Last Tuesday, I went over for the funeral of a very dear friend of mine in the North of England. I had worked with him in the 80s. I blogged earlier in the year, after a visit to Antrim, about how Northern Ireland no longer engaged my feelings of attachment, but I always thought that I would feel at home ‘at home’ so to speak, but no. After thirty years living in Ireland, and attending this funeral in England, I now definitely feel more Irish than English.

Of course, I didn’t really want to be at the funeral of my dear old friend but I was pleased to visit York as I had never been to the city. It was beautiful: narrow cobbled lanes, with fine Georgian and Edwardian architecture and we were lucky to have glorious sunshine. I wandered along the lovely river Ouse, and enjoyed the hues of the autumnal leafy tree lined streets. There were cafes, restaurants, pubs, markets, quality shops, art galleries, museums, and beautifully maintained parks. York is, no doubt, (to steal the strap of my own alma mater) a fine city, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

I went to Patrick’s funeral because he was a very good friend and he was Irish. Obviously, in Ireland, funerals are an important part of the community. However, going was a mistake. I wasn’t part of this English community. Obviously, I knew Patrick’s wife from back in the day, but we were not close. He and his girls had visited us in Ireland when he visited his mother, but they wouldn’t remember as they were too small. He and I met up most times when he came to Ireland (he did the MA in Writing in Limerick in 2015), but generally we met alone and gossiped. Last Thursday, I was pleased to see that the church was full (which the PP commented on) but it felt like a staged production. All the men were dressed formally in suits, and it felt like something out of The Gilded Age. The ‘wake’ after Patrick was cremated was crowded with people nibbling tortilla crisps dipped in chili sauce and avocado, and small roasted green peppers and there was little mixing between the groups of twos and threes. I felt totally out of place and after greeting his wife, I made my excuses and left.

Now, I’m glad to be home for a while.

Still can’t get photos.