London Papyrus

My time in London was short and focused on gathering research on Margaret Forde.  The public records office of Northern Ireland (PRONI) in Belfast yielded precious little: A letter from Margaret's husband, and older Mathew to his son, on microfilm, and tangential references to the family, but not much else. There were many references to the Fordes in the massive Abercorn collection because Margaret's family came from a long line of this Earldom.  For those interested knowing more about the Abercorns, now a Dukedom which survives and still remains intertwined socially with the Fordes to this day, here's a link:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duke_of_Abercorn

One gem I did find at PRONI was Margaret and Mathew's 1670's original marriage settlement, a giant piece of supple vellum, very thin calfskin which was the choice for all legal documents and proved to be quite durable, pliable, preserving ink better than anything on paper.   The vellum documents in the Forde's collection were in excellent shape, but unfortunately this one at PRONI was in such degraded condition I didn't dare unfold it more than to view the top of the document, and even then, bits of musty brown pieces flaked off.  The box was damp, and the reference title mis-labled (the date was incorrect) and it was disappointing to think PRONI couldn't do better.  But to their credit when I brought the document up to the archive assistants they promised it would be taken to the manuscript restoration team for evaluation.

The marriage settlement, which outlined the dowry offered from the bride's family to the future husband and an allotment provided by the father of the groom (an exchange of money and property that only involved the men as was the custom) was the closest I came in Ireland to touching something that my ancestor had put her hands on.  There is no substitute for this kind of continuum, and thrilling to think that the DNA from her resting arm as she carefully signed her name to the document was mingling with mine as I gently swept my finger across it.

But there was a promise of more in London that kept me going.  The current Forde heir told me he'd seen a letter from Margaret to her sister, but when I registered at the front desk of the British Library and obtained my mandatory reader's card, there seemed to be no mention of this or any other document referencing the Fordes in the searchable database.  Discouraged, I mentioned this to the people at the reception desk, and one of them said he actually remembered the letter from when he'd been working in the manuscript department. Quite a lucky coincidence given my few days there.  More importantly he cautioned the letters were not located under the Forde name but in a subset under a different author.

If it hadn't been for this friendly staffer, I might not have been as persistent with the archivist in the manuscripts department who eventually located some of the letters.  Although the elusive Margaret Forde item wasn't there, I did find a series of letters to one of her sons, from husband Mathew, and sister, Lu.  During this time period it became obvious by the tone of the father's letters that Mathew II had ditched his university education and was hanging out with his other 'gentlemen' friends doing pretty much nothing except lounging in his club, eating well, and playing cards.  His father, who was experiencing scant revenues from his tenants due to various skirmishes between the Catholics and the Protestants in Ireland, was feeling the pinch of his son's debts in London.

The letter that most interested me though, was from his sister Lu,  because the desperation in her pleas to a wayward brother was evident in the tiny but meticulous script that covered every available inch, and sideways on the margins - faded but still readable on the square of linen paper bearing the fold marks from it's original small square shape sealed with wax as was the custom. It was a true window into the language, culture, and humor of the day.

I've excerpted a small sample here, with highlights.  Many words are spelled differently and are not errors. I've included some of the old words, but I've reconstituted some of the contractions that make it difficult to understand (i.e. y(r) is 'your' and y(u) is 'you') 'ye' is used interchangeably for 'you' and 'the' but should be clear in the context of the sentence.  I also added some punctuation because, as I mentioned in an earlier post, they don't use it and it can be damnably hard to understand in its absence:

To: Mathew Forde, Esq
The Golden Cup, Covent Garden
September 12, 1695


I am very sorry to find, my Dear Brother, so uncharitable as not to comfort his poor sisters in affliction, for I assure you we were never in more need of it, your time, your attention, and your greatest satisfaction we are capeable of receiving would be to hear often from you.  .....I have been a great while in debate whether I should write to you or not, but my good nature has got the better so last night I was much afraid I could not have brought myself to stoop soe low but I find great misfortunes like mine humbles one mightily as well as ye pleasures of London make you take apon yerself.  But when I consider yet you have to write but once to our faire kindred in Dublin yet (we) are so deserving.  I don't much wonder yet you should not think of a country girle, you may venture to call me for I am in despaire of going to Dublin before I see you.  Your honor we have lately  acquired has disappointed us of our expectations.

