The difference between a northern (Irish) mountain and a southern one.

I moved back to the Emerald Isle because Nottingham had me too far from the mountains and sea.  Or at least that’s part of the reason, and I’ll not go into the other 99 parts right now.  And so when I take a week’s annual leave, you’ll find me at the coast or up a mountain.  I mean, I use the term “annual leave” loosely, because we don’t really have a concrete understandings of time off.  Our annual leave forms get signed with sporadic dates put in them, and my boss understands that if he calls and I don’t answer, I’m either in the pub, sleeping, or on “annual leave”.  If I do answer, I might still be in the pub.

And this last week was no different.  My sister arrived in from Africa and an old university friend from England.  We worked a few hours, and seamlessly transferred into being up mountains in Kerry and in Down.  And it’s there that with an Irish lass (who betrays us all by calling herself Scottish) and an Englishman, that I once again noticed our stark difference in culture, not by those I travelled with, but by the very mountains we traversed.

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Carrauntoohil

Arriving into Killarney town always tears me in two.  The very authenticity the Gaeltacht and beauty of the landscape marauded over by a gazillion tour buses of a particular culture of people, noisily unpacking the “trunk” and proceeding to tell me loudly:

“you’re country is so green and peaceful!  Are there still terrorists here?”

If I was not benefitting from their generous dollar bills, I might correct them gently inserting a past tense into the first clause, and telling them that yes there are terrorists very close.  Given that I am very close to hitting them, bundling them into my car, and claiming a leprechaun did it, at which I would assume they’d probably give me more of their funny dollar stuff to see a live leprechaun.

But instead of this type of tomfoolery, I instead will just sadistically enjoy their “authentic Irish experience” from afar.  I’ve always enjoyed the throngs of tourists visiting the tarmaced paths around Muckross Lake and marvelling at the fact they’re in “Killarney National Park”.  And that no one really questions what the wild mountains ranges beyond the signposted areas are, but instead they flock to a signposted trickle of water down the hill that conveniently is at the end of the “National Park Tarmaced Path”.  I mean, the fact that my granny could walk around the “national park” doesn’t in fact take away from the fact that it is, yes, still stunningly beautiful, and that I admit.

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Some of the real National Park

In fact, this re-direction of tourists is a divine plan of the Irish Tourist Board (much like the one where they tell tourists that the Cliffs of Moher are the tall Irish cliffs that need visiting, when actually, Europe’s tallest cliffs lie up the coast a little, but wouldn’t be as easy to market), keeping the less mentally aware away from the real areas of natural beauty, that mean I can enjoy my ridges and hikes without any gasps of “Ireland is soo green”, which, although true, does not need repeated as many times a day as is declared that the ridge we walk along “really screams out for a Starbucks coffee shop right now”.

So by the time I get to Cronin’s Yard, and what I consider the “real Killarney”, I’m pleasantly amused and yet highly frustrated.  This combination is going to be a constant one, as I realise my present company.

In the carpark (there are only two buses a day….don’t try it!) around me are Irish people and those of the New Irish who are unemployed or those who have contextualised well enough to realise that you don’t check the weather forecast before booking your holiday.  You wake up, look upwards, and see the sun, and set off to the mountains.  I think we also had a few German families in hire cars who arrived shamefaced (a week later than anticipated) for their holiday, only to find the weather being unexpectedly brilliant.  I’m not sure they could show any joy at this Irish summer weather though, as they were still apologising for their tardiness on not being here the week they intended.

And so we set out.  A few moments later, and in a instant that showed just how much she’d betrayed herself to them’uns o’er the sea, my sister sent me back for our map from the car.  It was the only piece of equipment or hiking clothing we had accidentally left behind.  In my honest opinion, we could see the mountain we wanted to climb, and we’d be grand.  What more did we want?

