their backs against a building, and with blankets over their laps, and legs,
and holding a sign about their homeless condition, and with a cup in their
hands. None of them ever said a word, (nor did they ever stand in the medians of
streets, as they do in America), but they were obviously hoping for a coin or a
bill. Our local guide, who as a counselor works with the homeless, told us that
there is plenty of work available, and these boys had the wherewithal to earn a
honest living, if they would just “give it a whirl.”
We are about
halfway through our voyage across the Irish Sea, and there is the sensation of
movement, and a change in direction. I am looking forward to Scotland, and the
Isle of Skye appeals to me the most. While I had contacted a distant relative,
“Ronald MacDonald,” (yes, that’s his name) a Stewart (and possibly McDonald
kinsman) of mine about the possibility of meeting him in Skye, he wanted me to
drive the 30-45 minutes to his locality, rather than vice versa. We were only
going to be there overnight so I made him aware that this was not feasible. He
ignored my final response, and I never heard from him again. Perhaps I will
meet some Stewart relatives who might conceivably work at our hotel on the
island, or own local businesses there.
To add a bit
of color to this page of my overseas journal, a few members of our group were
just talking about the failure of teachers in this day and time to teach
cursive handwriting. And I turned to one of the participants in the discussion,
and informed her that as a counselor who takes copious notes, I had taught
myself to write left-handed, my non-dominant hand, and as a result my dominant
hand’s handwriting was now almost illegible.
And now bold
and brave Scotland has appeared about 400 yards to our starboard. From here it
looks easily as green as Ireland ever was, and our tour guide promises it may
be even more beautiful and compelling than we have seen thus far.
Arriving at
the dock we de-boarded by way of the bus, and that right quickly. At this
juncture, our driver aimed our vehicle towards Glasgow. On our way we stopped
by the Robert Burns Bridge where we posed for a group photo.
On the way
back to the bus my wife and I ran across an elderly man, and his six year old
Scottish Terrier which answered to the name of “Aston.” Mr. MacIntosh said that
he had migrated from Northern Ireland to Scotland when he was a lad of
thirteen. (He did sound more Scottish to me). I made him aware of my Irish and
Scottish roots, and we chatted for a while.
Leaving the
place, we proceeded to Glasgow. As we pulled into the city our guide pointed
out a building which looked somewhat like the shell of an armadillo, and said
that this was the edifice where Susan Boyle won “Britain’s Got Talent,” (with
her wonderful rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream”).
I might say
that I experienced a very real and compelling feeling of belonging as soon as I
set foot in this land of my father’s ancient fathers and mothers.
On a
political note, I was just looking over a Scottish newspaper, and there is not
a single word on the front page about The Donald. (How refreshing is that)?
But, rather, the focus is on Mrs. Teresa May’s involvement with Brexit, along
with a photo of my cousins, Prince William and his two children.
We are in
our room now at the Glasgow Hilton Gardens Hotel. (Certainly nothing to write
home about. Rather like a Holiday Inn Express).
I have been
in thought today about my daughter, Kimberly, who will be undergoing three
biopsies tomorrow, and my daughter-in-law, Renae, and the medical tests with
which she is also involved tomorrow. May God offer them good results.
After a
shower, Jean and I walked over to an Italian eatery, and ordered pork and
potatoes, and spaghetti, respectively. The service was deplorable. Not only did
it take several minutes for a waitress to appear, twice that amount of time
elapsed when it was time to procure our bill. Based on additional experiences
in Scotland the Scots are used to extended meals, and speed is not a large factor.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright PendingIf you would like to copy, share or save, please include the credit line, above
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