Northern Ireland

I was born an American Citizen. Genetically, a New England Yankee... but there are very few places that I have even felt so at home as when I pulled into the drive of the Marlborough House for the first time in Down Patrick, Northern Ireland. The Georgian house had been in the family since the 18th century, and is still a working farm. Lise and her sister Joan had befriended me on one of their trips to the States, and after a fun jaunt in NYC, I was invited to visit them for the first of what turned to many trips to Northern Ireland. I spent quite a few weekends there. My last trip was during the Christmas/New Year's Holiday, memories of a house party, screening Chaplin films in the front hall, and the 12 foot Christmas tree, dominating the hall, welcoming everyone. I may have even chased a terrified Stephen Mercer under the dining room table, but that is his story to deny.

Being horse mad, I lived for the weekends when I could board a plane from Boston to London, jump on a British Midlands flight to Belfast, Northern Ireland (changing into riding breeches en route) landing and heading straight to the stables, where Sarge, a giant dapple gray gelding was waiting to carry me through the woods. After a few hours riding Sarge, I would head back to the house, and collapse in a beautiful brocaded bedroom with a 200 year old armoire to hang my clothes in. It was staggering to think that the armoire was made just a few years after the Declaration of Independence was signed. It is one thing to read about history, and totally another to be hanging your shirts & skirts in an everyday piece of furniture from that same era in time.

These were some of my first solo international trips, and it was during late days of the "Troubles" when Ireland was divided and bombs were going off. It was common practice for us to be stopped and a soldier with an automatic rifle would ask for our papers (more often than not, we were in a car with British plates). On one trip to Dublin we had to cross a military border that I would only see the likes of again in the former Soviet Union. We drove up and down the country, to Dublin to visit friends and see Grafton Street, to the Belleek factory, and to a fortuneteller who lived in a house with a thatched roof. She read our tea leaves. There were no earth-shattering revelations in my reading. But then again, nothing about my life has been earth shattering. We smiled, paid our 5 pounds and hopped in the car to speed off to our next destination.

Driving up and down the highways of Ireland was a fun, exciting time. We stopped for dinner once at Lusty Beg Island. A rustic hideaway that I'd love to revisit when I am in love. Dinner there, in the candlelight is, to me, one of the most romantic places on earth.

It was that final Christmas trip that put an abrupt end to my visits. The Napiers are a family full of life and love, and the whole family welcomed me with open arms. On my last morning, we woke before dawn, my bags were in the hall, and Joan saw a mouse scurry into the kitchen. We woke up Johnny who was 18. He groggily grabbed a cricket bat and killed the mouse. Then, barefoot and bare chested, he took the body of the offending creature and disposed of it outside. He was our hero that morning - he was pretty heroic every morning for that matter. A week later he was dead. A sudden heart virus, I think. One day, he was in the peak of health and a week later, the house that was once filled with raucous laughter became a house of mourning. I couldn't bear it. Death had been stalking me all of my life, stealing away my mother, then my grandfather. I had just started picking up the pieces of my shattered childhood, only to have Johnny's death remind me that death will strike anyone at any time. His death still makes me cry today, twenty years later. I couldn't go back after that.

Someday, I'll visit Ireland again, to see old see friends and explore the Western Coast. Sarge is long gone now and my horse mad days are behind me. But I can still hear the thumping of his gallop as we raced through the woods of County Down. And I can still see Johnny's sleepy face as he slays the mouse that made the girls scream.