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The cliff face we’d stupidly climbed down

Admittedly such silly requests were off the back of hilariously (but not at the time) dropping down a descent of Mangerton mountain the day before that only could be described as a sheer cliff face.  Reading a map and directions printed off Munsterhillwalks.com, we soon realised that someone though it hilarious to see how far those tourists would follow directions like lemmings off a cliff.  And we did.  And to be fair, looking back, it was quite hilarious.  We probably should have sniffed out this, when the route started backwards, and we never saw a path returning anywhere along our route.  But these are things you don’t think of when you come from cultures that swear by formal maps.

 

We were taught our lesson when we reached the top of Carrauntoohil to be greeted with grins from 4 “New Irish” counterparts standing there in their Vans shoes, and jeans.  And they continued to stop every so often 50 metres ahead of us to cuddle and selfie til we got fed up of the embarrassment of such a posse and overtook them in our mountain gear, boots and maps, that probably more held us back than achieved anything for us on the day.

Summiting Carrauntoohil (for those who want to know) is not hugely difficult, but is not to be laughed at.  The route meanders along some stones that look like they were scattered in a rough arrangement by an Irishman after a few pints (they probably were) and through enough bogland that regardless of time of year, you’ll step in something muddy enough to remind you it’s a bog, at some point.

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Then, as if the route were designed by a children’s drawing competition in the local school, it just decides to take you straight up the side of the basin all at once.  And after that you follow zig-zags up scree to the top, with a glum, bored look on your face as if you were heading up Croagh Patrick for penance.

Sadly half way up we’re gleefully told that the pub at the bottom will soon be closing and that we may as well turn round if we want to have any fun at all.  We didn’t.

At the top, the Kerry Mountain Rescue Service politely put a small sign to warn you of the plummet to the ground on the north-east side.  Realistically they know this will tempt more Dutch and Swiss (I would say Germans, but I’ve given them enough stick already, and any more may be considered racism) to stand as close to the 800m drop as possible.  But I suppose insurance has even come back to bite even the Irish, from our visiting tourist friends, and we’ve had to bough to the dire measures of erecting small signs.

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The sharp 800m drop off the side

Of course, also at the top of Carrauntoohil is our well renowned giant cross.  I say well renowned because for two weeks, the whole country thought it a worthwhile conversation topic while sitting in the pub.  DSC_0096The fact that the average Irishman has never ventured anywhere near Carrauntoohil does not stop him passionately having an opinion about the cross on the top of the mountain.

Because we are Catholic after all, and Catholics do like a good cross (let’s not tell anyone it dangerously resembles a dirty British, Proddy cross if it doesn’t have a good bit of Jesus on it).  I mean, when I say we’re Catholic, I really mean that we’ve come as near to confession one time as we did to Carrauntoohil, before either being put off by some foreign accented person nearby (sometimes even the Priest these days) or by feeling guilty and returning to the pub.  Ah yes, Carrauntoohil/confession – that’s the place I ought to have gone once and I’ll feel guilty I haven’t but really I’m quite happy with a pint in my hand looking at it from afar.

But anyway, back to the cross.  To be honest it was only after some angry atheist took a chainsaw up a mountain and sawed the old cross in two that anyone realised there was a cross on the mountain at all (much like the “fleg” on the city hall in Belfast, for that matter).  And as good Catholics, we all thought this was a bit far, and struggled to understand what on earth would have made someone to have been angry enough to have left the craic in the pub to start with.  And so an even bigger cross was put back in its place, so that we could claim once more that we were truly Catholic.

At the top we briefly stop to exchange photos, asking our photo-taker whether they’ve been up before.  “Just a few times” comes the reply.  By which the old man could well have meant “every day since I was born”, it was so understated.

But enough of Carrauntoohil.  This was meant to be a tale of two mountains…

Slieve Donard

Supposedly named such after Saint Donard, who nestled into residence there briefly, it’s the closest that a northern mountain will get to being religious.  Because let’s face it.  If it was too openly called after a saint, there’d be a bunch of loyalist protesters at the bottom with flegs and signs saying “ge’d’off ar maentins” and claiming that King Billy had once sat, not only on the wall, but on the hill back in 1690.

