So we left Dublin behind, on the tips of the waves, and we journeyed towards a new foreign land. I am quiet as I sat there remembering what a friend told me about our landing spot – Hollyhead. According to him it was the last place the British Druids made their final stand before falling to the Romans. Three times the Romans tried to take it and three times they were thwarted. Many years ago I had written a poem called “The Battle of Na Morna” where I describe such a stand; I shall have to fish it out when I return to the states.
Then I began thinking about the famine ships, the ones which brought so many Irish to America during those hard times and I wonder what they would have done to have the accommodations we had experienced. What it must have been like to stand for hours at a time with no place to relieve themselves, or to get something to eat. Just an hour earlier, on this vessel, we had a big breakfast and I wondered how long some of the Irish endured empty stomachs on their dark journey.
In a weird sort of way I feel as if I am going to another place that will feel like home, given the history, and how I will experience the run of emotions there. Although we are only there for a very brief time, I am excited. I cannot express the excitement of this part of the journey, going to a place I have yet to visit, and seeing the new sites and places. It feels very much like the first time we went to Ireland.
As I gazed across the vast stretch of the Irish Sea I saw no land. It is incredible when one looks at a map and thinks how small a distance it is, and yet the reality is the exact opposite. The waves were low and it caused me to ponder how different it must have been to sail before modern times. I remember studying how the Irish used these skin covered boats, currachs, and would cross more in the north where the distance between the isles was only a mere 12 miles. It must have been a dubious task to navigate across such an expanse.
Upon landing in Hollyhead we boarded the train right away. As quick as we landed we were whisked away from Wales and heading towards Edinburgh. Three stops and we would be at our destination. But before we made it I had a run-in with a very drunk Brit who had been listening to a conversation I was having with a bloke who was Scottish.
He and I were discussing how smokers had been pushed out of the pubs, along with restaurants, and yet they extorted a huge tax from us for their greedy endeavors. The Brit decided he would chim in and yell at me, moving towards me and into my face and shout, “Damn Americans think they can push their way into every place in the world. You Americans don’t rule the world and can’t push into England!” I was taken aback and tried to reassure the man that it was not what I was saying and that a misunderstanding had taken place. At this point the Scottish bloke moved away and looked at the ground, disengaging completely even though he knew that was not what I had said. I ended the confrontation by simply walking away as the Brit yelled at me, “Welcome to England!”
It stole my mood, took my energy and left me wondering not just about the hidden fury the Brits may have, but as to why the Scottish bloke did not even stand up for someone who had not said any of that. I was very quiet the rest of the journey to Edinburgh and I began to watch every little word I spoke. Then I remembered I was no longer in the land I call my second home and that hospitality held no place where we now were.
It made me ponder what other Irish experienced along their Green Martyrdom, or exile, and what sorts of conflict may have arisen for them as a result. Then we checked into our hotel and were greeted by one of the most cheerful people we had yet to meet, Charlene, and she helped to ease my already nerve by offering us complimentary drinks. Then she went out of her way to make sure we could get around Edinburgh and were able to see some of the sites it had to offer. My day had started out horrible but ended on a great note.
But I still ponder the very question of why.
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