After Iceland, Ireland

One would think that I am travelling the world in alphabetical order. Or, as my good friend Nick would have it, that I like to visit islands inhabited by White people. In any event, barely three months after my last European adventure, I am soon off to Ireland for a whirlwind 9-day trip.

In July, Troy received word that he would be going to Dublin for a week's training in September. As I had vacation time left and money in the bank, I thought it would be cool if I joined him for a week's vacation after his training. So, he has been in Ireland now since last Sunday, and I am gearing up to join up with him early Saturday morning. In preparation for this trip, I reread James Joyce's Ulysses -- all 933 pages -- so that I can do the James Joyce walking tour in Dublin.

I am not too sure what to expect. For me, Ireland conjures up a whole host of connections. My earliest memory associated with Ireland is watching the Irish Rovers on TV on Sunday nights in Barachois when I was a kid. But when I think of Ireland, I think of Lucky the Leprechaun and his box of Lucky Charms ("they're magically delicious"), unicorns, pots of gold, shamrocks, St. Paddy's Day, Irish stew, Guinness beer, The Corrs, U2, Sinéad O'Connor, James Joyce, Samuel Beckett, Bram Stoker, Jonathan Swift, W. B. Yeats, The Pogues, Irish whiskey, House of Pain, the Blarney stone, those God-awful commercials for Anna McGoldrick's musical bus tours, Celtic Women, fish and chips, The Cranberries, cornbeef and cabbage, coddle, Irish bagpipes, the harp, Loreena McKennitt, Oscar Wilde, "Angela's Ashes", the potato famine, Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Waking Ned Devine", Harp beer, Collin Farrell...

I have one identified Irish ancestor, Roger Casey, who emigrated to Acadia in the seventeenth century. Because the Acadians were an endogamic people -- that is to say, they tended to intermarry -- I descend from Roger Casey five times. Problem is that with the destruction of documents in Acadia in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, there is no way of knowing from which county in Ireland he originated.

My great-grandmother, Marie-Blanche Hébert (1878-1969), knew that her maternal grandmother was a descendant of the Irish Caseys. In conversation with my mother, she once made the bizarre statement: "If I spoke English, I'd be Irish".

I grew up knowing of this far off Irish connection, and I would celebrate this minuscule portion of my heritage on St. Patrick's Day. I once convinced my mom that on March 17, she should put green food colouring in our mashed potatoes. It was a pretty gross meal...

And then there was the song "Oh, Danny Boy", which I listened to as a child, completely puzzled. "Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling". And I wondered why someone would sing so wistfully, so longingly for a plumber...

So I guess this is the baggage I bring with me to Ireland. No wonder I am not too sure what to expect!

I hope to be able to keep this blog going, as I did with the one from Sweden and Iceland this summer. But unlike the previous trip, I won't be travelling alone (yay!!), so I might not have time to update this as much as I'd like. I guess time will tell.

Sláinte ("Cheers" in Gaelic)

M.