Thankfully on the day we climbed it, there were no protesters at the bottom at all.  In fact, there were very few at the bottom who weren’t safely stowed away in coffee shops on the prom.  There were two reasons for this.  Partly because the summit looked a little like the picture below, and partly because much like Americans are to Killarney, so are coffee shop daytrippers to Newcastle.  All local folks mind.  Not a tourist in sight.

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But one must understand that there are only two places a Belfast city person may go on a day off (and that is well over half the population).  Either drive to Portrush (and “the north coast”, by which they may also mean Portstewart, but normally still revert to “the Port”) or to Newcastle.  Even on a small island like ours, you would have hoped there may have been more day trip destinations, but sadly the “one hour drive and sit in an ice-cream shop” only works in two directions.  I’ve heard no-one out wesht has ice-cream yet.  So whether it’s Morelli’s or Mauds, the northern breed will be equally happy at this, quite social event, where doubtless they’ll meet a few they claim to have some relation with.

Now you might be quite surprised that the meeting point for this fine breed is not a pub.  But in the north it is quite a different game, and the day-tripping breed tend towards careful inspection of others to make sure they are not spending too much on drink, and are instead spending it on nice cars to drive in, and on cafe delicacies to indulge the waistline.

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And so why, given these two things, did we dander up the hill?  Well, precisely (or not precisely at all, as the case was) because we’re Irish.  And we looked at the hill, and all the locals cowering away in their posh cafe experiences and thought:

“That would be crazy to go up in these conditions without any gear, in tweed jacket, jeans, and Vans”

And so we did.  Because still crazier would have been to conform to the comfort of expectations and organised plans and weather forecasts.

The fact that we also only had a few hours til sunset didn’t seem to buoy our mood, and in fact drove us on all the more, as we found that the average person on google seemed to take 5.5 hours to climb Donard.  We had 5 hours till sunset.  And so we fancied our chances, bought a bottle of water each, found some Tesco value chocolate lying in my boot, and set off up the steps from the car park.

Ten minutes later and I distinctly remember looking at my friend in slight puzzlement that we were still climbing these very steps.  Until I realised about 90 minutes into the walk, that this is what the whole path was going to be.  You see some northerner had clearly got worried that we might find the whole mountain thing a little bit tricky, and, in infinite wisdom, had provided us with steps all the way.  Perhaps a dream for some unused to traversing the great slopes, but for us, quite frankly boring.

But these were not just any steps.  These were stones carved into the ground at quite some level.  Barely did I meet a loose one, and occasionally did one ever reach over a comfy height to lift my leg.  On such moments, it rather felt like a sign might have been nice to say “sorry we caused you to move a bit further than normal leg-reach, we’ll repair this soon”.

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Despite this help, we were still slightly concerned at the darkening weather, the setting sun and several other slight issues (the Tweed jacket no longer being one of these, as we’d sadly decided to abandon it in the car).  Asking those coming off the mountain for some advice on distance remaining, our time was further eaten when we realised that such questions were taken quite literally, and a minute by minute summary of the route was regurgitated from a route-map carried in plentiful supply by well-clad mountaineers.

Half way through this description, most of us (apart from my English friend) stopped caring about much that was coming out of the mouth of our nimble mountain goat-friends beside us, and instead we decided that we didn’t know why we’d asked really at all, as we were going to continue regardless.

And so up the steps we continued to go, until we hit the next quite remarkable “quality” of a northern mountain (should you want to call it that).20170423_174838

The wall.

And I better be careful with all this mention of flegs and walls, lest we get all political again.  But I’d take a fair bet that Mr Trump would only dream of a team of wall builders like built this Mourne Wall.  All 22 miles of it in all its glory.  Summiting 15 peaks in total.  Yet every time I’m stepping up in the Mournes, someone asks me

“why did they build this wall?”

