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.
