Ireland Part X: Farewell to Ireland

A tourist in Ireland found himself seated beside an older man in a pub one evening as they were both enjoying a couple of pints. Not long into the conversation the tourist asked the old man if he was from around here? The old man responded, “No, I grew up about six miles down the road.”

In many ways the Irish perspective is entirely different than our own. But travel six miles in any direction in Houston County and you will find yourself in the next township over and probably saying the same thing to a stranger. “I’m not from around here, I’m from . . .” (Mayville Township, Jefferson Ridge, Swede Bottom, Cork Hollow, and so on).

In Houston County our culture is influenced by our geography. The hardwood forests covering the bluffs provide us a small lumber industry and ample room for hunting whitetail, turkeys, and morel mushrooms. The valleys and bluff tops leave room for pasture and tillable acres that give us a unique farming heritage distinct from the style of agriculture found elsewhere in the Midwest. The river inspires a lifestyle of its own, one of recreation, while the lasting winters nurture a population of hearty souls.

The Irish culture cannot help but be shaped by similar factors. The rocky ground, the rugged coastline, the rainy weather, all combine to form a country of wistful poets, resourceful farmers, imaginative writers, colorful pub owners, and Guinness-drinking musicians.

Traveling the country, it is easy to understand why the small island has produced so many world-famous writers and musicians, probably more per capita than most other places on Earth. The landscape inspires. One cannot visit the Cliffs of Moher on Ireland’s west coast without peering over the gusty edge with utter astonishment that such a landscape can exist. It is almost as if the island itself had been pushed heavenward straight out of the ocean floor, creating perfectly vertical cliffs rising seven hundred feet above the white-foam waves violently crashing below. There is no transition from land to sea. You are either in or you are out.

When you grow up with those sorts of forces at work outside your window reminding you daily of the power of nature, accented by 600-year-old castles reminding you of the storied history of the land, I imagine your perspective on life takes on a more reflective tone. And when you have the gift of gab or natural musical talents, as most Irish do, putting it all on paper or turning it into a heartrending fiddle melody comes second nature.  

Yes, the landscape is different. The roads are different, the accent is different, and so aren’t their sports, choices in beer, farming methods, weather, some of their music, and at times their politics. But beyond these differences there still exists a common kinship that was felt every time someone paused in the day long enough to engage in a little small talk, every time I was served a plate of food that looked just like something from grandma’s kitchen, every time we saw a farmer doing what they could with what they have, every time an Irish fiddle had my foot instinctively beating time on the worn pub floor, or every time when driving down the road I would see the oncoming driver toss me the one finger wave of which we are all so familiar. I confidently conclude the passing of six generations since our ancestors left Ireland isn’t enough time to unwind the traditions, legacies, habits, and culture that took centuries to cultivate.

Scottish and other Celtic musicians frequently perform a song titled “Caledonia.” This ballad speaks of a young man homesick for his homeland, the part of the United Kingdom the Romans called Caledonia, in what is present-day Scotland. The protagonist goes from reminiscing about Caledonia to deciding that tomorrow he is going to return, as “Caledonia has been everything he has ever had.”  

Though perhaps more than a little ironic I would conclude a column all about Ireland by referencing a Scottish ballad, it does seem fitting considering that we were returning home to Caledonia ourselves. While once our Celtic ancestors would have thought wistfully of Ireland as they departed with uncertainty set out before them—probably having never been more than a few miles from home—six generations later we turn with gratification in the same direction, west. Thanks to their bold decision to make this journey 150 years prior, as we depart Ireland this time it is Caledonia, MN we already call home.

“Will you go back?,” is the question I encounter most often. It is a long plane ride and an expensive ticket. Perhaps, too, I dare not push my luck driving on the left side of the road any further. But finding another traditional jam session in a small village pub in rural Ireland—this time with my own fiddle in hand—will make it worth it all over again.

I offer a sincere thanks to everyone for reading these past few weeks. If you are interested in hearing more of these types of adventures, write the Caledonia Argus and request they sponsor me to go on assignment and I’ll even travel to a country of your choosing. Perhaps an even better idea, do what you can to save enough money to embark on an adventure abroad of your own. I am living proof that even a novice traveler like myself can get there and back with little more than a sense of humor, patience, a halfway decent GPS, and a broken umbrella.

Happy Trails. 