And every time, I can’t help but forget why on earth someone would build a 2m high wall of dry boulders for 22 miles up and down some of the tallest peaks in the country.  Scenes of the World’s Strongest Man boulder lifting competition come to mind.  I mean, unlike our Carrauntoohil path, if an Irishman on pints tried to lift even one of these stones, he’d be doomed to roll down the hill with it.  Nevertheless in Belfast tours both sides probably say it was the oppression of the “other side” that made them have to do such a feat.

In reality google always reminds me that the real reasons for miles of walls was to keep some sheep out of certain bits.  Y’know, those sheep who like to summit mountains in their spare time?  Well, ok, ok, yes you’re right that there are many mountain sheep in incredible places that make you think “how on earth did that sheep get there?”.

But I would have thought that if a measly sign keeps thousands of mountain climbers and tourists from their deaths in the south, that something slightly easier to build would keep a few sheep from straying over certain lines in the north.  And that even if it was the answer, that someone would have thought that the sheep who love to bag munros (summit mountains to you and I), would probably learn how to summit styles over the walls or find broken-down-bits before too long.

But sure, if they were havin’ the craic, who am I to stop them?  Though I would have thought that when it came to the top of the mountain, that they’d think of something more to celebrate the summit than a wall, much like had been beside us all the way up.

Stopping there for a brief rest, we swapped photos with one other group also summiting daftly late in the day.  They assured us the reason they were “late” was because they’d been drinking wine til 05.30 the previous morning and had got lost on the way up.  I didn’t ask what side of the tarmac motorway steps they got lost on, on their way here.  Rather, I was pleased that some others were enjoying an adventure.

I’m not sure the sentiment was shared as we crashed back down into Newcastle, three hours after we’d started, and into one of those aforementioned coffee shops.  Looks of bafflement from pristine teenage couples out for a date, were followed by those of disgust from older relations, alarmed at how rugged people like us could ever come in to the cafe like this.

But so our tale of two mountains finishes.  And we hope you appreciate that not only was this a tale of two mountains but a tale of two cultures too.  One in which we went round and round until we summited.  The other, where we went straight up some stairs.  Perhaps there’s a lesson in that too…

Are the Irish really different?

The look of fear on people’s faces when they hear my (northern) accent and consider my words is really rather funny, here in Cork.

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The book I’m in the middle of, argues that we all think we’re different, but we’re not as unique in culture as we’d like to imagine!

“Oh we’re very different here y’know.  Things won’t work the same as up north.”

We love to proclaim our “other”ness to all around.  And there’s much truth in that.  It took me over two years to feel as if I’ve transitioned from Belfast to Cork (via 5 years in Nottingham).  And still many will say I stick out like a sore thumb, as a northern minded person.  But at least I’ve deluded myself into thinking I’ve contextualised a certain extent.  In reality it’ll be the third generation that’d be the ones fully adapted to local ways, perhaps.

And in a very similar vein, that’s true for those who come to faith too, or change worldview of any sort, I could imagine.

The first generation

have probably already married or had kids and then changed worldview.  Or they are so new to their worldview switch that finding a spouse of similar opinion isn’t high on their list – they’d rather just find someone who tolerates their way of life.

The second generation

have been brought up by a relatively new believer, who is still growing in their convictions.  If they come to the same faith, they could well be in the place to choose a spouse of that worldview and raise kids in the same way.

The third generation

will be the first brought up completely in that culture or worldview.

It’s why you see many in various religions (and cultures) demanding they marry someone of a similar view to themselves.  And to many extents, that’s quite sensible, to keep the most heartfelt goals in life similar.  But what many don’t realise is that, like anything in life, you can’t force practice on someone who just doesn’t get it, without creating bitterness.

Beating a “you must marry a Christian” drum will only work if a person sees what having a growing, intimate relationship with Christ looks like.  And so if Christ means very little to someone, having a spouse that follows Christ, will also mean very little.

