The Lowell Courtney Travel Blog

British or Irish?

My good golfing buddy Scott Simpson of New York City has posed the question as to whether we, the long-suffering folk of the province known as Norn Iron, consider ourselves to be British or Irish.  Now there's a Pandora's box, if ever there was one.

I can't speak for the other 1.7 million but for what it's worth, here's my penny's/nickel's worth. (By the way, a bottle of finest Bushmills falling down water for anyone who suggests suitable everyday names for the 1, 5, 10 and 50 cent euro coins. Pfennig and sou, anyone?)

First, the legalities.  As Norn Iron is a constituent part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, anyone born here is de facto a British citizen. No problem there, then. However, under the terms of successive Irish constitutions, anyone born in Norn Iron after Partition (December 1920) was also entitled to Irish citizenship, a facility of which many nationalist residents - and not a few unionists - availed over the years. Now don't fall asleep, 'cos the fun bit starts in 1998 under the terms of the ironically named Belfast Agreement. (The only agreement which works in Befast is who's standing the next round.)

For the past 12 years, we blessed band have been able to "designate" ourselves as British, Irish or both. Which is a bit like saying that you can be classed as gay, straight or both, depending on the phase of the moon, the jetstream and the pound/euro exchange rate. With me so far? Good - it gets better. Some folk have one passport - Herself is staunchly British, my neighbours equally solidly Irish - and some of us have two, which means that we are regarded as traitors, sell-outs and bacterial infections by the True Faithful on both sides.

Still on board? Jolly good, cos there are two other angles to this. Citizenship be blowed, the first is the immensely practical matter of passports. And money, natch.  From time to time, there is a substantial price difference between the passports. As of today, a British passport is 92 pounds ($150), and an Irish one is 80 euros ($110). Go figure, as they say. And there is an Irish passport office in Belfast, which is like the Mexicans having a passport office in DC. Equally bizarre.  And I well remember from my time as a travel agent that during a prolonged strike in the British passport offices, many fiercely "loyal" Unionists, who would have shuddered and suffered a seizure at the mere whisper of "Irishness", would quietly inquire with an embarrased cough as to whether we might perchance stock "foreign" application forms. Hilarious.

But now to the crux of the matter. Technicalities are as a mere bagatelle when it comes to the question of whether one actually feels British or Irish. (From the amount of bizarre tatoos I have seen in the gym recently, there's a helluva lot of Polynesians running round here. But I digress.) Over the years, my stock answer has been that my heart is Irish but my wallet is British. True, up to a point.

Part of me is unquestionably British, but never, ever, ever English. (That way madness lies.) I admire the Brits for their manifold virtues. Indeed, I was expounding on same to our Scottish counterpart, Alastair Cunningham of clansandcastles.com over dinner on Monday night. I work for a British exam board. Their attention to detail, their patience, their tolerance, their reliability, their straightforward sticking to tried and tested values are the embodiment of solidity. Put an English yeoman beside you in a fight and he will never desert you.

But Lord, imagination is not their territory. The classic story of the US diplomat who worked with both traditions during the 1998 negotiations is as follows: "What I like about the Irish is that, faced with problem, they'll always say 'Why not?' And the Brits will invariably say 'How?'" Ireland may be the land of saints but the devil is aye in the detail. As evidence, m'lud, I present the shambles of the north-south border in Ireland.  Under the 1920 treaty, many nationalist areas expected to end up in the south but the relevant clause was imprecise and so they ended up in the north, with resultant tragedy for all parties for 90 years.

So what are we, then?  There is an interesting "third way" which is slowly emerging from the bogs and the brickworks.  In the same way as many Scottish vehicles now carry the "international" plate "SCO" (which doesn't officially exist), quite a number of local cars now carry an oval "NI" plate. No, it's not NIger or Nigeria, since you ask, tho' that would be fun.

In short, we have decided to reclassify ourselves. Move over, Linnaeus, homo neanderthalis is alive and well and living in Belfast politicians. No, that's unkind, but you see what I mean. Rejecting both the "GB" and the "IRL" plates, a good number of the citizenry have decided that they are Northern Irish.  And you'll hear this designation used more and more in the media as the United Kingdom begins to become a looser affiliation than before. Since the regional assemblies (Edinburgh, Cardiff and Belfast) kicked off, the UK is not breaking up but - and here's a conspiracy theory for you: if the south eastern quadrant of England declared independence, income tax would halve overnight - it is slackening.