(she goes on this vein for another 30 lines before finally getting off on to another topic)


As for news, you don't deserve I should send you any, nor indeed I have not much at this time. We have been very dull ever since ye parliament for it has taken away most of our fine sparks as we have a very great want of my Lord Anglissy as he used to furnish us with all ye diverting news of London.  I suppose you know of all ye weddings yet has been in Dublin so I will only give you an account of one we are like to have here in our neighborhood.  It is between Mally Masterson and one Mr. Wise, who is very far from being (a gentleman like you) but he has 7 hundred a year and ye thing was proposed by his friends before the young couple saw one another and there was no great love in ye case.  He came to see us the other day and we were sent for to give our opinion of him but I never saw anything more comical. He never was in Dublin but once, but had the good fortune of meeting with an extraordinary dancing master, whom he lives for, and he could not rest till he then takes part in dancing a minuet which he did with his girl and ye company burst out laughing and they were forced to break off in ye middle of ye dance with the poor lover who was very sorry but had not the sense to take it all in.  I could say a great deal of him but fearing I have bored you already.
       I must now bid you adieu assuring you I am, Dr Brother, your affectionate sister Lu.
      My sister is so gerry with you yet she wishes me to say nothing for her poor George is going to Dublin to be flux'd for his eye.  Mr. Dawson and Mr. Carr bid me to give their service to you and tell you they have a very great want of ye at ye Tavern where you used to meet.

Eventually Mathew III came to his senses and returned to Dublin to take over his father's estate, and also stood for parliament in Dublin.  But later correspondence with this father (who by then was in better financial straits), showed he was still a bit of a spendthrift as he wanted to enlarge the house in Seaforde (possibly a 'shooting box', a smaller mansion used for hunting season as the main estate was south of Dublin) and his father cautioned him to scale back the project, and to be cautious with the equally ambitious architect.  These renovations were never made, and the house was destroyed by fire in the early 19th Century.  The current house was rebuilt shortly thereafter.

Below is a sample of a legal document from the 17th Century on vellum (this one is actually a handwritten copy of the original made by the solicitor because of its importance).  As this one, from a private collection, was several pages long it was bound with a large 'staple' top left made of something that looks like cat gut (flexible but strong).  All documents carried various coats-of-arms wax seals of the parties involved attached to tiny vellum tags at the bottom, and other seals as required if it was folded and secured for privacy.

Documents at PRONI and the British Museum could not be photographed nor photocopied, so I had to transcribe them all by hand.

I may not yet have put my hands on a letter from Margaret Forde, but these other snippets are equally valuable as they illuminate both the differences in our time, and the similarities of human nature, which changes much more slowly.  Probably much more slowly than we would like to admit, as the answer to conflicts seem as quixotic as ever.  Women in love.  Marriages of convenience.  Wayward sons.  Religious & Ethnic War.

Something quite rich to mull about as I start working on the framework for the new novel.

Old Families

My very deep thanks to the Forde family for their generosity as they shared so much of their lives and history during our brief visit there.  As I look forward to the next 12 months of research, reflection, and the painstaking process of creating a story worth reading, I am acutely aware of the boost all of these have been given by my time in Ireland.  Some gifts are truly priceless, and they change you.....

The Carriage House, Dundrum

View from Dundrum Castle

Decades ago in California there used to be reasonable and interesting B&B's like the one we found in Dundrum, a tiny village on the Irish Sea in Northern Ireland.  But now these 'small hotels' have morphed into ultra-luxe, romantic getaways with a hefty price tag to match.  The idea of a true home-based visitor experience has become a commercial enterprise, and travelers are the poorer for it.

