The closest I’ve been to Ireland is Conwy castle on the coast of Wales. It was summer, mid-way through college. I was in a naive and dreamy stage then, weighing my future options. Major in anthropology or English? “Save” others in the world ( did I mention naive?) or explore my own cultural identity in it? A trip to Kenya that same summer gave me a temporary focus for my world-saving mission.
As for cultural identity: I knew I had a lot of German in me and some English, but what I wanted to be was Celtic.
My grandfather had given me some hope. An avid reader on all things UK, he claimed some Welsh ancestry, including relation to a distant Welsh cousin of Anne Boleyn.
I arrived in Conwy growing more sure of my future (or so I thought then), but still looking for a past. I wandered the castle, trying to channel my inner Guinevere or Ceridwen. But the rain and wind inspired less attractive images: winters with no central heating. offal thrown out the windows, and burnings or beheadings to punish the kind of unconventional woman I aspired to be. A lover of history, even the violent sort, I didn’t mind the more gruesome images; but I couldn’t forge my identity in them either.
In the small town of Conwy, fantasy gave way to the practical challenge I faced throughout England and Wales: edible food. There may be some great cuisine in the British Isles, but on my limited budget, I didn’t find it. I counted on Indian and Pakistani restaurants to deliver me from soggy fish and chips or stale sandwiches made with crustless, white bread. And I found in Conwy a meal so memorable for it’s fiery heat and perfect blend of spices that I tend to recall it now as a turning point that steered me further down my circuitous path to South Asia.
Traveling south through the Snowden mountains, I hoped to hear my ancestral tongue spoken or perhaps even stumble upon a welcoming crowd of bards. What I remember is a long train ride through small mountains, more inedible food, and a few stops at stations where old men did speak Welsh but (understandably) didn’t show much interest in outsiders.
- Ingredients for a St. Patrick’s Day Celebration
I don’t yearn for that Celtic connection the way I once did. But every year on March 17, I wonder: besides wearing green, how should I celebrate the tangled history of slavery, missionizing, colonization, famine, migration, nationalism, and ethnic pride that has given us modern St. Patrick’s Day?
A quick web search this morning provided some tidbits I had missed before: St. Patrick was born in Wales. Who knows? Perhaps there’s some kin relation there. I also learned that some consider him the patron saint of engineers. I shared this finding with my partner this morning, just before he left for his long commute to engineer circuit boards. A lapsed Catholic of Polish heritage, he didn’t show much interest.
I’m on my own. So I will do what I often do: pull out the mandolin (I’ve neglected it badly the last few months), play a few jigs, and sip a bottle of Guinness.
And for dinner? Spinach paneer and lime chutney with rice.
At least it’s green.
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I don’t think it’s really established where Patrick was from. It’s been vaguely put as ‘the western coast of Britain’. In fact information about the real Patrick is actually quite scarce. Most of the ideas we have of him are really based on fantasy and legend growing long after the man himself. As for the cuisine of this part of the world: well, I can’t disagree. There are more and more restaurants of higher quality springing up thankfully. However, on a modest budget as you say, it’s limited. You’re welcome to Laois (if you need to learn English!).