So maybe we're neither fish nor fowl. Maybe we're flying fish, taking some of the best and the worst from both traditions. At times we dig our heels in deeper than the Marianas; at other times we throw passes which not even Eli Manning could conjecture.  Sometimes the best of both worlds; at others vengeful and vindictive.

But if we do manage to forge a new identity - the Northern Irish - then who's to say that it will all have been a failure. Not I, for one.

Most favoured nationals

February brings yet more snow and the usual winter gems from the so-called Advanced Level Tourism papers which pile up on the office floor like drifts. A question on the importance of Thomas Cook elicits the information from many candidates that Mr Cook "filled all the plane seats on his first excursion in 1848." About as enlightening and well-informed as your average federal budget.

However, the inbox also brings a cheeringly sensible question from our good friend Lisa Kelly in sunny Nebraska, asking what characteristics we would attribute to our favourite guests. The SAD (Snappy Answer Department) produced "A civil good morning and a smile" from David and "No bouncing checks" from your boringly pedestrian scribe.

But it's a question well worth debating.  Herself and I were in a b&b in Belcoo, Co Fermanagh, a few years ago and one of your fellow citizens approached me with the words: "Forgive the intrusion from an ugly American but could you help me with phone numbers north to south?"  "You're nothing of the sort" said I, "for you have exceeding good manners and to be honest, some of us have the same problem - and we live here."

(A quick excursus: I discovered by chance that the reason why some allegedly internationally enabled cell phones do not work over here - or over there - is the formatting of the numbers. All cell phones should carry the numbers as follows: plus symbol; country code (1 for US/Canada; 44 for UK including Northern Ireland and 353 for the republic of Ireland); area code (minus the first zero in GB & Ireland) and then the number. So my local number is 70823232 - all Northern Ireland landline numbers are on one code (028) and have 8 digits - therefore any cell phone would store my number as +442870823232. So now you know.)

To our theme: as our generation know ('cos we had it instilled by the pedagogically un p c wooden spoon): Good manners cost nothing. I have often maintained that being able to say "Please", "Thank you", "How are you?", "How much" and "Very good" will carry you a long way in any language. However, I think that courtesy is the sine qua non for the traveller.

The next priority is a natural extension of manners. It is the ability to put yourself in your host's place and to adapt the mores of his/her country. To wit, the vexatious issue of tipping.  When in USA, I naturally add the customary 10-15%. (A lifetime ago, I made the mistake of tipping English style in Atlanta and have never forgotten the mutual mortification of both parties.) Over here, I still tip -and Herself has recognised that it is a good idea - but it tends to be 5 or a 10 for someone who has made an effort. Most of the waiting staff are paid the minimum wage and therefore rely on cash tips for a living - half of anything on a credit card goes to the government.

The point is that a little homework and forethought goes an exponentially long way. As does consideration for others.  As does attitude. It is the foolish fashion to start from the undiscriminating line that every supplier i.e.Your Man and I is hell-bent on ripping you off and that only a resolute hand and a scowl will prevent same. You may recall the story of the wind and the sun competing to get the coat off a man's back. The wind blew like fury and the man tightened his coat to the utmost. The sun shone and he peeled off the layers. 'Nuff said?

A final thought.  Console yoursleves that my fellow lowlife in the tourism business rate the three worst nationalities as the Russians (overbearingly rude nouveau riche tightwads); the Japanese (they always know better than the locals) and the Israelis ("whaddya mean, we have to pay for the minibar?"). And there is also the oft-quoted but scurrilously untrue apocryphal question: What's the difference between a canoe and a Canadian? Answer: A canoe tips.

To my Canadian friends, I apologise - unless, of course, you have pockets longer than the St Lawrence Seaway. But, speaking as one who is a mix of British and Irish (please see next blog), I conclude that the old Yiddisher advice to "Sei ein mensch!" ("Be a human being") holds good in most corners of the globe.