Ireland Part IX: The Leftovers

As I wrap-up this column this week and next, I have a few leftovers worth mentioning that didn’t make the cut on previous editions, as well as some final observations. It has been about 150 years since a bulk of this regions first Irish settlor’s arrived, and in that time many components of our respective cultures have diverged despite the common origin, as I have described all along. Therefore, sometimes it comes as a surprise when you find such striking similarities.

Driving around the countryside we had ample time to scan the Irish radio stations. A couple of times we stumbled upon some traditional Irish music, but more frequently the stations were playing American music, including John Denver and Bob Dylan interspersed between more contemporary artists like Katy Perry and Miley Cyrus.

There are a few Irish “country/western” performers, including the young and popular Nathan Carter, performing a combination of Irish country music and covers of familiar American Pop and Country tunes like “Fishing in the Dark,” “Delta Dawn,” and “Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses.” Featuring electric guitar, fiddle, and accordion, he gives these tunes a modern/Irish spin, but most of his music might better fit with 90s country music than that heard on American country radio today.

He also does a cover of “Wagon Wheel,” a tune originally recorded here by the folk band Old Crow Medicine Show (OCMS) and recently brought to widespread popularity by Darius Rucker’s version on country radio. It is equally popular in Ireland as we heard it played on Radio Kerry at least half a dozen times.

Most surprising, however, is when the traditional guitar/accordion/spoons trio in a small town pub transitioned from a rowdy pub song to “Wagon Wheel” late one evening. Even the 70-year-old man sitting next to me was grinning ear to ear and singing along to every word between sips from his pint. I found this Irish obsession with “Wagon Wheel” humorous for a few reasons. First, the entire song is about a hitchhiking journey from New England to Raleigh, North Carolina, with lesser-known American destinations in between. Secondly, the chorus makes little sense and that’s because Bob Dylan wrote it long ago. The guys from OCMS wrote the verses around it but the simple lyrics and catchy instrumentation was enough to perk up ears. Most impressively, this song grew to international fame out of complete obscurity, entirely by word of mouth from college students across America long before it first received radio airplay once Rucker cut it. Now even the pub bands and country singers in Ireland are getting significant mileage out of it.

While describing the driving experience, I didn’t say much about roundabouts. Because they are quickly becoming more common in the Midwest, and are likely to increase in prevalence, I briefly mention them now. To the amateur they seem silly and confusing—like how you end up taking the long way counter-clockwise around the circle only to make what would have been a simple left hand turn. But once you understand how they work and how to properly navigate them, it suddenly seems silly to waste time constructing traditional signal controlled intersections, not to mention the time motorists waste waiting at red lights thereafter.

Getting to the point to where you understand them, however, can take some practice. I was honked at three times by my count for improper signaling, lane changing, or other blunders I still don’t know I made. One can assume that for every honk drivers politely ignored two or three other incidences in which honking was merited. Regardless, by the end I no longer broke into a sweat upon seeing one approaching and suggest we would be wise to continue to take a tip from our European brethren on this one by incorporating them into more of our roads.

Fuel for our small diesel cars averaged about €1.50 at the pump. At first glance that seems like a bargain until you consider one Euro is currently equivalent to $1.33, and more importantly, that fuel is sold in liters rather than gallons. 3.79 liters in a gallon multiplied by €1.50 multiplied by $1.33 for the exchange rate equals approximately $7.56 per gallon of diesel.

Travelers must be careful, as sometimes fuel stations can be few and far between, or even closed. Driving the motorway back to Dublin I miscalculated the amount of fuel we would need and eventually realized we weren’t going to make it. We consulted the GPS for the nearest gas station and I took the next exit. As the directions continued to lead us down narrower and narrower roads, my skepticism we were going to find a station at trail’s end widened. Concern grew as I saw the digital readout continue to tick off the remaining kilometers of fuel left while we continued to pass cattle and sheep, but little else.

When we did come to our calculated “destination,” I turned the car around in the driveway of the small farm we were facing which probably didn’t even have a fuel barrel and, of course, showed no resemblance of ever serving as a fuel station. Luck has it that I did eventually find a small country store before we had to thumb a ride. In this instance, small means one pump, a display cooler that had for sale fewer items than found in my fridge on an average day, and an old lady attendant crocheting to pass the time between infrequent afternoon sales.

Finally, speaking of leftovers, what do you do when you clean out the rental car while packing your bags for the trip to the airport only to discover there are still three pints of Guinness and half a bottle of Baily’s Irish Cream left? You shove them in your already bulging suitcase and hope the FSA agent who randomly searches your bag doesn’t decide he or she need a drink after work—and with a job like that, they probably do.