The Carriage House B&B

Fortunately, this kind of unique visitor experience with its taste of local culture and cuisine is still to be found throughout Europe and the UK.  And The Carriage House B&B, with its views of the tidal Dundrum Bay leading out to the wild Irish Sea or the flower-filled private garden out back, offers just the kind of pampering and personal service that brings closer the joy of exploring an area.

With prices under $90.00US per night,  (a bargain for a pair of travelers sharing) the room we had featured crisp ironed cutwork duvet and linens, simple and elegant, with comfortable beds.  Owner, Maureen, has converted four of the bedrooms in her house for guests.  With a private en suite and plenty of fluffy towels, our bedroom was furnished with just enough useful antiques (desk, chair, mirror) to not overcrowd, and the cushioned window seat looked out over the water beyond.  This active tidal bay was fascinating as it emptied down to the sandy bottom during the morning hours, allowing farmers to dredge for the scallops and clams we enjoyed at the local restaurants for dinner.  As the day progressed, the water level rose enough to float boats, and this swift process made for great viewing, but tricky for swimming, which is prohibited.

Maureen prepared a full breakfast for us every morning, including homemade jams, and my favorite, rhubarb compote.  Rhubarb is popular here in Ireland, along with black currant and I enjoyed these flavors in everything from yogurt to throat lozenges.  The back garden of the B&B was filled with birds who feed off the fruit scraps our hostess provided, and although not at the time of our stay, she usually keeps a hen house out back as well, for fresh eggs.  The hearty wheaten and soda breads were all baked locally.

The Carriage House is located on the main street, but traffic is sporadic and quiets completely at night when the only passers by are on their way to the slightly bigger village, Newcastle, to the south.  During our first day there we hiked up a steep hill behind the B&B to Dundrum Castle, where  neighborhood boys were playing soccer.  We were the only other visitors, another advantage of off-season traveling.  Once a stronghold overlooking the bay, this castle was built in the 13th Century , destroyed, and rebuilt over the centuries as so many are in this area, subject to various invasions, (including an ancestor, King John, in 1210), religious skirmishes, and a civil war.  You can still see the battlements, and the grassy, enclosed keep where knights practiced their swordsmanship, and the view to the village below is as charmingly bucolic and a picturesque as one imagines Ireland to be.

Since Dundrum has only a couple of restaurants and the main one was closed the night we arrived, we drove down a few miles to Newcastle.  This larger seaside town at the base of the Mourne Mountains is a true holiday destination, with plenty of activities for families, old-fashioned candy shops, and several beaches, some with swimming pools adjacent.  There are also natural sulphur hot springs in the southern edge of town, some enclosed and some built onto the beach.

The weather this time of year is variable and although we had sunny periods, the windy days were also spectacular on the open sea.

Newcastle on a stormy day

Seaforde Butterfly House and Gardens

I've been so busy working the last three weeks that I haven't had the time to publish some of my travelling experiences and I'm going to share some now.

Seaforde Tropical Butterfly House, Gardens and Tea Room.  
Seaforde, UK

http://seafordegardens.com/

This is one of those places on the eastern coast of Northern Ireland that has more hidden treasures than what might be apparent from the unassuming entranceway just north of the tiny village that has the estate's name.  Known more to local and European tourists, this is an extraordinary little gem of a retreat that has been lovingly cultivated by the Forde family and generously shared with visitors from late April until the end of September each year.

We stopped first at the tearoom, a cheery wooden structure built onto an ancient stone wall.  Heated by a wooden stove, the menu featured homemade soup, sandwiches, and an array of homemade cakes, tarts, crumbles, and tea cookies.  There is a play area for children, which speaks to the wide age range of visitors to the gardens, and all are made welcome.

Peacocks roam the gardens, and they are definitely the cock of the walk in their attitude.  We came during mating season so the males were in full display mode, and when we approached they would favor us with their plumage for a photo.  I don't know how intelligent these birds are, but when we asked one particularly savvy bird if he would turn around and give us his back view, he quickly complied, long enough for us to snap away.

I'm just sayin'.....

