Lies, lies and assals


Today we took another hike. While I love my shoes (Nike Mary Janes) and they are perfect for walking the streets of Belfast, they are not designed for the rocky terrain of the Aran Islands. Neither am I.

Our guide, Donal, has a tendency to get quite creative with the truth. (read:he’s such a liar!) But in actuality, it was better that he told us it was a “bit” of a walk and not “an epic pilgrimage.” It was better that he said “fifteen minutes more” and not “prepare to walk another forty-five minutes, ladies & Jim” And truly better for him to say “just up the road” instead of “welcome to your Everest climb, I’m your Sherpa, Donal”…

Among the many topics of discussion on our way up to the highest elevation on Inis Mor and probably the entirety of the Aran Islands was Mt. Everest. A great debate over the location of this mountain ensued. In confirming my suspicions online, I discovered it is known in Chinese as “Holy Mother” …. Today’s climb could have been similarly named. With an exclamation point.

At first the walk was lovely. The sun made an unexpected appearance. The breeze felt oddly warm. But….after about 20 minutes, I wished we were back on the horse and trap (horse drawn carriage) we enjoyed is morning on our ride into kilronan. I longed for the comfort of a bed, or at least a place to put my feet up.

We saw assals and capallas (donkeys and horses) as well as cows (I keep thinking the girls will stop being so enchanted by cattle….not yet). I suppose they are less elusive than the seals we can only catch glimpses of. Legitimately though, the cows are cuter here.

By the grace of gaia alone we made it to the highest peak. I’m proud to say I climbed the rusty spiral stairs to the top of a defunct and somewhat dilapidated lighthouse. The trick is not looking down. And not getting Tetnus. By the time we made it to another fort (made of more rocks), I was pretty much done. When the opportunity presented itself to have the bus come get us, I encouraged us all to make it back on foot. What I was thinking, I can’t tell you.

I learned how to say “you only live once” (YOLO being our group motto, and all) in Gaelic. I would type it, but it would be horribly wrong. I’ll be sure to say it often upon my return.

Tonight we are slated to watch a movie (or, film as they call it… Or “filum”, realistically speaking) about the culture of the island, have a rousing and intellectual discussion. Then it is off to one of the island’s finest social centers.

Much to the shock and awe of us all, many of the girls have a bit of sunburn on their chests and cheeks. I have a tiny bit of a tan. I had planned after the epic hike to jump in the ocean. I was so HOT!! But dinner was ready, we moved along to the culture center and ate (I couldn’t eat much…all that activity really reduced my appetite). I guzzled two glasses of water. When it would have been possible to go swimming, my core temperature was down, as was my interest in 40 degree water.

I am thrilled to report that I had a hot shower this evening. I’ve had two Aleve and used Aspercream. I’m now going to tell two lies. Physical fitness is immaterial on this study abroad. And I regret a single minute of it.



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Inis Mor Dun Aonghasa


We left the hostel in Galway at 9 to catch the half-ten ferry to Inis Mor…the largest of the Aran Islands (wish I knew how to do accent marks on here). The ferry crew made a little fun of the girls’ luggage. They asked how long they were staying on the island. 😉 (all fun and games until the crew nearly herniated themselves lifting the baggage up to the dockside).

The island is pastoral and peaceful. Our lodging is quaint, clean and recently built or remodeled (recessed halogen lights,unmarred knotty pine floor, and new sheetrock). We took a few minutes walk down the hill to see the beach.

How do you say hello in Irish? Dia dhuit (pronounced: ???)

We went up to an ancient fort… Long walk uphill, but it was totally worth it. The view was amazing. I didn’t take the iPad, so I don’t have photos on here of that. When I get back I can post more.

Just made baskets with the island’s basket maker. My fingers feel numb. 🙂

Here are some photos….





Galway Girls


It’s hard to keep track of what day of the week it is. It feels Ike we have been here for a long time, but I know when we are a couple days from returning home, we will all say how fast it went. One the 18th, we made our way via the scenic coastal route from Sligo to Galway. A brief stop for photos and to pee (we have 14 girls; go figure), and we enjoyed the mountains, massive amounts of wild rhododendron, and curvy roads (I didn’t enjoy that part so much). We had lunch in Charlestown!

