An End of Summer Summary

The Irish rain falls.

“You’re getting a taste of what it’s usually like here,” my host says. “This is just the beginning. Just think, it’s still light now, but when it gets dark. And then in January when it’s cold.”

With an air of contemplation, I turn my back to my host and gaze out the window. Mist obscures the Blackwater River and hides the Knockmealdown Mountains. Raindrops speckle the glass. The trees bend under the push of the wind. I imagine the rain, the dark, and the cold.

As I take my tea upstairs and sit back down at my desk, looking out at the grey skies and the still falling rain, I think, rather nonsensically, I’m glad to be heading off to Norway. I’m not sure I could live in Ireland the whole year. Not after such an amazing (and unusually dry) summer.

Then I laugh at myself.

When I’d told people my plan to spend the winter and spring in England and Scotland, I’d been given strange looks and asked, “Don’t you know it rains all the time there?”

When I’ve told people of my plan to spend the fall in Norway, I’ve been mostly met with an incredulous, “Why!?”

Well, for one, I’ve never been there. Two, I found an affordable-within-my-end-of-year-budget place to stay. Three, why not?

Besides, now that I’ve got my woolen jumper, I’m all set.

Even so, as I begin the packing process and work on all the details of moving on, of moving to my 19^th location for the year, this leaving feels like the end of a nice, long chapter. It’s a bit hard to turn the page. I think back over all that’s happened, all the places I’ve been, the things I’ve seen, the people I’ve met, the friends I’ve made, and all the adventures I’ve had.

I stand at the window with my arms crossed as the rain clears up for a moment and the sun peeks out. The Blackwater River turns from grey to blue. The Knockmealdowns reappear as purple.

How do I sum up the time that’s already passed?

How have I grown or changed over the past 255 or so days?

What have I learned from six months in the United Kingdom and three months in the Republic of Ireland?

That’s a lot to ask. That’s a lot to answer.

For one, I’ve learned that the literature and music and art from my childhood (and beyond) is so intertwined that I often don’t think to distinguish which is American and which is from Across the Pond.

For instance, to my sudden shock, I only found out last week that George Orwell was English. How I missed that, I don’t know. Maybe because Nineteen-Eighty-Four felt so American in its despair. Or, I simply hadn’t thought about it. I missed his placement of home the way I’d missed David Bowie’s. I’d claimed him as someone familiar to my place and time the way I did to so many of the bands and singers I’ve heard all my life. Part of my problem, part of my confusion is that I was Pop-culturally (and otherwise) clueless for the better part of my life and was generally oblivious (and mostly still am) in spite of having taken telling classes like British Lit and having friends more in tune with the world than I was. (I did know the Beatles hailed from England. I did know Coldplay was British even though I sometimes forget. I did know that Charles Dickens and Arthur Conan Doyle were British.)

But what is this? An American arrogance that claims all things come from home? An appropriation of all peoples and things? An astounding oblivion? Certainly, that. Or, is it instead, or maybe also, a willingness to accept that familiarity of shared culture as family, as neighborhood, as friend. Is it knowing that people are often much the same?

Anyway, whatever it is, I do have to remind myself and not be shocked to find out that so much of my childhood was shaped by writers and thinkers and dreamers and artists who call another country (different than mine) home.

For instance: Peter Pan was written by J.M. Barrie who was born in Scotland.

Alice in Wonderland, Winnie the Pooh, The Narnian Series, Peter Rabbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Jungle Book, The Wind in the Willows, Lord Peter Whimsey, and Tommy and Tuppence were all created by writers from the British Isles.

I wouldn’t be terribly shocked to find out that Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys were British. They’re not. But I wouldn’t have been surprised. (Those series along with The Bobbsey Twins, Rover Boys, and Tom Swift were created and/or published by the American publisher Edward Stratemeyer. Who very Americanly had a Syndicate which churned out these series in pure factory style. One person wrote the story outline, another wrote the book, and a third edited it. The books were then published under the pseudonyms Carolyn Keane, Franklin W. Dixon, and etc.)

Anyway, the West with its music, art, and culture is so melded together in my obliviousness that I forget the differences. Maybe that’s how it should be. For during all my time wandering, another thing has been reinforced, no matter where I go, people are essentially the same. They’re kind. They want their families and friends to be healthy and happy. They need community and connection. They crave love. And, they all have their own stories to tell.