The butterfly house is a delight - and while we were there in the early stages of many of the species (new ones are delivered as pupae every week), there is nothing more relaxing than watching these beautiful creatures of every size and shape flutter around, feast on fruit (their favorite meal) and occasionally land on your shoulder or hand.  If you blow on one gently as they perch on a leaf, they may open their wings and provide a stunning photographic opportunity.

We were fortunate enough to be given a private tour of the adjoining gardens, reached through a vine-covered stone opening, and it is clear this collection of rare plants is best viewed with relaxed and curious exploration.  Many of the plants, some of which only grow in this small eco-system provided by sheltering the environment of an enclosed garden are currently being catalogued by experts as the the late Mathew Forde, original garden architect, was more apt to describe each of the thousands of specimens by memory.

In the middle of the formal area of the gardens is a large, hornbeam maze, and it's just high enough to provide a real puzzler experience for those who want to find their way through to the leafy and sheltered gazebo in the center.

The experience at Seaforde Gardens is truly like being in the privileged enclave of a private estate, not a buttoned-up tourist destination. The stone walls, small gazebos for resting, foot pathways meandering through forests (including a giant redwood planted decades ago by Forde), offer a solitude and closeness to nature can be enjoyed by all.  With plenty of picnic seating and lawns to bring a blanket and basket to, this is a lovely way to enjoy the timeless beauty of cultivated Ireland.

Old, sooty things in the damp

When I left Em and took the Victoria line to St.Pancras (she says everyone pronounces it St. Pancreas), I expected the British Library to be an ancient building like so many other landmarks here. Not so. It is a modern complex, lacking somewhat in charm, but I'm sure much safer for their vast collection, which numbers in the multiple millions of documents.

I now have three ID cards from my research on this trip: the National Archives, Dublin, PRONI (Public Records of Northern Ireland), and the British Museum. And in every one of them my obligatory photo has magically transformed me into a bag lady who just rolled out of the gutter. And here I thought the giant woolen muffler I've been wrapping around my neck was rather natty. My head barely clears the massive thing and although I look warm, it's been a bit deflating to realize that it's not necessary to dress like I'm in the gulag.

Bob jokes he doesn't believe I ever lived in Canada because I have absolutely no tolerance for cold (which is anything under 60 degrees) and wear a scarf almost every day except in the summer (school mums can confirm this). Knowing I'd be outside a lot here I've tried layering to some success - it's been a miserable, cold, wet spring here in the UK, and everyone has complained about it no end. I just expected to be this way (as I do in Vancouver) so I wore a trench coat over a couple of sweaters, and when it rained I pulled out my handy mini-umbrella from my bag and soldiered on. I've walked in the last three weeks more than I've walked in the last year, and the coat comes on and off (along with the muffler) in shops, restaurants, the tube, and the library. Another reminder why I left Ontario. Nothing worse than boiling when you pop into someplace, then freezing when you go back out.

At the British Library anything more than a purse and laptop is frowned upon and you can't even get inside if you have anything larger than an airline carryon bag. They search your stuff when you come in, too. Once inside you are directed to lockers and cloakrooms because you pretty much have to strip down to your knickers when you use the reading rooms. And where I was working in the Manuscript Room their rules are the strictest of all.

Here in the hushed inner sanctum where their document collection stretches back several hundred years, people pore over collections on special stands that are designed to cushion the books. They use a thing called a snake (which is a string of little pellets wrapped in a stretchy tube) to hold a page for future reference. Pencils and laptops are allowed, but pens, gum, sweets, coats, hats, briefcases, or dirty hands are strictly forbidden. How they check our hands is a mystery because they don't make you wear gloves when you handle the documents and I saw some sweaty palms in there. I found it quite extraordinary that we could even touch the materials, in my case, leather-bound books of hand-written letters that were attached onto strips of cardboard by one edge and bound into collections by date. The letters I was examining were all from the 17th Century, and as reverently as I handled them I felt a little guilty that I was touching them at all. They seemed so fragile...and damp. At first I was alarmed, but I think the paper just sweats a little, almost as if the water that is part of the paper mixture, is breaking down over time. Returning to it's natural components. But surprisingly most of the letters were in good shape considering their age. Letters are much more interesting to read than the legal documents which are more readily available having been kept at solicitors' offices for generations, but scarce in number.

