Welcome to Northern
Ireland: Watch Your Step
by ASHLEY DRESSER
“Seamus, wait up!” I called out as his head of brown locks
disappeared around the bend. I hopped gingerly from one rock to
the next, carefully avoiding the pools of water and slippery
seaweed that could instantly shatter the myth of a girl’s
gracefulness. He could at least offer me a guiding hand,
I thought, annoyed. But then Seamus, my Irish boyfriend, had
never been much of a gentleman. In fact, I struggled to find a
word that could accurately define him. To be fair, he had gotten
his act together enough to take me to Giant’s Causeway today.
Located along the coast outside of Coleraine, this UNESCO World
Heritage site is Northern Ireland’s most famed tourist
attraction. It consists of clusters of hexagon-shaped rocks
that stretch out for five hundred meters or so before plunging
into the icy Irish Sea. The rocks are uniform in size and shape,
but starkly contrasting in height – sticking out as though a
two-year-old has attempted to shove his crayons back into the
box without bothering to see if they all properly fit. The rocks
are basaltic in origin, formed ages ago by some manner of
volcanic activity, but the Irish have their own explanation for
its existence.
The Scottish giant, Benandonner, built the causeway to the North
Irish coast in order to settle a quarrel with the legendary
giant, Finn McCool. However, Finn was clever and dressed himself
up as a baby, so that when Benandonner arrived, Finn’s mother
claimed the baby was Finn’s wee brother. Impressed by just the
sheer size of Finn’s brother, Benandonner became scared and ran
back to Scotland. He ripped up the causeway as he went to ensure
that Finn could not follow him home. Visitors are invited to
find Benandonner’s shoe, Finn’s organ, and other strange
rock-formations that complement the lively tale.
As I continue to pick my way across the rocks, I am struck by
the sobering thought that my precarious stroll along the
causeway is practically a living metaphor for my entire
experience in Northern Ireland. What more do I do each day than
watch my step? Upon arrival, I was instructed to call the city
of my study “Derry” when talking to Catholics and “Londonderry”
to all others, as if their religious preference would be branded
on their forehead for me to distinguish and act accordingly. In
certain pubs, wearing any sort of Gaelic sports insignia is a
fast track to a fist fight and there is not a night that goes by
that I do not stumble upon a heated debate on the Irish question
held over a pint of Guinness. Seamus claims to be more or less
arbitrary in his beliefs, yet I doubt even he realizes that
whenever he introduces me to one of his friends, he is sure to
later point out whether they are Catholic or Protestant. It does
not compromise the way he treats them, but the desire to
separate them appears almost overpoweringly innate.
The message I have received from most is that the people are
tired. The price of peace is far easier to bear than the price
of war, no matter how unhappy a peace it may be. The students
just want to live their lives and not be assigned to a political
cause at birth. Families just want to walk the streets and feel
safe. Yet in lieu of the Troubles, other problems persist. Derry
is still marked by high unemployment and rampant drug and
alcohol abuse. It is a city championed as the Catholic
stronghold in Northern Ireland due to its proximity to the west
Irish Republic, yet Derry feels as though it is imploding in on
itself. It is a city clinging to the unforgiving Irish coast,
begging for sympathy from an unsympathetic imperial reign.
As I round the bend, I find Seamus waiting for me, patiently
smoking a cigarette. The wind ruffles my hair and I imagine my
thoughts in that moment are the same as many a Northern
Irishman: I hope these are the winds of change.
© Ashley Dresser,
2007
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