But instead of trying to force them to think more of Christ, and telling them repeatedly that “is Jesus not worth it to sacrifice this non-Christian boyfriend?”, I wonder whether we need to ease off the imperatives and press heavy on the indicatives of the good news.  That’s not to abandon the place of the law in the Christian life.  But it’s to see the big picture beyond my lifetime, and through more generations that just mine.  And it’s to learn that if we’re finding it heartbreaking that person x is going out with a “non-Christian”, that most likely we weren’t chatting on much of a deep level with them before this started anyway.  Exceptions there are aplenty, of course.

You can tell a northerner however many times you want that the south is a people orientated culture and not so much time/task orientated one.  He will nod vigorously and start telling others that exact truth.  But every time you see him going “wrong”, will it help him much to tell him the same thing over and over again?

You can try it with me and see.

(But I’d rather you got alongside me in life, exampled it to me, and helped me see it for myself.)

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I wonder how many of Ireland’s clock faces (like St Anne’s Shandon, here in Cork), were built by those of British culture.  Are there any Irish public clocks?

More from the east…

I’ve already mentioned how little I know about eastern worldview and culture.  And so I’ve been seeking to learn from the experiences of those who hail from there, and those who have travelled there.  Here’s one blog from a colleague of mine who spent a year travelling in the east before coming back to Ireland to work.  Some of their insights are fantastic and I may reblog them over the days ahead:

Two Happy Tramps

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Top Travel Songs (2)

Dido comes in at number one as previously mentioned, but here’s 8 more gems that I associate with travel!

Tracy’s aspirations of travel, as so often are, linked intricately to those you love.

Radical Face portray all the angst involved in deciding when is right to move on.  The moments are epic, but will they last?  The place is a keeper, but to settle there, immediately ruins it, no?

It’s another classic and a romantic favourite – I’ll do anything!  You can tell they walk out of the past decades.  Millennials today might walk one mile.  But then we’d probably re-examine whether the relationship was really worth it – walking is a hard slog!

If I could write songs like Johnny, I’d write an Irish equivalent…work and pelasure seems to have had me on every road in Ireland, motorway and country lane!  The world however?  To properly explore that would take an eternal age.  Just as well there’s one of those coming right up….

The long summer evenings in perfect company when the craic is mighty.  There are some moments that will be remembered for life.  This video, an advert though it is, speaks of those times.

And you?  What other songs strike travelling memories?

No doubt many that have nothing to do with travel, but were just on in those special times!

God’s Acre, Tralee

Walking to a day’s work in Tralee IT North Campus, I pass this field.  Puzzled and with a few minutes on my hands, I went to explore and found the sign beneath the cross on the second picture: “God’s Acre”.20161019_142732

It appears that this area is a famine graveyard, dating back to the Irish famine.  But it saddens me that it’s called such a thing.  Having “God space” seems to suggest that there could be space God isn’t Lord over.  It’s theology that is normal in Roman Catholic circles, but also in some charismatic circles (territorial spirits, and areas that are less controlled by Him).  It reminds me of the forerunner to Pokemon Go, Ingress, that my older cousin played for years, where one must capture back buildings in the real world to make them “the right side”.  In both, all of life is spent consumed by taking back territories, something which Jesus seems little concerned about in His vision of Kingdom (“my Kingdom is  not of this world”).

For a theology of travel and because of what I’ve shared elsewhere (here and here), I think Abraham Kuyper (previous Dutch Prime Minister) had a point when he said:

‘There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, Mine!’

It may not feel that way at times, and there may be many questions raised from it, but if we abandon such sentiment, we lose far more than we gain.  We’d have a creator who wasn’t in control anymore.  We’d have “no-go” areas in the world which weren’t wise to explore as God is not there so much.  God would look more like a pet on a lead, than the “Father Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth”.  Who could be sure about what will happen in the future, if he can’t control the present?

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Muslim Immigration in Europe: masculinity, politics and law

Working in a university has its advantages, and Friday night was one of them.  Public lectures on relevant topics, by those with suitable qualifications.  UCC had me excited with this one.  And so too were many of the university staff, with most in attendance being from the related fields of study within UCC (those lecturers chatting behind me were lecturers in middle eastern art history, and history of gender studies).  But sadly I was left walking out of the majestic Aula Maxima into the darkness, even more confused than I had been before.  Where did it all go wrong?

