I’ve been getting emails, and phone calls asking me ‘where you you now?’ Like the the children’s series of books called Where’s Waldo? or that game, Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?, friends are asking where did ReAnn go after her time in the Algrave ended?
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND!
My good friend, Ruth, whom I met years ago when we were both deep into our mutual love of sewing and textiles, invited me to spend my 90 days out of the Schengen in her lovely home in Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland. I accepted, and am having a lovely time.
Belfast is a workingman’s city. Not so big, gruff, with a history of troubles that linger, charming pubs and tea houses, delicious restaurants, music that makes you want to dance, and a choice of whiskey that makes you want to sing!
Some things are a wee bit confusing. As part of the UK, they measure distance in miles, but weight in kilos. They measure length in inches, but buy fabric in meters. They buy gas by the liter but milk by the gallon. And sizing…add 4. In other words, if you wear a US size 12, here you are a size 16.
So far, I have attended an American Woman’s Club of Ulster Book Club meeting. Learned that they changed TJ Maxx to TK Maxx (same store) because someone already had the TJ. Got myself a Trainlink Pass to ride the glider, buses, and trains all over the country with one swipe. Have sipped a few largers, and met some truly wonderful folks.
And everything is soooooo green! It rains – a lot. But when the sun shines, which is more of an anomaly than the norm, everyone heads out to explore the massive, magnificently-managed National Trust homes and gardens.
Ruth has a brand new ‘toy’, a royal blue Mustang, which hugs the tiny, winding roads of Ireland like a tight-fitting glove. My first weekend, we headed to Mount Stewart, a ‘small house’ built in 1820-39 for the Marquess of Londonderry. A far-distant relative still maintains her living quarters in the house today.
The house and gardens are truly grand, as you might imagine. National Trust volunteers work as knowledgeable docents and also keep the gardens in glorious shape.
After Mount Stewart we headed along the western side of Stranford Lough, stopping along the way to see a wee cemetery from the days of the potato famine; three wee wells where partaking of the waters brings health and good luck; a forgotten phone box; a wee grouping of houses facing the sea where the gleaming white of their stone facades is almost blinding; a POP of color to brighten even the rainist day; a freshly painted phone box used as a wee free library; and lastly, a wee car-ferry ride to Portferry on the east side of the lough for our trip back to Belfast.
Before I say goodbye for now, perhaps I should address the wee word that keeps popping up while writing this blog. Wee is a word used by the locals to describe almost any and everything. From a wee cup of tea, to a wee stroll through the gardens, to taking a wee wee. I love it – but we think we have used it enough for now … and the last little piggy went wee, wee, whee, all the way home!
Until next time……
My Home on the Roam 