I was in search of one particular letter - the only one known to exist from Margaret Hamilton, the subject of my research. I'd been told by Lady A's son that this letter was in the library, but it proved to be elusive. An online search came up empty but a very nice Inquiries Desk man with an earring and long, double-jointed fingers searched through some very old directories on a shelf and managed to locate a collection that looked promising. He then advised I go for lunch since requests take about an hour to process. Margaret's letter, I was told in hushed, reverent tones, might be found in a small group of personal correspondence that were catalogued as being from her husband. All dated around 1695.

There is no simple way to search through these large books of collected letters except to turn them over one by one. I've become much better at reading the spindly writing and interpreting some of the language used back then. Yr is your, yt, is yet, ye means 'the', our 'you' depending on where it falls in the sentence and they never, never, never use punctuation, except for the odd comma that seems to appear randomly in sentences that run on for half a page. I don't know how they read these things back then. For those of you who know the wonderful little grammar book, 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves', punctuation can make all the difference in the meaning of a sentence. It could be that wars were started by lack of a comma....

The upside of browsing through hundreds of letters is that you can't help but stop once in awhile at an interesting one, even if it's not what you are looking for. It's a bit like looking through someone's underwear drawer, someone whose life you have a momentary window into, and then that's all you get.

Like the short note from Warren Hastings, who was Governor General of Fort William, Bengal in 1789. Most of the letters to and from him had to do with military and civil matters, from Prime Ministers, army captains, minor civil servants. But there was one note to his brother where he let him know he was exceedingly pleased to send along on a returning frigate, a case of Madeira, which he cautioned his dear brother not to drink all at once, but to pray save a bottle or two for his next visit. And there were the occasional pleas from the wives of men who had been lost in one of Hastings' campaigns, where they would use their womanly wiles as best they could to try to pry more funds from the coffers, "as ye promised when last we met."

I passed up a lot of interesting things because there was a lot to plow through and you can't hurry. Each letter had to be gently picked up and flipped over, then repeated. Eventually I found two letters from Margaret's husband, Mathew, but they were to his son in London, not to her. I'd seen transcribed copies of these letters in Lady A's collection, where father berates son about unpaid bills and the fact he'd ditched college to live in a place called "The Golden Cup". Some things never change.

Search as I did, the elusive letter from Margaret never turned up. But I did find a letter from her daughter to that bratty brother in London and it was so amazing that I transcribed it in its entirety, even though it took almost three hours. This letter was written on two pages, both sides, and then she started on the margins, and finally ended on part of the outer envelope. I'll share this with you next. But now it's late and I have a plane to catch in the morning.

This is sooty London, signing off.....




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London is not the place for good linens....

....unless you have pots of money. I've stayed in some of the worst places in the world here in London. Years ago I was shooting a documentary and encamped in a hotel for a month. It was not cheap accommodation and back then choices in the center of the city were limited. The grand old exterior looked quite presentable when I arrived with a boat-load of equipment, first scout of the crew, and I was bone tired and ready for a hot shower.





But inside was another matter. The halls were painted a shiny hospital green and they seemed to meander in all sorts of unpredictable directions, often ending in unmarked doors and tiny elevators that looked too tiny for an actual person to fit. It took some doing to locate my room which was located a good 10 minutes dead run to the nearest fire exit.

Large and simply furnished, it smelled like bacon and soot with faintly malodorous notes that I stubbornly refused to accept was of a human origin. A tiny V-shaped shower was tucked into a corner that obviously was no use for anything else, including taking a shower. And the bed had one of those ancient flowered covers that were best left elsewhere. One large window looked out onto a grimy scene, rows of backyards with nary a blade of grass in them and I stood looking out and thought of Dickens. Well, I supposed, this was one authentic Londoner experience one wouldn't get at the Dorchester.

