CHIP BUTTY: ROSES, THISTLES, AND SHAMROCKS

Chip butty: french fry sandwich

Matt and I are now crashing at an old YWAM friend's pad in Arbroath, Scotland. Arbroath has nothing to engage one's interest or imagination, which is precisely why we are here. To do nothing. To see nothing. We need a holiday from our holiday. (Don't get me wrong. I am not complaining. Europe is awesome, but we need a break.)

This wee rest coincides with the end of the British Isles portion of our tour. (That is, after, one more day here, one more day in St. Andrew's on Kate's due date, one day to quickly glance Edinburgh, one day to train back to London, and the following day we'll be in mainland Europe. My French is creeping out of the closet--let those 'R's role!) Thus, it now seems appropriate to make wild and ignorant generalisations about the English, the Scottish, and the Irish. They all have a penchant for chips (aka: fries). If one orders a Chicken Masala and doesn't want rice, one can have chips. If one orders Sweet and Sour pork and likewise disdains rice, one can substitute for chips. Half rice, half chips is also available if you like both, but just haven't had your chip serving for the day. Or one could opt for a chip butty--with, of course, a side of chips.

Aside from their mutual passion for fried potatoes, the rose, the thistle, and the shamrock are quite distinct from one another, despite what the average North American might suspect. The English are like the rose--classic, cultivated, proud. Sort of like Americans in tweed. The Scot likewise is like its national "flower," the thistle. A weed, an underdog, thorny. And the wee Irish are like their shamrock. Um, ...green? Cute? Everywhere? Lucky? Help, my metaphor is collapsing. In conclusion, I admit that the rose is fragrant and beautiful, the thistle funny, but the shamrocks were my favorite. I felt glad to leave England. My inner Celt longing for freedom. Scotland was nicer simply for being less polished (far less polished), rougher, grittier. But Ireland, o sweet Emerald Isle, eleven days were not enough.

Ireland was stunning. Exactly how you imagine, but the reality was greater. Sheer cliffs, aqua seas, scraggy peat bogs, acres of heather, billowing trees. Green, green, green. Every corner so vibrant green, not lush like the Tropics, but wild and rich. The Irish are so cute you want to squeeze them. The Guinness elixir to dampen the din of the madding tourists.

We rented a car for maximum freedom and so were able to hunt down hidden standing stones, stone forts, abandoned ruins, round towers, ancient burial sites, all criss-crossed with stone walls and heavily sprinkled with cows and sheep. I jumped on the hunt down one's roots bandwagon even. Well, not for myself, but my dad. The trail through a small, average working Irish town led to an old, hillside graveyard with a ruined abbey searching for Cosby gravestones in vain. Until two old, crippled guys mowing the lawns helped out. And that was it. They got my name, and nodded knowlingly, pointed out Cosby stones, and (jackpot!) beneath the ruined church building, THE Cosby tomb. I was really starting to feel like somebody! Next they told me all sorts of stories about Adrian and Thomas Cosby of Stradbally's Stradbally Hall. Did I know Adrain or Thomas? Did they know I was in town? Surely I should go down and introduce myself and (hee hee) ask for a piece of the pie, which from their understanding was the biggest pie in town and had been for 500 years. The proof was that from this distant hillside, we could see Stradbally Hall, and indeed it loomed large.

We took the lead and went to the large estate that is Stradbally Hall. Upon my word indeed! A large manor sitting upon 5000 acres and had done so for about 20 generations. Only one thing remained. Knock on the enormous door. I did. Nothing. Sadly, I turned. I had come so close. I wanted in! They rent out their stables now, so I searched out a stable hand to see if one of the infamous Cosbys might be about. Indeed, the younger Cosby was; however, they now live in the lower inside part of the house which was likely servants quarters long ago. So I approached the far less intimidating smaller side door and poked my nervous finger through the cobwebs to the buzzer. And to my delight and embarrassment, a Cosby emerged. Thomas Cosby to be precise. A sharp, schooled, thoroughly proud and sarcastic British man in his early 40s. I stumbled through the I-am-a-cheesy-tourist-who-wants-to-look-inside-your-house-due-to-some-dubious-idea-that-I-might-be-a-distant-relative speech. Thankfully, he politely invited us in and gave us a tour, albeit a barbed and brief one that they usually "try to discourage". I felt like a total low-class nerd (um, which I am actually), but who cares. I saw the old family pad and it was pretty freakin' cool. A portrait of the distant forefather who bore my predecessors hung there. It was all very strange. But actually, this forefather of mine emigrated to the Americas 300 years ago, so truly my direct line had only been here for 200. So I was stretching it, but I am glad I did it. It was fun, and funny. The manor was in quite the state of dusty disrepair sadly. And given that the Cosbys were trying to be ever so dignified English and had won some titles, they only ever married other titled or dignified folk--ie. only English. So they stole Irish land, killed who opposed them, and never intermarried--so much for my inner Celt. Thomas (a distant cousin I've determined--very distant) is proud of this of course, and urged me to go stand on the ruined castle site where we "kicked the shite out of them," and feel similarly proud. I did go to this famous battle site, but not with pride, more just amazment and awe really. I felt deeply the gracious, old graveyard guy's words, "yours is not a pretty history, but that's history for you."