For another, I’ve learned that I love listening in to accents and I wish I were a dialectologist or sociolinguist so that I could pinpoint with precision where an accent comes from. Or even keep the sounds in my head long enough to reproduce them later. That’d be a fun skill. It’s one I don’t have.

I also learned that I was highly flattered by the two Liverpool men who complimented my accent. Certainly, “You have such a lovely accent!” was something I’d never expected to hear.

For another, as I’ve gone from home to home, staying in places from one night to up to 71, I’ve met people who open up their homes, who share their space, who invite me into their worlds, taking me along to concerts, shows, sites, on trips to the grocery store, and out for walks. Who seem to welcome conversations, give and receive book recommendation, and exchange stories (written and verbal) with me. They even have me over for dinners, lunches, drinks, and films. One host turned a dinner into a birthday party for me after she found out my birthday was the next day. Then everyone got up to sing Happy Birthday and give me a hug at midnight. While sometimes it can take weeks to settle into a place, to fit in, to find my own rhythm within the rhythm of others, in the end, up to now, I’ve left (especially my long term stays) as a friend and with new friends to keep. That’s the biggest gift of this year so far.

And while people are much the same all over the world and that sameness connects us, the differences are there as well, and I haven’t been completely unaware of them. Difference makes life and people interesting. There’s beauty in diversity. There’s creativity in difference. There’s growth in meeting people who live differently than I do.

But wait, there’s more. For another, because modern day America was hatched out of British Imperialism (to put it extremely simply and to, in most ways, sidestep the political, cultural, native, and damaging nature of that), I hadn’t known how I’d feel coming to England for the first time. I knew that I have Scottish and Irish ancestry, possibly Welsh, and figured that I had to have some English blood in there somewhere as well. After all, I’m just a hodgepodge of European and Americans colliding and creating offspring. But I was struck by how much I loved England. How welcoming and homelike it felt. How much I wanted to blend in. How much I wanted to be liked.

I wanted to blend in, knowing that the moment I opened my mouth I’d be found out as a foreigner. I was self-conscious of my accent (this was months before the compliments) and often rounded out my vowels to avoid having to repeat myself to bus drivers, waitstaff, and passersby. I wanted to be like a chameleon, changing colors to fit the scenery. I’ve often wanted that. But then, even as I’m awed by the history, enchanted by accents, conscious of my own origins, and confused by the fact that everyone is British (George Orwell!?) contrastingly, I found myself smug with the thought that America beat Britain in the American Revolution. I didn’t realize I held that pride. It was a little embarrassing to discover this in myself.

On the same note though, as I moved northward, I felt a strong familial bond to Scotland because of that same pride, that fighting spirit that cries for independence. In some ways, as they still debate whether to leave the U.K., their brash and wild and very Scottish attitudes feel familiar to my own ingrained American attitudes.

[I’m intentionally disregarding current political events and yet, will say that I’d like to believe that my ingrained American attitudes are ones that spell freedom for all, not just a few, not just for those lucky enough to have been born within the strange and arbitrary borders we’ve made over the surface of the earth. That my ingrained American values are for justice, equality, human rights, compassion, care for natural spaces and wildlife, and kindness all around.]

There’s still a beating rhythm in the Scottish earth beneath the abbey ruins, deep beneath the lochs, and beneath the bright yellow rapeseed fields that hums deeply of freedom, of country, of place, of people, of self. In the strength and resilience and emotion of the people, I recognized the strength of personality of my father. Ah, how Scottish he is.

In Ireland, I’ve had the hardest time pinning things down. For, after having felt so at home in the United Kingdom, I was surprised to find Ireland a different fish altogether. Not that it wasn’t what I expected, but maybe that I didn’t really know what to expect. And I’d gotten familiar with another place. I’d become friends with the British Isles. There’s always a shock in meeting a new country for the first time. There always is. Always that fear of will I say the wrong thing? Will I reveal my shocking historical ignorance? After all, what do I know of Irish history? To my shame, what I knew really began in 1845 and stopped around 1849 and is known as the Great Famine. Don’t mention The Troubles, I was told. But, again to my shame, I wasn’t exactly sure what was meant by that except that it had something vaguely to do with the IRA. Should I even mention the English? I wondered.

