By Kevin Cooley
Staff Writer
It would definitely be a challenge to chronicle my adventures in Northern Ireland so far, but not because there is a lack of adventure to chronicle. The difficult part would be deciding which of the hundreds of tales I’ve collected would be worthy to include, not to mention deciding which of the people I’ve met, people whose existences are poetry, would deserve a spot in the narrative of my overseas adventures.
Most of my days, in one way or another, find me wandering the lively streets of Belfast. Whether we’re stopping at the local Maggie May’s diner for a famous Ulster fry or frequenting one of the endless lines of welcoming and rustic pubs, my entourage of Australian, Irish and American friends and I take to the road at any opportunity. I’m the ghost of Botanic Avenue, haunting the Belfast “thrift shop run,” as my global friends have named it. I’m always looking to snag a stereotypically classy “old Irish guy” hat or a unique personal effect that wouldn’t exist back home.
If I’m not roaming the streets, it’s because I’ve taken to the ancient woods. The nearby Lagan Towpath, a riverside forest trail just 15 minutes from the city, has become my favorite way to sneak a contemplative walk into my schedule.
My involvement with my school, Queen’s University Belfast, has produced its own rewards. I’ve developed a more intimate understanding of Northern Irish culture by studying it in a sociological perspective. Through my love of slam poetry, I’ve also been lucky enough to bring some of my own culture to this place. I am a top 12 finalist in the “QUB’s Got Talent” show, and will be slamming alongside a group of talented musicians and performers in the show next week.
The adventures outside Belfast have also been in great supply. Road tripping across the Republic of Ireland was easily one of my favorite aspects of this entire stay. Touristy bus rides and gift shop souvenirs aren’t very rewarding once you’ve had your share of them, but there’s a cosmic appeal to an unshackled car and full tank of gas. The company of intimately-close friends I’d only met a matter of months ago, the unapologetically Irish countryside whizzing by in flashes of sheep and moss-strewn ruins — these are images I couldn’t have drank in until we ditched the tourist trap tours.
There was one destination on the road trip, however, where I would have gladly hung a mantle around my neck that read “TOURIST” to see. We had an obligatory stop at Blarney Castle to give the Blarney Stone a peck. I have no regrets.
Our sister road trip through Scotland was equally beautiful, but in such distinctive ways. The mountains encasing the city of Edinburgh, perfectly visible from the top of Edinburgh Castle, were astonishing in their ancient majesty and unimaginable size.
Loch Ness had its own gifts to give in the form of scenery. Though I didn’t catch any hint of Nessie, the surrounding countryside and the shores of the lake made an ideal place to traverse quietly and think. Sheep wandered with us, undisturbed by our presence. An Australian friend of mine made a highlight of the trip by recording himself asking a sheep for directions. The sheep, somewhat rudely, left us hanging.
There isn’t much that the flimsy nature of words can do to describe an experience, especially one as overwhelming as traveling to a world you’ve only known from electronic images and other people’s stories. The real experience of the Isle of Ireland and my relationship with it, no matter how much I might try to convey this relationship, is something I’ll never be able to fully express.
I’ll have to carry it inside me, I suppose. There could be heavier burdens.
