I’m all mixed up when visiting the North
Over the bridge I go. The meadowsweet and cow parsley at the side of the road stay the same, yet the lines on the road turn white, the signs turn black and white and kilometres turn to miles per hour.
Back in the UK again. Back where I came from, but am I, or (if you’ll excuse a little Plastic Paddyism from this Englishman) amn’t I?
Already I feel inexplicably ill at ease, just as I always do when I’m in Northern Ireland.
The other side of the invisible border, I stop in Belcoo for a bite to eat, and manage to make an arse of myself.
Before I’ve had the chance to spend a minute contemplating the politics and history of these Six Counties, or dwell for a moment on my confused personal gumbo that feels some of me comes from here, some from down there, there comes the quandary of language.
I’m fairly tuned in to the Republic’s accents. I can tell a Cork from a Kerry, which can prove exceptionally helpful if you’ve no private medical insurance, and I know my Dub and Donegal.
The Northern Irish accent is the default Irish accent in England. There was yer man in Corrie, and more often than not when I was a kid, if someone was Irish they were from Ulster.
Well, that’s what the English say, but even that’s not right. Their Ulster is just six of the nine counties of Ireland’s northern province.
After growing up amongst Ulster accents, you might think I’d have a pretty good grasp of it, but apparently not. I’ve only been across the border for 30 minutes, yet already failed quite handsomely.
My first accent-induced blooper came before I’d even left the house. I was on the phone, setting up the time and place to meet the man in Enniskillen. I was just about to say goodbye when he suddenly proclaimed the name of a Middle-Eastern terrorist:
“Al Tuckshya!”
Findin out what the Ulster man really meant – read Charlie’s full column in this week’s Connacht Tribune.