Still, like my confusion with pop culture, in Ireland sometimes I’ve forgotten the differences in American and Irish history. What I mean is, the countries once held out their hands to each other across the ocean. What I mean is, I forget that Irish American doesn’t necessarily equal Irish. But, it kind of still does. I’m not making much sense. One fact, my grandmother’s maiden name was McCrory – which is an Irish name. Maybe that’s what keeps the tether between the two places still taut in my mind. My own link to this land.

Once, when we’d come to the top of the cliff walk in Ardmore, the woman I’d gone with said, “I told my daughter that on a clear day from here you can see America.”

I gazed out into the mist over the ocean. I smiled at the woman and the daughter. “You probably can.” 

In a time when America promised some sort of hope for a new future, that imagined sight would have been something. Bring your own prunes and drinking water, only one carpet bag per person, next stop – America. 

   

As I close the book cover on the United Kingdom and Ireland, as I head off to a new place, as I am still intertwined with my personal history, oblivion, and real history, I know how lucky I am to have been able to have spent this time abroad. Even as I’ve brought in my own perceptions and opinions, I hope I’ve had enough sense to let the places speak for themselves too. To appreciate how each place has touched and changed me. For, how could I not have changed?

Anyway, it’s not as easy as you’d think to really sum the last nine months up in a nice nutshell. But if you have to know, I can confirm that the people from England, Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Ireland all have a gift for hospitality.

“Shall I put the kettle on?”

“Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

“Drop in anytime. No really, do. I’ll put the kettle on for you.

In some ways, it’s just like Southern Hospitality. Y’all come back now, ya’ hear.

A Wooly Jumper

In only a few short weeks, I’ll be saying slán to Ireland and saying hallo to Norway. As the days shorten and the nights grow fat, instead of fleeing south toward the sun like a sane person, I will be heading smack into the darkness and cold.

All year, I’ve been carting my winter coat around with me. It came in useful back in January in Iceland where I started my adventure (also in the dark). It held its own at various stages during the winter and spring while I wandered among the Neolithic stones in England with my breath as crisp in the air as a new dollar bill, climbed a mountain in northern Wales, and felt the springtime snow on my face in southern Scotland.

This coat has been in a dresser drawer for months now politely waiting to be used again. It’s there next to a pair of long johns, a scarf, gloves, a knitted cap, and three thin, long sleeve shirts.

Nevertheless, even so well-equipped, I still have on my list of preparatory things to do: Switch out summer clothes for winter wear. This is partly a plan to lighten my bag’s load so that I will fit the airline requirements for weight and luggage amounts and partly a way to ensure that I really am prepared for the fall and winter in Scandinavia.

At the end of the day, this time of preparation is many things. It’s the end of season jettisoning of cargo. It’s the diligent ant eating up the proverbial food in anticipation of hibernation. It’s a letting go of the past and an acceptance of the future.

Since I didn’t bring along my snow pants (too bulky to cart around for a year) and I’ve worn my last pair of jeans to a threadbare status, I mention to my host that I should do some thrift store shopping at some point before leaving the country. I need a solid pair of pants and a sweater.

One day, she tells me she’s going to Dungarvan, a happening town only thirty minutes away, to get some schoolbooks for her daughter and says there are charity shops there where perhaps I’ll find what I need.

I go along.

There are a few things I know about myself. One thing is that I’m horribly ignorant about clothes. Another is that I’ll sacrifice style for comfort. Another is that I often wish I could know the sartorial future in combination with the year’s and a location’s unique climate so as to adequately pack and dress for it all. I can usually make things work, but sometimes that comes with a bit of resignation to my fate as a bad shopper and a more or less fashionless existence.  

I find a pair of pants that fit well enough (though later after wearing them for an afternoon, I realize they are useless without a belt. But thank goodness, I’ve been carting one of those around with me all year as well. My $9.24 purchase isn’t a waste, hooray, though yet again I resign myself to a less than perfect conclusion to my quest).

On the drive home from Dungarvan, I tell my host of my success with the pants though I might say “trousers” since that’s the local lingo, but that I hadn’t found any suitable sweaters although I say “jumpers” because that’s also the local lingo.