Everyone loved the look of Galway as soon as we laid eyes on it. Small shops, pubs, and larger shopping centers, restaurants and a variety of street performers made for a vibrant downtown area. Parts of the area are completely blocked off for pedestrian traffic only. The mixture of medieval and modern architecture (sometimes in the same structure) is fascinating.

All the girls wanted to go to Supermac’s … Ireland’s answer to McDonalds … I was unnecessarily hopeful about the prices and the quality of this experience. The meat is extraordinarily dry, the ketchup noticeably different and the drinks laughably small. Despite the disappointment, we all had fun, and then headed out to watch some live music.

It took over an hour or more for the band, Super Sonic, to start playing. But it was well worth the wait. They were fantastic performers. Jim and I were hanging back, and the girls were up by the stage. I could tell the band knew how to communicate with the crowd when i heard the frontman say “this one is for the girls at Eastern Illinois University!!” 🙂

Before long, I made my way up and danced and sang. It was great fun. They played a lot of American music. I heard everything from Mumford & Son, to CCR to Jason Miraz. The best was when they played “I Got Friends in Low Places.” The crowd nearly lost their minds, belting it out as loudly as they could. With so much audience participation in their songs, the lead singer could periodically stop singing and take a drink. The audience kept singing for him!

Yesterday, we had a walking tour of Galway. It was a great walk and learning experience, though it was terribly difficult to concentrate with a marketplace of handcrafted items and carts of spices and breads enticing us away from historical geography. The worst was when we went into a department store to see a historical map hanging inside. I found an epic suitcase (too large for carryon, but reasonably sized checked baggage) that weighs just 2.6 kilos. I can’t wait to find out how many pounds that is. I think it’s 5ish. Brilliant.

The Galway area may be commercial but it isn’t fake. Our tour guide told terrific stories about the area and the history.



We headed out of Derry, which I will miss very much. We went to Sligo, had dinner, then returned back to the Harbor house hostel for a meeting and then some much needed sleep! Sligo is pretty industrial, especially where we were at. It was ok. Headed to Galway tomorrow (18th)

Not much to report except the meeting went well, talked about journalling and reflected on our experiences (again). 🙂

Still tired. More later.

Big Jon


Our group was blessed again with another amazing guide. Jon McCourt is a former IRA member, current peacemaker. He told us story upon story as we walked along the top of the nearly 400 year old walls that surround the original part of Derry. The girls were tired from the previous day, and at times i wondered if they would make it with their level of interest intact.

First we learned about the historical aspects of Derry and the siege. Jon connected us with one of the members of the Apprentice Boys organization, a fraternity based on the original 13 who fought to save the walled city of Derry in late 1680s and early 1690. The Apprentice Boys current organization is somewhat like the Masons, as best I can tell. In the AB club, there are no girls allowed, no Catholics allowed, and a lot of rituals and ceremony. Their “lodge” is a drafty corner building inside the walls down from St. Columba’s.

What is most fascinating to me is that Jon coordinated an event for us with an unequivocally Protestant old boy’s club. It was a big deal that 14 girls were even allowed in (well 15, including me). The men’s restroom was labeled toilet (as all restrooms are here) and those of us who had to go to the bathroom were instructed to use the “disabled toilet.” Just think about that…

Later, I asked Jon about how we came to gain entrance and how he maneuvered that from the Other side. Through a series of shrugs and grins and snippets of reasons that couldn’t seem to make a coherent whole, i was left with the impression that Jon has had to work very hard to cross the divide in the hearts and minds if those different than himself. The relationship, too, between Jon and those Others he works with, is somewhat tenuous, but ongoing though effort, diplomacy and discretion. But make no mistake…Jon is a force to be reckoned with.

Jon is pragmatic, and passionate. I watched him come to terms with a number of issues…like lunch. He didn’t want to take us to the restaurant where we went because he didn’t want to patronize a loyalist restaurant, but it was the only one that would accommodate our large group quickly. But, he reasoned, the establishment employs Catholics. That made the situation acceptable if not ideal. Over lunch, Jon expressed (again) his distaste for standard commercial tour guides. “They just ride around, pointing at this, pointing at that, sayin’ this is what happened here, or what happened there. How can you sit in a coach and point at the street an’ say this is where Bloody Sunday happened??! I hate it…I jus’ hate it…” the trailed off, looked down with disdain, and went back to eating his lunch.

