Housepet vs. A Four-Legged Instruement of Torture

I wrestled with so many different titles for this post. Northern Ireland vs. Ireland. The UK vs. Ireland. The chemist vs. the pharmacist.

I've spent all week at Ben and Lisa's friends' country house in Loughbrickland, a tiny village just north of the border between the Republic of Ireland and the UK (Northern Ireland). One main way to tell the difference is the speed limit signs; in Northern Ireland they use mph, in Ireland proper, kph. Which is to say, as our host William did, that you can't suddenly go twice as fast just south of Newry.

William said some other interesting things, too. He caught me up on the IRA, Irish Nationalism, the Protestant/Catholic thing, etc. Apparently it was a big deal for some 350 years, but for the first 340 years I was not yet in existence, and for the last 10 I was a child. So you can forgive me for not knowing the whole story.

William said, in conclusion, that the time between the point where everyone realized fighting was pointless, and the point where they actually signed a treaty was about 15 years because "The dead bully you. 'Specially your own dead."

Belfast, which is about 40 minutes north of Loughbrickland, is palpably trying to become a tourist town. For so long, nobody in their right mind wanted to go there, but now that's changing a bit, and the Belfastians are milking everything they can out of the fact that the Titanic was constructed in their great shipyards.

Anyway, back to Loughbrickland. We stayed in a house that has been in William's family since the 17th century, complete with hanging portraits of the ancestors from that time, and situated on 100 idyllic acres of Irish countryside. Just behind the house is a fort that dates back to 800 or 1000 ad. All that remains is the dramatic way in which they restructured the land, digging one deep, circular ditch between two steep circular banks.

I photographed it but, alas, you'll just have to wait.

I actually took quite a few pictures in Ireland. The quality of the color and light here is so compelling that not only did I photograph it, but I was also motivated to actually adjust the settings on my camera (something I haven't ventured to do since i purchased it five years ago) in order to more accurately capture the scenes. We'll see what luck I had.

All would be completely well - the countryside, the first pilgrimage to the motherland (Kelly Jean is an Irish name if there ever was one), the tea, the BBC - if it weren't for the fact that, unbeknownst to me, this particular well-meaning family is in possession of two housecats. For those of you lucky enough to not be allergic, you'll think: "Oh, how nice. Country cats in country house. What could be sweeter?"

But if, like me, the presence of cat dander causes your lungs to seize up, and your chest to close, and general misery to ensue, you'll probably think: "Why do people insist upon keeping four-legged instruments of torture as pets? It's like having a beehive in the living room. It's like giving loaded guns to children as toys."

I took a trip to the chemist earlier this week to get drugs for my affliction, and he showed me no sympathy. I guess I expected him to hold me in his arms and stroke my hair, and tell me it would be alright, and if I did have a life-threatening asthma attack I could call him in the middle of the night and he'd rush over with an inhaler. But no, he simply gave me an antihistamine and went back to his chemist-ing. The most I can say for him is that his Irish accent was much better than John Wayne's in that classic movie The Quiet Man.

Cats aside, if I ever have children and do not return with them to this place when they are between 6 and 10 years old, I will be doing them a great disservice. The woods, the horses, the climbing trees, the trampoline. So plans are underway. I've made a reservation for four for 15 years from now, God willing.

(If you make a reservation and include "God Willing," in the contract, then you cannot be held financially responsible for your absence. If God did not will it, then how can they charge your credit card with a clear conscience?)

We return home tomorrow. Well, not home in the grand sense of the world, but Paris. And maybe it is home, if it's true, what they say: "Home is where you hang your cat. With a shoelace."

That may have been a bit gruesome. Instead, I offer you a line in perhaps the most quintessential Irish movie of the past year: The Departed. Leonardo DiCaprio remarks to Vera Farmiga: "You don't have a cat. I like that." It is important to note that Leo was playing the good guy.

In conclusion, sadly, most of my homes have a cat in or near them. Shit. I guess nobody feels sorry for me. Not my boyfriend. Not my mother. Not the Irish chemist. I'm completely alone in the world.