I dropped my things and immediately located a vegetable seller on a nearby street who had a few bunches of flowers for sale. I bought a pickle jar, emptied the pickles and arranged a spray of yellow and white daisies in it then and placed my purchase on the room's windowsill. They stood out in bright contrast to the grey beyond.

"Awful!" I emailed the rest of the group, who were coming from Belgium where they were filming another portion of the documentary. Then I started looking around online for something else that was centrally located and reasonably priced. Everything seemed to jump up two-fold and we were only shooting a documentary for heaven's sake so there wasn't anything to be done. Even the budget hotel in the States, like the Holiday Inn Express, seemed to have become luxury accommodations over here. Perhaps they had real showers, I thought dreamily.

Three weeks later my run of bad luck continued when I was given the back row of the plane next to the bathroom and endured six thousand miles of bums and toilet flushings. These days when my wonderful husband bumps me up to the front of the bus for trips I remember those flushes, and the man who had a death-defying cold next to me who sneezed, and sneezed, and sneezed.

Never will I take the Admiral's Club for granted, I promise!

I've had the worst luck in this city, and it stretches back a few decades. The B&B I chose for my first honeymoon (Bob, cover your eyes) had a horrible fitted carpet curling at the edges and a clanking steam heater. The television set had one channel and the wool blankets smelled like mothballs. On that occasion I unabashedly called in a favor from a director who was making a picture at Shepperton Studios and he found us a room in a 17th Century coach inn deep in the Cotswalds to get the awful memory scrubbed from our nostrils. A later trip with a friend yielded a cramped twin B&B accommodation that was above the basement where they served a breakfast best served in basements without very good light. Londoners don't seem to aspire to the kind of antique-laden or windows over the beach and sea kind of luxe B&B we have created as a standard offering in California. I now understand how it was that visitors to my mother's retirement occupation, a creaky B&B in Ontario didn't complain about the frayed towels and darned sheets. They had to have been London B&B owners. Only one traveller did give a scathing review on Yelp, and it was wincingly accurate. BTW, bathroom doors are meant to close, so when your sight is going (bless you, Mum) and you can't see the dust, it's time to hang up the landlady key.

Now I'm in Swiss Cottage. I tried, I really did. I perused miles of photos and reviews through a very reputable private B&B agency, and this one looked very nice. And the couple who run it are very nice. Generous with their time, too, and unfailingly sweet. The host, born here in the area, recommended quite a few wonderful restaurants and the first one I chose was spectacular. Prawns in wasabi sauce, dry-rubbed spare-ribs in chili and garlic shavings. Voted the best chinese food in London a few years in a row. Very pushy "You be done by eight o'clock?" they asked when I arrived at half-past six. Very likely, yes. The food was worth it, though.

But the room, oh, the room. Big and bright, and a window that looks out onto a lovely back garden. Like the jar of daisies on the windowsill so long ago I concentrate on this view. Not on the tattered lace trimming on the faded coverlet, reminiscent of old mum's recycled bed linens. A squeaky mattress and a little tv set with rabbit ears. One tiny pillow. What is with the pillows on this side of the pond? And the shared bathroom, with, oh, thank God, a remnant of shampoo and conditioner in the medicine cabinet because Boots is closed and I have an appointment tomorrow morning. I have to talk myself out of getting online and moving lock, stock and barrel into a whole slew of trendy hotels that now occupy the dreary block I occupied so long ago. But then I pre-paid for the whole week and I'm too thrifty to throw the funds away. Perhaps I'll just leave a little note when I check-out in lieu of my own review on Yelp. 'Please, oh please replace the bed linens with something made this century. Also, recommend you invest in a real tv or remove it altogether and take to nearest thrift store. Thank you, most sincerely yours,' etc. etc.

I'm dreading seeing Lady A's daughter tomorrow, who lives in Notting Hill in a grand old townhouse that apparently gets mistaken for the lovely one Hugh Grant owned in that bookshop movie with Julia Roberts and..., oh, you know the one. That's what her mother tells me, anyway. Another bloody world away from here, and yet only ten minutes by tube.