The UCC president (Dr Murphy) opened on a fascinating note islam-migration-msaulinity-politics-and-lawby telling us of the huge changes in Irish society and in UCC.  in 1990 there was only 4% of Ireland who were non-native (not born in Ireland).  By about 2011 there was 12-14% non-native living within the shores.  Nods were taken from the professor who specialised in Irish migration.  You couldn’t say anything wrong here, given those specialists attending.  Or could you?

What followed was two fairly unrelated speeches from high profile speakers, both women who came from a Muslim background.  One, Tasmina, who is MP for Ochil and South Perthshire seemed keener to tell us about her achievements in life and her passions as an SNP politician.  And much as a woman who had achieved so much was fascinating to listen to, I did wonder whether I’d come to listen to an inspiring SNP politician (the inspiring part need not be linked to the SNP part) or someone speaking on the topic in hand.  Brief reference was made to how SNP policy endorsed more open borders than others would.

Following on was Dr Samia Bano, from SOAS London who started by trying to tell us that she would be very academic (I’m not sure why she thought this would be a problem), and then proceeded to speak on a range of issues, some of which tried to separate Islamic culture from religion, some which tried to persuade us that we could contextualise and re-interpret the Qu’ran, and some which tried to persuade us of the forward leaning nature of many of the Muslims within Islamic communities in the UK.

But I couldn’t help but think what the Islamic Society (or the local mosque for that matter) would have thought about such attempts to separate culture and religion, to re-interpret the Qu’ran (or even reinterpret a copy of the translation of the Qu’ran, as I’m not sure what levels of Arabic were actually read by either panellist), or to persuade us that the Islam could be up-to-date with the latest gender theories and feminist issues.  Or to even what extent they’d want to do that.  For the religion that completely bows to the theories of the day, and whatever direction the wind is blowing, ultimately gives up its right to objective truth.

Liberal academics may try and persuade us that Islam says one thing or another.  But in reality, the only questions on people’s lips were:

  • what is the essence of Islam (if there is one)?
  • how can change be brought about?

And if one thing were fairly obvious, it was that the panellists were trying to make the Qu’ran say what they wanted to hear.  And that because of that, change will only occur in the outer echelons of liberal or nominal Islamic communities.

To know what is actually believed in Islam, or to bring about change, I would suggest one may need to be side-by-side at the heart of such communities.  And so I find myself in a local mosque again tomorrow, as well as reading some academic works.  The disconnect is huge.

The main point I took away from the evening?  How much travel is impacting Irish society, both in immigration and otherwise.  Thanks Dr Murphy!

Culture Night Ireland

It’s one of my favourite nights of the year: Culture Night.

Virtually every venue in town is open for free, from ones I walk past on a day-to-day basis, through to things I never knew existed.  And that’s what I love – finding quirky spots I’d never dreamed of visiting before.  Cork city just oozed a family atmosphere, a friendliness that was all too evident.  The buzz that is quite often felt in the centre of the city, was overflowing into the highways and byways – down little streets that are normally dead at night-time.

Last year I visited the County Hall and went up to the top floor for some jazz and other live music, and a look over the full city skyline.  This year I decided to stick closer to home, and visit Cork Printmakers and the Sample Art Studios as well as popping past a overflowing Alchemy Cafe and a fairly standard attendance at An Spailpin Fanac for some trad to finish off the evening.

Cork printmakers was a fascinating display of printed art – a way that I’d never really thought too much of before.  There were some incredible works, a chance to chat to some of the island’s top printers, and an opportunity to try a go at printing some art myself (see picture below) that they’d pre-arranged.

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Sample Arts Studios was a similar theme, yet so very different.  Connected to the Crawford College in Cork, artists were still present alongside their work, but yet it felt slightly more raw, as if you weren’t walking into an exhibition so much as taking a step into the very privacy of artist’s lair.  There was something intimate, despite being one of hundreds in an old dilapidated building.  Quite special.