Jon was confident and ill at ease simultaneously, at least that is what I sensed at the eating establishment and the Apprentice Boys’ museum/lodge, and certain parts of the city. A tradesman of Peace, Jon measured his words twice, uttered them once. Or…sometimes not at all. There were some questions he indicated he would answer at the next part of the tour…and certain ones were never answered. I don’t know if anyone else noticed that but me… He carried himself tall (easy to do with his stature), looked over his shoulder, made direct eye contact and watched his mouth. Later, I would see a more candid side, but in front of the girls, Jon was 100% professional.

You have never heard about Bloody Sunday until you take a tour with This man. To be fair, outside of a U2 song, many US people don’t know much about that day, when 13 lives were taken in Derry, creating a ripple effect of violence and retribution. The Troubled times had already begun, the tensions were high, and the tolerance low. But negotiations were underway to help resolve the internment and discrimination issues related to jobs, voting rights, housing, etc. But on that day, the fragile negotiations going on behind the scenes would shatter like the lives and loves of Derry’s residents, as terror and violence escalated as a direct result if the massacre.

Jon was there when James Wray and 12 others were gunned down. Jon doesn’t just tell. He shows. Actual photos from the day. Dead bodies in black and white photocopy, sleeved in plastic sheet covers. The exact spot on the street where his people where fatally shot. He shows us a photo of a man wearing a black ski mask and carrying a machine gun. A member of the IRA. It’s a photo of Jon.

This is not historical report, lifted from a textbook or Wikipedia. This is how students should learn…there is something to be said for the role of the personal narrative in pedagogy. Jon relives Bloody Sunday every time he gives a tour, he confides in me over a smoke. He sees everything just as it was. I knew on a deep level that Bloody Sunday was like yesterday to him, and I was awestruck at his ability to relive this tragedy over and over again, sometimes several times each week. Jon said that the day he DOES NOT see that day clearly in his mind…the day he no longer relives it…he will quit. “It won’t mean anything anymore.”

I cried. A lot. I am fighting back tears as I write this. Crying over the tragedy, the direct quotes he remembers from the parents and friends of the slain young men. “my son!!” The outrage. I cried at the heartbreak and I cried seeing Jon’s face, with his furrowed brow and biting at his lower lip, as he tells us how he stood two or three feet from James Wray’s still warm body. Jon was not shot or killed that day…but only because a British soldier decided not to. They stood at point blank range. Jon looked at the soldiers face, then slowly his gun (mind you, 13 of his colleagues/friends are lying in pools of blood, dead, and another 15 are seriously injured at the hands of the British army in a mere 20some odd minute episode). That same soldier had just shot the unarmed but seriously injured Wray twice more. James was dead for sure, The solider looked at Jon, shrugged and walked away.

Jon fought with the IRA until he saw too many people die and “buried to many friends”

I was pretty sure that the apparent uneasy truce in these territories, were made largely with Big Jon…I wonder how the pivotal moments of his life lead him along his path. I suspect they all did. He is working on big projects, finishing raising the rest of his 9 children, and fighting the government in new ways now. People in Derry know Jon McCort. I’m privileged to say that I do, too, now.

You can find him down at Sandino’s just off Foyle…a little rougher around the edges. I know I did.

Bridges to Derry



Today we set out of Corrymeela to see some of the local sights, after a fun and wistful goodbye to our hosts. If you are lucky you might see the My Pony video…let’s just say we sang a silly, simple and infectious tune while we pretended to ride ponies in a circle. We were leaving adult sleep away camp. We would also sing “My Pony” many more times…

The next few hours would be the most harrowing for those of us who consider the distance from the couch to the refrigerator a good hike. (Ahem.) We stopped first at Giant’s Causeway, a natural rock formation that juts out into the ocean. It took some convincing, but my crew convinced me to climb up. As I recalled from a childhood tree climbing incident, just a bit too late…it isn’t the climbing up that is the problem…. It’s coming back down. Yikes!

I survived the hike about a mile or a bit less ? down to the causeway, it was coming back that also got me, with the steep grade most of the way. I was so proud to reach the top without assistance or taking the £1 bus ride back up. Now it was off to the rope bridge. as it turned out we were too early for admission to the rope bridge, so we went on our tour of Bushmills distillery.We weren’t allowed to use any electronic devices, including cameras, and certainly not allowed to smoke because of the level of alcohol in the air. I’m no fan of whiskey, but the history and process were nonetheless interesting.

