Boldly Go Solo

"My
father was a big whiskey drinker. He said that when he died, he wanted to be
cremated. It took them three days to put the fire out."  Joke, courtesy of Hugh, my bus driver during a tour of Northern Ireland.

When someone ran out in front of our moving bus to cross a Belfast street, he said, "I guess that fella's tired of living."

I
craved a seat next to Hugh on that trip. He was alternatively funny and
hugely informative. The major problem was understanding what he was
actually saying. His Irish English was so strong, we sometimes had to
get him to spell things so we'd know what he was saying.

See that tar? That what? That tar. What's a tar? Not tar, tar. Spell it. T-O-W-E-R. Oohhh. Tower!!

I
wouldn't have experienced Hugh without signing up for a group trip and
going on my own. If I'd traveled through Northern Ireland with friends,
I would have heard a lot of American conversation, including my own.
Who needs to travel for that?

Granted,
the trip was part of a travel writer's group conference, but it was a
bus trip with mostly strangers nonetheless. Strangers, who became
acquaintances over the days, just like on any group trip I've taken.

Having
that group allows a knowing look, and laughter, at a dinner table where
five kinds of potatoes are served. Only in Ireland, eh?

And
on that bus one day, our tour guide Bernard actually stood in the front of the moving vehicle and sang a song
in his lilting Irish accent. (I always want to end a tidbit like that with,
"just like in the movies." But, hello, the
movies get their material from – get this – real life!)

Without traveling, you don't see the authentic origins. If you can't find someone to travel with you, well, loads of companies offer help via tours.

Ireland is full of singers. Some are on benches in pubs strumming an instrument. Others, like Bernard, are on buses with tourists, singing a capella, trying to get visitors to do the same.

That's a tough sell when the guests are American and not used to this kind of
display. Bernard (pronounced with the accent on the first syllable,
something like BUH' nud) at least got us to sing along to the Irish
song, "Cockles and Mussels," which some of us knew. Goes like this: 

In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty

I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone

As she wheeled her wheel-barrow

Through streets broad and narrow

Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-0.    
 

Okay, I'm getting carried away with memories here. And wishing I could remember more of Hugh's jokes.

Photos: Ellen Perlman

Signs near the Bushmills distillery. Potatoes at the Maghera Inn.