There are some lovely townhouses on this street. I shall imagine I'm in one of those when I explain where I'm staying. My host told me I can catch a bus down at the corner to get straight to Notting Hill but I absolutely refuse to take a bus. I'm in London! He looked at me like I was barmy but offered a tube alternative that was longer and involved changing from the Jubilee line to the Central line and lots and lots of stairs.

I don't care. I'm not steppin' off a bloomin' bus to visit an Earl's granddaughter.

Blimey, I have to take a shower next. Pray for me.



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The Crown and Fibber Magee

The Crown turned out to be a good restaurant but no music. We ate a hearty meal of local sausage on a potato/leek mash and then headed out onto the street. We were across from the Europa Hotel, once known as the most-bombed hotel in Europe. Once a favorite target of the IRA, it was now just an odd looking piece of intimidating architecture - part grand columned entry topped by a non-descript utilitarian tower which housed the rooms.

As it turned out we only had to go around the corner from the Crown when we heard music, the distinctive fiddle, pipe, with bodhran rhythm that belongs in traditional Irish songs. Fibber Magee's is an institution in Belfast and we were lucky enough to get there during the after-work music, when the crowd was local and very likely to get up and dance, men and women both displaying the kind of light footwork that was so much like Riverdance we knew we were not in in America anymore.

The men were friendly, one tall football player kind of a guy gave Arlene a hug and then moved on, two others, as different in size as Oliver and Hardy, tried to strike up a conversation but we made only enough polite nods to tide us over until we were able to grab a couple of empty seats at a table by the musicians. Everyone crowded into everyone else, and sang along with gusto as the musicians reeled from "Galway Girl" to U2 favorites, and the men and women who danced, danced with everyone else. Alcohol here is cheap, a reminder that pubs are a way of life for people of all ages. We drank cider from big glasses, and watched in amazement as everyone joyfully danced their version of an Irish jig, always with a great sense of humor.

We stayed thru to the second band, amazing players of whistle, guitar, mandolin, fiddle, and bagpipes. The crowd pressed in and we all took videos (mine will come later). This crowd was from all over the world, and we stayed until the band finished at midnight. Neither Arlene nor I were anxious to get back to the hotel as there had been a mix-up and we were forced to share a double bed until they could free up a twin room on Sunday. Despite fears of snoring and catching each other's cold, we managed to roll ourselves up in our respective comforters and sleep with most of our limbs hanging off opposite sides of the bed.

Belfast has come alive since the Peace - it is so recent that there is still a sense of palpable relief in the air. The soldiers are gone, checkpoints, and fear replaced by crowds that stay out on the streets until the wee hours of the morning. You can't change 500 years of division overnight, as the cabbie who picked me up today at the Belfast Public Records office told me. The gated walls between Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods are still there, most are open during the day but close at night when darkness and drink don't mix with the boys who are still looking for a fight. And new buildings are sprouting in the red sandstone landscape - a city with virtually no highrises.
"Why spend monae when they'll just try ta take it down?" was the answer. Bombed cities do not flourish.

The Titanic Experience is one of many new bright spots for the tourists who are beginning to come to Belfast. Since opening three weeks ago it's been sold out.

More tomorrow on our day there.

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Missing Heathrow

Belfast to London is a domestic flight - good thing, because the wait times at Heathrow Immigration are up to two hours because of understaffing. People are so frustrated there have been shouting incidents and recently a group of travelers rushed the line en masse and the security people just let them through. Newspaper reports now say the Government will start charging airlines more now to help beef up staffing in time for the Olympics.

Not my worry today, though. It feels very strange to be flying into London like a regular commuter - I'd never heard of BMI (British Midlands) before I booked the ticket and surprised how new the planes are, with leather seats and little hooks for suit jackets. - the flight is almost full which isn't surprising because it costs so little - $40.00 (about 30 pounds), less than a flight from L.A. to San Francisco. They even supply a choice of free newspapers to read during the hour long flight.