We went back to the rope bridge, where I contemplated sitting in the small restaurant the entire time the girls were enjoying that. But I went ahead and made the trek down to the bridge. My hamstrings feel as tight as a piano wire now. I wouldn’t cross the bridge, much to the chagrin of the girls. Um. H2tN.

The hike back up from the bridge was fierce. It made the giants causeway journey look like a walk to the mailbox. I had to stop at least three or four times. Photo op! Recovery breath! Sweet buttered toast, why didn’t I train for this? Many of the girls were, as I like to say, hurtin’ for certain, and I will admit I felt a tiny bit of relief that I was not alone. We grabbed some lunch and headed out for Derry.

We made it to Derry, a little tired and ready to settle in. When we arrived at our hostel, I had more than one reservation. I tried to mentally calculate how many chapters the report would be if my husband were doing a home inspection on it. Now any parents reading this should not be alarmed. The conditions of the hostel are somewhat like those i have seen in off campus student housing…deferred maintenance, low or no budget finishings, etc. I didn’t sense danger, but it came off rather shoddy. The girls seemed to like it, even with six sharing a room the size of my closet back home.

We had dinner at the Ice Wharf and hit up Tescos (kind of like a super Walmart, but smaller, less selection, and much more grocery than non grocery items). Later i supervised the girls at the social center where they were playing live traditional music. I feel much better keeping an eye on them and escorting them back to the hostel. I talked with locals and a few visitors, with one eye on my baby ducks. 🙂 I was so proud of their choices and behaviors, I complimented them all when we got back for the night.

Tomorrow we have a walking tour of Derry and learn more about the Troubles from a different perspective.

Corrymeela Reconciliation Centre


I swear I have been in Northern Ireland for at least a good four or five days. It isn’t just jet lag. Sure, that accounts for ill-timed bouts of sleepiness and irregular hunger cycles, but I just feel like I have been here so long. Time may fly when having fun, but with attendance to detail, laser like focus, and a stream of activities that demand consciousness, time slows down, overtaken by familiarity, ultimately creating an experience that appears unbounded by the constraints of the clock. This came to me as a Corrymeela volunteer asked me to confirm how long we have been in Northern Ireland. I tried to answer a seemingly simple question. Then I realized I’ve been here a not a long time, but I have been here with full experience.


For those of you reading who don’t know…
My eldest son, Conlon, is named after the Irish Catholic from Belfast, Gerard Conlon, who, along with his father and three friends were kept imprisoned by the British government for 17 years for a crime they did not commit. I had watched the film In the Name of the Father (and subsequently read Conlon’s autobiography) when i was pregnant. My paranoia of wrongful imprisonment is pervasive enough to make me wonder about possible past life connections with such an experience. At any rate, go rent the movie from Netflix. It’s worth a watch. Daniel Day Lewis is amazing, as are Emma Thompson and Pete Postlewaite. If nothing else, swoon at the soundtrack and get a taste of the Troubles. People here know the story, and truth be told, those on the unionist side may not be impressed by my son’s name. I look forward to seeing if there is any difference in the reception of the story once I’m in the republic. But for real, do yourselves a favor, watch the film. I can’t wait to watch it again when I get back, so if my husband is reading this, go ahead and buy the DVD if you can find it. 🙂

Corrymeela is a small but ample bit of land on the ocean’s shore near/in Ballycastle. It was purchased and developed by Ray Davey to be a place for war veterans to share their stories for healing and reconciliation. The organization functions through the efforts of volunteers who stay various lengths of time on site (from a weekend to as long as a year or more). The primary focus shifted as a result of the Troubles, to allow a space for opening dialogue between the warring factions. Corrymeela has hosted such known guests as the Dali Lama, Mother Theresa, and…well…EIU students. Haha! They did have a welcome sign for us when we arrived, took us in and gave us every bit of their attention.

The girls’ initial reaction to Corrymeela was one part confusion (religious center? Cult? Commune?) and two parts enchantment (so homey, so beautiful!). It took about a half hour, and everyone was completely enthralled, if a bit tired. After tea ( lunch) our volunteer leaders, Emily, Michael, and Matt (from Canada, Germany, and the US, respectively) engaged us in ice breaking activities, a tour, a brief history of the Troubles and a simulation where we play acted the various sides (UK, Republic of Ireland, UVF, IRA, and US). This allowed the students to gain more perspective of the goals and constraints of each faction.

