Down The Rocky Road – Wholesome

 

The Sky over our house

The Irish weather can conjure up some of the most spectacular scenes and striking situations: angry skies with clouds that pass by at speeds usually reserved for planes; wispy white stratus clouds that glow orange underneath at sunset with a hint of grey on the darker side; rain at the front of your house and sun at the back; gusts of wind that blow so hard, you fear you may be used as a soft landing by a couple of rooftiles. The week before last featured all of the above; despite that, we managed to spend some time on tour. However, this past week was glorious: low-to-mid twenties, nearly no rain, and the fluffiest of clouds straddling the sky. For me, I have always liked my summers at just above room temperature. If we had remained in Spain, we would have witnessed its incineration first-hand.

On Saturday 9 August, we took a trip to Lough Allen, a fairly large body of water that separates southern from northern Leitrim. Fun fact: because of the long, thin shape of Leitrim, it is impossible to cross it without entering another county. The county mainly responsible for Leitrim’s two halves is Roscommon: a region spoken about in Ireland as if it were full of witches and ghouls. In the last two referenda, it was the county that voted most against the liberalisation of Ireland’s previously strict laws of childbirth and marriage, and that kind of sealed its reputation.

We would only pass through it for a few minutes, but we took some garlic and a bottle of holy water just in case.

The Scardan waterfall sits high above the steep hills of Lough Allen, surrounded by tall spruces, taller larches, willows and hawthorns alongside heather-clad open spaces with the feel of a subalpine climate. As you turn off the main road along the lough, and ascend the steep lane towards the waterfall, the first thing you notice is the sudden change in the light: it becomes softer but somehow there’s more of it.

Climbing higher, we reached a fork in the road and a few groups of hikers with their Nordic gear talking. There is a small car park beside the entrance to the steps down to the waterfall and we went to take a look. I must say it wasn’t exactly Niagara, but everything around it was truly beautiful.

Lough Allen from the track by Scardan waterfall

On Monday 11 August, we made it to the Ballinamore Family Festival, the highlight of the summer. Lasting a week and two weekends, it’s a cultural marvel and an experience that brings joy to everyone. It’s glorious fun in an imaginative, understated and happy sense: the week includes live music every day in the centre and an agricultural show, but there are other events, such as a makeshift water slide on the grassy banks of the park, mural painting, an adult-child race, kayaking on the river, a children’s fancy dress, an angling competition, a bonny baby contest, afternoon tea with the old folks, flower arranging, a women’s oasis at a local pub and a men’s shed open day (whatever that is). That’s about an eighth of all the events – it’s wholesome and it’s fun; but most of all there isn’t a single moment that you feel overwhelmed by the crowds.

View of the Ballinamore Family Festival children's fun event

We went to the children’s fun afternoon, which included the water slide, as well as a petting farm, bouncy castle, football skills contest, and a water gun fight. Needless to say everyone under the age of 18 was going to get wet. The queues for the water slides were at times quite long but the children waited patiently, except for a few, who found some mates in the line to let them sneak in. Our three did their first run with some apprehension, but after that they slid down with more and more gusto.

The children were soaking wet and we had forgotten to take a change of clothes with us. Luckily there is a Tesco supermarket a few minutes’ walk away. Hilariously enough, when we arrived there, a lot of other parents had had the same issue.

After a lot of complaining and having spent quite a lot on clothes, we walked into town where the BUGS (Ballinamore Ukulele Group of Singers) were performing, followed by the Wren Boys, a huge number of folk musicians accompanied by the town’s talented dancers and singers. Considering Ballinamore has a population of just over a thousand, it punches well above its weight in terms of what it has to offer, and here in this setting it was clearly on display. About 15 to 20 per cent of the town had come out to watch and about 5 per cent had appeared on the stage.

Now, you may be thinking that a group of ukulele players was going to be a rather naff and slightly absurd spectacle. But when about 12 of them get together, accompanied by a drummer and a guitarist, using different harmonies, and directed by a terrific lead singer, the results are exceptional. Banging out some anthemic numbers, they had terrific stage presence.After them came the Wren Boys and a host of accoutrements, accompaniments and adornments. They arrived being led by a goat, some music, and some flames lofted high above them on poles. Sitting around the outside of the stage with their respective instruments, they filled the entire periphery, and didn’t hold back. One of the maxims is absurdity, especially ugliness. Three dancers were dressed in thick blond wigs and grandmothers’ clothes, one with a beard, one with awful false teeth, and one with a hairy chest.

Ballinamore in concert

After a short announcement concerning a recently departed and well-liked member, they hit the ground running with a series of well-known folk songs, such as The Mason’s Apron and Drowsy Maggie. Accompanying them, the McCartin School of Irish Dancing proffered a number of their different age groups for various songs, followed by a recital by a local story teller. A rendition of Fisherman’s Blues rounded it all off and sent us home smiling.

