I wrote a letter to one of my high school teachers, Mrs. Busby. It’s always a pleasure to hear from someone in the old home town. I say “old” because Spokane is supposed to be my home town at present. At least, that is what I repeatedly tell my Army acquaintances. They are now so well award of the fact that “Mac” and “Spokane” have become practically synonymous.
We have to be very careful where we’re from while I the Army. A fellow may come from this city or that, or he may be a native of such and such a state, but, as a rule, soldiers do not hail from small towns. You’d be surprised at the location of some of the “suburbs” of our large cities. I am still looking for a GI from Illinois who is not a Chicagoan!
I told Mrs. Busby that, just between the two of us, I will admit that I’m about as familiar with Spokane as I am with Belfast. I lived in Spokane for just four months, and soon after I was shipped overseas, the family moved to a newly purchased home. If I arrive in Spokane at night, I may have some trouble finding where I live. And if the city were having a murky Irish blackout of the type thought which we must grope on wintery nights, I wouldn’t even try to find the place.
Next month will mark a year that I have been stationed in Northern Ireland. I am now more or less used to the idea of being here, but at first I frequently found myself thinking “So this is Ireland?” Any doubts on the subject which I may have had at that time have been completely dispelled. Yes, this is Ireland.
I believe certain aspects of Belfast would interest Mrs. Busby, as they did me. In the broad light of day, it is merely another large city, drab and uninteresting. But, dusk ushers in a fascinating transformation. How eerie the streets look during the long, dark night of autumn and winter. Imagine a stiff breeze whipping in from Belfast Lough. Perhaps there is a bit of mist, or maybe a steady rain. The side streets are foreboding; at the main corners pale colored lights thrust half-heartedly into the darkness. Except for the faint, unfamiliar sounds drifting up from the harbor, everything is still. Gloom shrouds the city’s ugly gray and brown buildings. Shades of Dorothy L. Sayers! Who could fail to appreciate such a setting for murder?
But that is blacked-out Belfast in the dead of winter, not Ireland, scenic masterpiece in the blush of spring and summer. I have a notion that the real Ireland is to be found outside the large cities.
Northern Ireland is very small or “wee”, as the Irish put it. Spokane and Whitman counties combined would compare favorably in size, I’m sure.
Ireland looks quite unlike the parts of the United States through which I passed. Some boys from Pennsylvania have indicated a resemblance between the land here and that in parts of their state. The larger cities are not attractive in the least, and the climate leaves something to be desired (good weather?); however, the small cities, towns, and villages and the open country are picturesque, beauteous, even awe-inspiring. (The views expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of anyone else).
As I rode to the city the other day, I tried to pick out points of similarity between what I saw and the land in the Palouse country. Their respective appearances could hardly be more unlike one another. The greater part of the land that I have seen consists of low, flat hills, virtually blanketed with trees and grass. I don’t wonder that Ireland is associated with the color green. In comparison with the cleared-off areas of the West, this looks like a vast park, stretching out in all directions as far as the eye can see. The landscape presents a blending of light green grass- and grainfields and dark green trees and scrubbery that is most pleasing to view. Miles away one can make out the angular outlines of small tracts of land, carefully bordered by the ever-present hedges, of which these people seem to be so fond.
It is a calm, peaceful scene. The land has an appearance typical of Britain. It is what you would expect to find here.
The weather undoubtedly is the country’s chief liability. The “refreshing” rains of the Northwest will not be found here. Irish rain is cold and inhospitable. Darn wet, too. The wind, often sweeping in from the sea, is brisk and sharp. One might call it “unkindly”. There are countless numbers of tall shade trees, but very little sunshine. In July we have a scant five hours of darkness, in December, eight and a half hours of light.
Britons are quick to point out that summer came on a Tuesday last year! And it is “frightfully decent” of them to do so. Lets us know just where we stand. According to the observations of one Yank, Britain has but three seasons instead of the usual four, namely: early winter, winter, and late winter. And the inevitable gag about the Irishmen who “were saving their money for a sunshiny day” made its debut soon after that first contingent of Yanks stepped off the boat and into the downpour!
Well, taken all in all, it’s an experience to be here in Northern Ireland, one that I can appreciate and no doubt will remember for a long time to come.
[letterstohome copyright 2008]