It seemed like we were constantly eating; we had more tea (or coffee for me) and biscuits and another meal before the last had worn off. The view had us all captivated, and made it difficult to focus sometimes. The sounds of crashing waves relaxed us as much as the Irish lilt. The feeling of community embraced us. We talked, ate, and helped clean up. I used my first commercial dishwasher. That would be handy to have in my kitchen. Dishes done and sterilized in 5 minutes or less. (fewer)’Sweet.

The volunteers told us how they came to work or spend their gap year cooking, cleaning, running programs, and a variety of other tasks, such as chopping firewood or filing paperwork. They were completely charming. The girls took a particular liking to Michael and Aaron. The two of them graciously talked to a group of us late into the night, answering dozens of questions.

I felt privileged to sit in the Croi (pronounced: Cree) where upon the wall hung the Dali Lama’s shawl under framed glass. The Croi was designed in the shape of a heart with atria and ventricles, little round meeting places for talking, working through conflict, meditation and worship. The acoustics of the arched walls and curved ceilings made it possible to hear someone speaking softly from the other side of the room. The vision of Corrymeela is vital and it’s purpose to resolve conflict.

How perfect to see the walls of Belfast…designed to keep peace (or at least control the violence) by segregation in the morning and by afternoon come to a pastoral vortex of positive energy designed to create Peace by building bridges via communication. The evening speaker, Derek, an esteemed past director of Corrymeela and accomplished educator, prompted us to consider that in order to have reconciliation, victims must be able to come to terms with the resentment, that is, if they have passed the first step….letting go of revenge.

As suspected, a vengeance ethos and tit-for-tat strategy fueled much of the Troubles, escalating the violence until over 400 people were dying a year in Belfast alone as a direct result of bombings and assassinations. Thousands more injured, and countless people put out of their homes in the wake of the destruction. Derek tried to scale the numbers for us. Relative to the population of Chicago, he said it would be like having well over 150,000 people murdered and bombed over the course of a year. That boggled our minds.

Then Michael started a campfire, Emily and Allen served hot chocolate and toast (apparently as logical a combination as peanut butter and jelly?) and Matt played guitar, though I missed the musical interlude in favor of my B & B … Whenever I have wifi, I Skype my Boys (that includes you, honey) and post my Blog. Also a Skype session with Leigh! 🙂

I there is so much more to say about the experience at Corrymeela. It’s an amazing place to visit. We could have easily stayed longer. There are many conversations I hope to remember and share (working class/middle class, the movie Wonderlust and is it the red hand of Ulster or a box of McDonald’s fries?…the list goes on and on…)

Perhaps on a day I’m not finally passing out at now 2 am.


The Walls of Belfast


The alarm sounded way too early this morning. I couldn’t go to sleep last night until just after midnight, so 06:30 hurt a little. So did my back. While the bed was comfortable for a hotel bed, it was no Tempurpedic! Thankfully the linens were clean and crisp. I was unable to locate a washcloth, but I brought one. The funniest part of the hotel experience was getting the lights/electric to function. Just inside the door is a slot for the key card. Guests must place the card into the slot on the wall for lights, electrical outlets and climate control. Removing the key card meant I was no longer charging the iPad.

We met downstairs at the hotel for a fairly comprehensive breakfast. Then we met up with our tour guide, Richard Mealy, for Belfast and the murals. When I saw Richard introducing himself to Jim, I immediately thought he reminded me of Ron Pelias, though I wasn’t sure why. I met Ron at the National Communication Association conference years ago as part if the ethnography and performance divisions. He teaches at SIU. I couldn’t quite place the similarity except the kind and expressive eyes. As soon as Richard began our tour, I realized another familiar aspect–Richard, like Ron, is an amazing storyteller of personal and cultural narratives.

