Today, July 12th is culturally, an important day in the North of Ireland calendar. A bank holiday, a holiday for all, yet a celebration that deliberately excludes the majority of the people living in this place. Of which I am one. I don't hate it, I recognise that it matters to a lot of people living here. I try to understand and respect another culture and hope that will be reciprocated.
Most Twelfths I don't venture from this yard. We ask friends around, have drinks, something to eat, enjoy the summer weather. Except this day I had something to do, first daughter needed a lift to boarding kennels with Posie before she left on her annual camping holiday in Galway. Posie is a lovely hound but has particular needs and kennels are the only thing that keep her safe when her people go away.
We had to leave early as the Twelfth is a day when journeys are often complicated. All over the country, Orange Lodges have mini-marches from one place to another before gathering together in some town or city for a big march that can close main routes for hours. One a year, every year for a hundred years or more - we get used to being somewhat restricted in our movements on the 12th day of July.
I picked Zoe and Posie up at nine-thirty. Our first stop was on the Oldpark Road just outside Ballymena. i recognised one of the standard bearers, a neighbour of the Wee's, who rented then bought the farm. I waved, and he raised his white-gloved hand, I sensed he wasn't sure of me, we'd only met at funerals but the connection was there.
Then on to Rasharkin where the police were out in force. We passed them by but had to wait in Kilrea as the local lodge were going the same route as ourselves. We got moving on the road to Upperlands where I was mannerly enough to let an Orangeman across the road and received a friendly grin and a thumbs up from him. As I said to Zoe, See us, respecting the fuck out of other folk's culture.
Posie delivered, and her not terribly happy about being abandoned we despondently began our journey home. Only to be stopped again a mile outside Rasharkin. It looked like a slow one so we nipped right onto the Townhill Road which was great for a few miles until, near Portglenone, we came upon another lodge wending its slow way towards the town. By this time I was a bit fed up as they were taking both sides of the road. Until I realised that the stewards were observing health and safety regs and were being careful. As soon as it was safe we were waved on and friendly acknowledgements were exchanged between all parties.
I'd be telling lies if I said I didn't enjoy the connections I made on our cross-country journey to Upperlands, experiencing another culture, respecting the fuck out of it and moving on. It's where I live, what goes on, and it's how some other folks see things. That said it's a bit different in rural areas and quite a bit better.
The rest of the day? We had people over. Some of them were English, and some of them were not. We were seven humans and we had eight dogs. The humans got on, and the dogs had difficulties which were the human's fault. 'Twas always thus.
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