The children had a ball. In fact, Milda has turned into quite a performer; she also has a feeling for rhythm and style. She keeps asking to go to dance school, and watching her skipping to some of the songs put a light on in my head. I think I’ll take a little look into enrolling her in a group this September.

Strandhill Beach, County Sligo

Tuesday was another eventful day. The plan was to go to Gleniff Horseshoe in northern Sligo to see this geological phenomenon, but it was such a beautiful day, I thought we should go to the seaside first. I didn’t tell the children until the sea was in sight, as that would have caused general mayhem in the back of the car. It’s only an hour away and it’s a lovely ride: we drove past some spectacular scenery and arrived at Strandhill Beach, County Sligo, with a group of very jumpy young people behind the front seats. I found a parking place, the last one on the strip, and we walked to the area where people were conglomerating around a cluster of restaurants and cafés. Most of them were offering the usual seaside trash food, so we settled on one place that made toasted sandwiches. It was not cheap – in fact it would end up costing about half the price of our evening meal with desserts, coffees and drinks.

After shedding a bucket load of cash, we decided to hit the beach. The girls in the café warned us the sea wasn’t too safe for swimming in and we should go round to the next beach, which was protected by a land promontory. However, we took the chance as I could see other families on the beach.

Memories of last year’s epic road trip around the Iberian peninsula came streaming back on this wide-open Atlantic beach with extraordinary views of the surrounding landscape. I also remember the sea in Portugal on the wide beaches: that was cold. This was slightly better, but only just. I think it’s all about the ambient temperature of your location: Ireland would have been 10 to 15 degrees colder than Portugal, so getting in the water would have been easier to handle than down south.

But let us just say we didn’t go in far because there seemed to be a lot of undercurrents. The children played happily on the beach for quite a long time, which allowed us to have a rest: it’s been a long summer. We started in mid-June with the end of their school year in Valencia. They have been with us the whole time since we packed up and cleared out the apartment, and I have to say I am particularly looking forward to their return to school on 25 August.

We passed Gleniff Horseshoe Mountain on the way home

As the school holidays are nearly over, we want to do as much exploring as possible. On Wednesday 13 August, we took the children to ninja school and afterwards we went on a trip to the highlands of County Fermanagh over the border. We had travelled through the area just south of Enniskillen, and an Irish friend of mine told me a little about what places of interest there are in that region, but actually going there and seeing it for ourselves reinforced it.

View over Lough Macnean

In the mountainous area that straddles the border, there is a place known as the Stairway to Heaven. Its real name, Cuilcagh Boardwalk Trail, suggests it’s a good day’s hike, but it was already approaching six in the evening, so we drove on the loop that goes high up above Lough Macnean, delivering more stunning views. The children wanted to stop and take a good look at the panorama below, so I found a parking space and we all alighted for fresh air and photos. We decided to take a stop in Belcoo for a drink and a little walk. That meant crossing back into the Republic of Ireland and then once more into the United Kingdom.

The border between the two sovereign entities throws up some astonishing ironies, including a highway that alternates between Irish and British territory four times within 10 kilometres. I think that fact combined with Brexit is the Karma the UK was due for dividing up so much of the world along such random and arbitrary lines. The final cherry on the top of the cake of fortune is now Ireland is a far more progressive and fairer country to live in than its nearest neighbour.

Belcoo, in County Fermanagh, is reached after a minute’s ride back into the Republic, then across the bridge into Northern Ireland. I stopped to ask a lady walking from the north with a bagful of shopping whether there were any pubs with decent gardens for the children. I didn’t realise I’d caused a ten-car traffic jam until I moved off, but she told us to put the car in a spot just opposite the park, where there was a decent pub. I have to say she was right: the pub was run by a lovely man, and he seemed to be incredibly busy, but we all got drinks.

There was horse racing on the TV above the bar and Milda was fascinated by it. Dainoris also had his attention pricked by the action, and they both sat there happily a row behind the bar watching it. Livia oscillated between us outside on a table and her siblings, but in the end sat watching the TV. Not for long: she managed to knock her drink over and decided to come out to us.

Belcoo Park

Dainoris is not the most observant of people: I can ask him to pick up a red shirt on a grey floor right in front of him and he will completely miss it. But when it comes to food, drink, toys and playgrounds, he has the eyes of a hawk. We decided to go for a walk in the large park opposite the pub as it has a selection of truly majestic mature trees, but Dainoris spotted in the very far distance, and through a tiny gap between the shrubbery, a playground. He made a few gestures of desperation while I tried to explain to him the utter magnificence of finding a tree with an evening shadow of half an acre, but he wasn’t going to let a remarkable spectacle like that get in the way of yet another playground, especially one with a zipline.