But to think these were just 3 or 4 places out of hundreds that could be visited.  The after-taste of such an evening will linger for a long time as a warm and pleasant taste, which will leave me hungering for some more next year.  The fact that you can go to most things all year round is besides the point.  Culture Night still brings something special to it.

Thanks to the whole host of volunteers who make such evenings possible.  Even if one of them does knock on my door at 3am to request to sleep on my sofa for (what remains of ) that night!

International Student Cafe Cork: radically different

Yesterday I discussed how lonely it can feel in life at times, even in the midst of many people.  Today, let me describe the difference using an accelerated example: an international student.

You’re far away from home, foreign language and foreign culture.  You’ve just realised us Irish aren’t as friendly as Lonely Planet and the travel guides make us out to be, especially when you’ve announced your intentions to stay here.  And so you think about hanging out with other international students, because they’ll understand.  “They’re people like me”.

You head down to the local Language Exchange night at a local pub.  There’s a great buzz.  You meet a few more internationals, socialise as much as you can in that environment with poor english and loud music, and call it a night when most people seem to be paying more attention to you as a female to flirt with, than as a human being.  The morning after you’ve not many more genuine friendships, but you’ve had a whale of an evening that’s given you a relational high, enough to go back next time.  And good news, next time you recognise a couple of people, though conversation seems harder with them now you know the basics – where do you go from here?

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Alternatively you go to the far smaller, far quieter, weekly International Student Cafe in a rented hall nearby.  You’re greeted by a mixture of local people (team members) of various ages, and other students from far more varied cultures than were in the pub (Muslims, mainly the difference).  By uni standards it’s a tame night.  But a fun activity/theme, took away the pressure just to make brilliant conversation and allowed personalities and diversities to shine through without too much stress.  A chance to chill over tea, coffee and an international snack soon had us in stitches with our mis-communications to each other.  This certainly was a socially less extroverted group, but nice none-the-less.  Going home, it was nice to have had a different night but nothing incredible.  Would I go back?  Perhaps if there wasn’t a better, cooler option.  Until…

Well, then I got a text the next day asking me whether I’d go for a run and a coffee at the weekend.  I hadn’t realised the guy at the cafe did running like me.  Actually, I hadn’t realised much about him as he’d always been asking me good questions about what I liked, come to think of it.  And so we did.  And I came back the next week to cafe as a result, though I stayed a bit longer to help clear up afterwards.  After all, they seemed a very nice bunch, random as they were.

And then the next week I went on a trip with them to some stunning coastline (they don’t make profit, interestingly) nearby.  And before I knew it I was organising one of the week’s themes in my own culture.

What seemed like quite an ordinary cafe started to grip me.  This wasn’t just one person who was like me, who took interest in me.  This was everyone there.  And I could see it was starting to change me and the others there for the better.  I was thinking mid-week about how I could show interest in their lives too.  I mean, was this friendship?  But it was so random, so….different!

So what makes this difference?  This very real community?

Well, I’ll save my thoughts for next time and in the mean time, thoughts on the back of a postcard to me please!

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PS: I hope I haven’t been too harsh in characterising other language exchanges and international groups in this city.  Some of what they do is fantastic and will have helped develop leadership/entrepreneurial flair in those leading, helped other make friends, find love and much more.  And most of what we do relies on them to take away most people from us (it wouldn’t work with more students currently).  So thank you!  I’ve always pointed people towards you and what you do and spoken highly of you, and still will.  And find any of us on an off-night and we’ll be just as self-centred as anyone!

Instant Time Travel step by step

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Kinsale is one of Cork’s gems that (alright everyone knows about but) never disappoints.  Today I went to a relatively new gallery there (situated with a Time traveller’s bookshop, connected, I’m guessing, to the one in Skib), and came across this saying of Van Gogh.

In the days when everyone wants things instantly and wants to be seen to be the next “radical”, I always like to be reminded of this.  Some of the most radical people I know are those that plod onwards with the supposedly mundane things, day by day.