“I have a wool jumper in the gallery,” she tells me. My host sells Irish arts and crafts; paintings, ceramics, glassware, jewelry, and more. “It’s Donegal wool. You can see what you think, but you don’t have to buy it if it doesn’t suit you.”

“I was actually looking for a wool jumper,” I say. Because I actually was. I ask her about warmth and breathability and comfort. She’s taken aback by the fact that I’ve never owned a wool sweater in my life.

“I have three that I interchange during the winter and that’s how I get through it.” Wool sweaters are an Irish and United Kingdom yearlong clothing staple. To not have a wool sweater is like a Texan not owning a pair of shorts or a Coloradan not having a The North Face jacket. Like a runner not having a pair of running shoes.

I try to explain that while it does get cold during Texas winters that wool isn’t generally a first choice. How many days out of the winter would a wool sweater really be used? Not enough to justify the expense. But maybe, now that I think about it, the lack of wool appreciation could be partly due to Texas being more cattle country than sheep country. It could just be me, too. Me and my clothing ignorance. For it is true that my dad owned a wool sweater which he wore until it was threadbare and eaten away with holes. While I’d survived my winters in Colorado and Wyoming with sweatshirts and a coat (which was from The North Face and lasted me a full decade). With layers and thrift store jackets. Being ignorant of clothing, rather poor, and unwilling to pay full price for things had also narrowed down my past winter wear choices.

“Even now with the weather getting cooler,” my host says. “You could wear a wool jumper in the evenings and it wouldn’t be too much.”

When we’re home, my host gets the sweater out for me along with a ribbed collar and I take the items up to my room to try on.

The sweater is just exactly right. A friend of mine who is more clothing minded than I am had once told me that wool and cotton are the best materials to wear because they’re breathable and durable and other such useful things which I’ve forgotten.

I’d always thought of wool as itchy. I’d always thought of it as heavy and oppressive. I’d always thought of it as too hot. Time will tell which of those things are true, if any. But I’m willing to give the sweater its chance.  

Later, I put it on again and go down to show my host. As I pass through the sitting room, one of the daughters glances at me and says, “Nice jumper.”

Even later than that, my host has that same daughter snap a photo of me so that she can put it on her website with a caption that says something like: A Texan’s first Wooly Jumper.

“Don’t smile,” the daughter tells me as she stands back to take the picture. “Look like a poor, Irish housewife.” She tells me to stand in front of the Aga as a way to more strongly evoke the sense of place. She thinks we’re selling the Donegal wool.

My host makes a comment about that not being the look we’re going for, that it’s about the jumper, it’s about the website, it’s about me having my first woolen jumper. The daughter isn’t really listening.  

Feeling like I’m under the limelight, I grin stupidly. On the spot, nervous. I’ve never been very good at acting, nevertheless, I try my best to downgrade my smile and stand still. I try to channel my inner Wooly Jumper Model personality.

The daughter takes a handful of pictures and then we evaluate them together and choose the best one. We delete all the others. The picture is like a coming of clothing ritual fulfilled. Proof of my first wool sweater. A way to blend in.

“You’ll have to live in Europe now,” my host says. She knows I live frugally, she knows that a wool sweater is a bit of an investment even though she’s very kindly offered me a discount on the price. “To make the most use of your jumper. To justify the expense.”

I wouldn’t mind that. Not at all. I wouldn’t at all mind a little mountain chalet in a place where the evenings cooled down to a temperature that necessitated long sleeves. I wouldn’t mind a little quiet place in a village or even a city with a slow hum and moderate climate. I wouldn’t mind that one bit.

In the meantime, this sweater will certainly earn its keep in Norway, Finland, and Sweden. I’ll make the most of it from here on out.

After the photo shoot, I take myself and my wool jumper back upstairs. It’s too warm on this afternoon to keep it on, so I fold it carefully and set it aside. I’m content. I’m pleased. I’ve added winter things to my wardrobe, all I have to do is glean out the no longer needed summer things and pass them on or throw them out (depending on how worn through they are). Now I feel set for the future—for whatever, beyond the dark and cold, it holds.

I like the cold. I’ll like it even better now that I’m equipped for it. After I say slán to Ireland and say hallo to Norway, I’ll let you know about the darkness.