I would go as far as saying that the success of a daytrip is dependent on the quality of the playground Dainoris manages to locate. I have recently tried to go to places without one to get the children into other activities with a small degree of success, but for as long as I can remember, the playground remains a staple of our journeys.

As I mentioned, the park had some incredible trees in it. It reminded me of the park in Mersch in Luxembourg, which had a terrific number of important trees. In both places, the landscaper had used sightlines and the position of the sun at different seasons and times of day to make a truly stunningly arranged arboretum and a real magnet for locals and tourists. I highly recommend a walk around this park in any weather. We drove home satisfied that we had made the most of the day while we wait for the work on our house to start.

We are reaching the business end of the summer holidays when we have to start thinking about the upcoming school term, and also for the beginning of the renovation works. Bonny Bee is spending more time working and earning a small fortune to pay for a bathroom for us. We sat down one evening a couple of weeks ago and chose the bathroom we wanted – there is something therapeutic about choosing something important for the house.

ADDENDUM:

Second anniversary: a frank observation 

Just a couple of days ago would have been two years since we left our lovely house in Germany. For a long time it seemed likely that we would stay and buy a house in Spain, but there is more to living in Spain than just that big orange ball in the sky. Shiny Object Syndrome is what tends to draw people to the Mediterranean, but peel back the façade and it’s no different to anywhere else. In other words, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, and I say that without a single iota of irony.

When northern Europeans, known as guiris in coastal Spain (mainly Brits but it’s extended to include any pasty-coloured northerner), head south for a holiday, they may see the turquoise sea inviting them to take a running jump; they may hear upbeat music in a minor key; they may want to help themselves to a bowl of paella with a cool caña on a sweltering restaurant terrace at 9 or 10 in the evening, they may go to an outdoor salsa or bachata dance class, or indeed find themselves being whisked off to a beach party that goes on until the sun comes up. But even those who live there might only do one or two of those activities a couple of times a year, if that.

Because remember this: when you live anywhere as an ordinary resident, including at the coast in the south of Europe, you are a resident too. This means you do all the humdrum things everyone else does: go shopping, fill in forms, pay bills, go to work, cook, wash up, and plan some home improvements. The tourists might be sitting in a café next door or lounging on the beach nearby, but that’s their bubble; we see them from near or far but neither world actually intersects very much. They may speak the same language as you do, maybe even have the same regional dialect as you, but you don’t consider yourself one of them anymore.

The irony is, that although you yourself start to see things from the point of view of a local in your adopted city, the locals don’t treat you like one of them. In fact, in Valencia and probably in Spain in general, most people would throw us in the same basket as the guiris, even if some of us try so very hard to integrate. And this is the issue here – we found it a great deal easier to be ourselves and integrate in the north than in Spain.

I believe the reason lies in the fact that southern European cultures are what I would call dominant, while those of the north are what I would call complementary. Dominant cultures tend to suffocate, impede and in some cases disparage the practices of what one would call allochthonous cultures to the extent that incomers feel constrained or even apologetic for not being exactly like the long-term residents. The incomers will find themselves the target of a torrent of criticism for hanging around with their own type and not integrating. My reply was always “well firstly, you have to let me integrate.”

In the south, the media, with the clear and blatant compliance of successive obsequious governments, have managed to persuade the residents that removing hundreds of Airbnb residences from accreditation will be the panacea to the housing crisis, even though we all know it will probably just lead to a drop in income. However, let us also note that the number of second residences Spanish people own (and leave empty for eight to ten months of the year) is a much more likely cause of the lack of housing for Spanish citizens. The fact that some of these owners are also holding on to two properties and yet it’s the foreigners that get blamed and slapped with extra bills and taxes is an outrageous act of sanctimonious hypocrisy and self-unawareness only matched by the government’s acquiescing to this national state of victimhood. Oh, and maybe by the hilarious fact that some British people are moving to Benidorm because back home there are too many foreigners.

For the sake of balance, in the north, the situation is framed another way: the media is always banging on about “not enough room” and invasions of immigrants from countries further afield eroding their advanced civilisation. They also spread lies about the alleged terrible state of public services, the overcrowded public transport and congested roads, the saturation of the job market, the steep rise in house prices and rents, and blame immigrants for this. But the truth is that they, along with successive compliant governments, have intentionally neglected to force those who bought cheap building land and take no affirmative action to actually use it for the purpose it was sold to them.

The secret to governments deflecting the blame for their lack of action and landowners earning a great deal of wealth in the housing market is this: don’t do anything. Let more and more people come and live there until the place is so overcrowded that there is an outcry for more housing. Then you can charge the earth, and immigration can be blamed on the shortage of affordable housing and crumbling public services. For totally different reasons, but by both intentionally failing (or rather refusing) to act, landowners and politicians can make a lot of capital out of scapegoating people that don’t look, dress or talk like you. But at the end of everything, that fact can be way too unappealing for the casual racists and their enablers in the media.