Richard directed our driver, Noel, around the city, specifically in the east Belfast areas/neighborhoods of the Falls and Shankill (sounds like “Shankle”). He explained the Troubles in the last few decades, pointing out security checkpoints, massive gates and walls topped with barbed wire. While rebuilt for the most part, a careful look reveals the evidence of battle ground that has only had about a decade or so to recover. The girls’ faces showed a bit of shock and slight apprehension when Richard spoke of his incarceration. Here, this wonderfully sweet man and trusted guide was also a former prisoner. A few girls confided that they were immediately concerned, but still felt at ease with Richard. Political prisoners give a much different vibe than criminal ones…and We learned how the criminalization of political acts (or suspicion of such) is both a point of intense contention among the accused, as well as a poignantly different set of rules of engagement. In short, it really sucks unless you have the power position.

Richard showed us the murals of resistance and remembrance and possibly reconciliation. He described the life on the streets–abject fear, strong affiliation, and a war zone for claiming one’s pound of flesh. He spoke of street assassinations, political executions, and the way in which the legal system would remand people on specious charges. The freedom fighters, the blanket protesters, hunger strikers, and female loyalists who remain incarcerated to this day…stories upon stories of loyalist experiences with the IRA, the nationalist fighters as well as the Shankill Butchers. As Richard told the stories, I found myself sympathizing with the protagonists, which seemed to shift and slip. I can see both sides. I’m somewhat of a cultural relativist, and always an empath. The pain was so evident across the borders between communities and individuals.

Even as Richard sounded somewhat impartial, I found slippage. He had been in the British Army. As other stories (Noel’s) would have it, the British Army had a long history of executing Catholics on trumped up charges on site. Not surprisingly, the loyalist stories told of vicious attacks from the Catholics. Every so often, we would get a peek at Richards allegiances, but I admire his attempts to remain balanced in his approach. The man grew up in the slums, with rats and bombings, losing family and “loads” of friends at the hands of the IRA, or perhaps unorganized gangs from the next neighborhood over. He said that violence is still just under the surface of the streets of Belfast. I suspect likewise, Richard’s pain and resentments lie just beyond his sparkling blue eyes. I recognized another similarity to Ron…I could listen and talk to Richard for as long as he would let me. When I told him I was more Buddhist than anything (easiest shorthand for my beliefs), he grinned and asked, “so are you Protestant Buddhist or Catholic Buddhist?” A shrug and an eyebrow raise indicated that he was only half joking.

The girls asked questions and were more engaged than I have seen to this point in this trip. They were surprised and entranced by the personal, first hand information (and possibly his impossibly blue eyes). I am painfully curious by nature, and couldn’t keep myself from asking Richard about the charges brought against him that led to his imprisonment. Hs eyes flicked to the side, he hesitated for the first time during the tour. I started to evaluate the question. Had i crossed a line? Was this too intimate, too raw for this, a typical tour? Did i erroneously assume a deeper, friendlier connection that wasn’t really there? I prompted him by saying my characteristic catch phrase “no judgement” and, as always, I meant it. I focused my voice and my intention–I needed to make sure he could feel the veracity of my claim, and the innocence in which it was asked (much like when my four-year-old self asked One-Armed Charlie, my grandfather’s friend, how he came to have only one arm).

Richard gave me a slight wince and hedged a bit, then opened up…he told us that he was arrested for being in possession of information (names and addresses of nationalists and IRA members and other intelligence…). “That’s all. An’ I was taken in and remanded. It was only a list–I told them that it was my Christmas card list, but they dinna’ believe me!” his infectious smile returned with the jest. The time we shared with Richard was an empath’s version of The Beast at Kings Island amusement park…the worlds longest, fasted wooden (read: shaky and creaky) roller coaster… We were up and down, shaking and swerving emotionally, until the scariest part, seeing yourself in the mirror above and wondering if you’re going to lose your head. Literally.

The students really don’t (didn’t?) understand political prisoners and how perfectly “good” people could be ex-convicts. But I also don’t think they would have liked him any less if he were a criminal. He was just that entrancing. Silver hair and a silver tongue. And best as we could tell, a heart of gold.

It is so hard for our group to really wrap our heads around the nature of the conflict and how pervasive the collective narrative of suffering and revenge for both sides. He used terms that at first seemed interchangeable… Unionist, Protestant, and loyalist. There are most certainly nuances that have escaped our group, but we began to get a handle on that side. Presented in opposition (what other way could it have been framed by someone who lived it?) to the Nationalist, Catholic, republican side.


This morning we went to the Corrymeela Reconciliation Center…but there is so much to say, it will take another post…

Ciao for niao