The Belfast City Airport is much smaller than the larger International terminal outside town and security consisted of a friendly man who only needed to see my boarding pass (not my passport) then made a joke about my Apple iPad (if you put two of them together, you get a pair, a pair, get it?). Lest anyone think security there was lax, he then asked pleasantly if he could examine my 'wee' computer and promptly whipped out an explosives kit and wiped it down thoroughly. After I went through the metal detector (note to self: don't wear underwire bra next time) I was pulled over patted down by a female office over every part of my body except the ones that were barely permissible. And I now know feeling inside your jeans waist is permissible.

Perhaps it was the discovery of the 600 pound bomb in somebody's back yard outside Belfast earlier this week that has them on edge. The cabbies who took me from the Public Records office and back (I walked everywhere else) had plenty to say about the changes here, most of them positive. But old habits die hard: For one thing they all tell you their religion, which means a great deal here, for better or worse. One driver, a burly, bald man who was listening to football on the radio ("I love my sports, he said, except for Cricket....boring!) told me that in his north Belfast neighborhood he has never strayed outside his Catholic enclave, not one street over to the Protestant side and wondered if he ever would. There are many walls in Belfast that were built between Catholic and Protestant areas and even now they are only open during the day. Some are still closed 24/7. Another cabbie told me that he, a Protestant, had married his wife, a Catholic, and back in the 70's it was so dangerous do this in Belfast they had to move out of the city.

This war between the religions can be traced back to 15th Century's willful king, Henry VIII, with a contribution in no small measure by the powerful papal hierarchy in Rome. Many think Henry (who in fact remained a Catholic his whole life) created a new religion but he was only responding to a larger anti-papist movement in Europe that emboldened his desire to cut off the dictates of Rome. In many ways, it was inevitable - the Pope and his Cardinals throughout Europe wielded as much power as the Kings they served, and their secret political and cultural machinations around Europe were bound to chafe sooner or later. But the unintended consequences of the division and subsequent populist rise of protestantism in Britain festered most in Ireland with its strong Catholic base, intensifying after the great 'Ulster Planting', as it became known, which brought English and Scottish settlers into Ireland in the 16th and 17th Centuries. This was social engineering on a grand scale and was meant to control the wilds of a distant realm. These events changed the fortunes of many - the indigenous populations (and ancient clans) lost land holdings and favored members of aristocracy (or landed gentry) in England and Scotland were granted or purchased vast tracts of arable land thus gaining control of the economy.

When the last of the Catholic Kings (James II) was summarily exiled in the late 17th Century in favor of Protestant William and Mary, the landed gentry followed suit and converted to the religion of their King, so closely tied as they were to London. Catholics, now outcast in the political system, became the working poor and the dye was cast for class warfare that erupted frequently over the subsequent centuries.

Being identified by one's religion has factored into one of the tantalizing mysteries surrounding Mathew and Margaret Hamilton Forde, the subjects of my research here. Although Forde claimed to be Church of Ireland (Anglican), a clue to his hidden loyalties can be found in his Last Will and Testament, written the night before he died, in which he requested that he be 'buried at night' with all due haste in a cemetery that was known to be Catholic, and with as little fanfare as possible. This little bit of skullduggery points to a conversion in name only in order to protect his property from the protestant Monarchy and the bands of political thugs who were still looking for ways to annihilate Catholics. Another clue is Margaret's religion - her father, Sir George Hamilton, was an avowed Catholic, and he would never have sanctioned a marriage with a Protestant had he not been made aware of the practical necessity on Mathew's part to 'convert'. Most gentry had switched to Church of Ireland but Hamilton had a free pass from Charles II to remain Catholic because of his loyal service to his father during the Cromwellian Civil Wars. Forde had no such protection so he had to resort to a Catholic burial in the dead of night with only his wife and son as witness.

400 years later, the walls separating the two religions are still visible in the landscape, still part of the Belfast identity. But cooler heads have prevailed in the last decade and one can only hope they move beyond fist-a-cuffs and clan loyalty, continuing to use diplomacy to gain their political, social, and cultural rights. North and south are no longer separated by soldiers and checkpoints. And as the border blurs one wonders how long it will be before the two finally unite.




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