Northern Exposure pt. 2 - Mr. Obruni Goes Home

While seeing the North justified itself as a reason for going there, I had an ulterior motive for my visit: I wanted to know more about my roots. You see, my family can be traced back 180 over years to the town of Downpatrick in County Down, where my great-great-great etc. grandfather - who is my namesake - left the town with his wife Jane to sail to New Brunswick, where the family settled and multiplied, albeit not very much. They were Protestant, you see...

Adding a bit of colour to the story is the claim that he did not leave Ireland of his own accord, but was actually exiled to British North America as a punishment for poaching a rabbit. If I had put more thought into it, I would have spent a day at the Ulster archives in Belfast, looking for an official police account of this incident. Alas, I had only one night and one day to get "in touch" with my roots. This time around, it had to be a superficial attempt.

The town of Downpatrick is a charming little Irish town about 30 kilometres outside of Belfast. With a population of just over 10,000, it's large enough to make for a pleasant visit, but small enough to not be terribly interesting to live in. Maleaha compared it to Trenton, Ontario, where her parents moved to get away from the hustle and bustle of the rapidly-suburbanizing Stouffville.

The bus ride in was senic (as per usual) and very exciting for me. I felt as if I were actually going "home" in some capacity. While Maleaha enjoyed the idea that I didn't know anything about my family and was on a wild goose chase to nowhere, a commercial truck passing by us with my family name confirmed my suspcions and heightened my anticipation.

Getting there was as wonderful as I had hoped it would. We arrived at sunset, walked around lost for a bit (helped by a friendly local) and eventually found a B&B run by a sweet grandmotherly-type lady named Maeve. She showed us our room, asked when we wanted breakfast and basically said "me casa et su casa". If you're ever in that neck of the woods, go to the Ardmore House. Our room had a splendid view of the sun going down over the mountains. (Who needs TV?) We went for some diner dinner and spent the evening watching British television.

I woke up before dawn to go out and get a feel for the town (after the full Irish breakfast, of course). I'm quite pleased now to know that like every Italian family's tiny, perfect "home village" in the old country, Downpatrick is my family's Irish equivalent. It's nestled in a valley near the Mountains of Mourne (said to be the inspiration for C.S. Lewis' land of Narnia), has a fairly quiet main street, many quaint backstreets and footpaths to be found and some stunning hilltop views.

Upon hearing my name, Maeve directed me towards the local newspaper, which distant relatives may own. They were kind and helpful and in the end, a reporter listened to my story and it looks like I'll be in next week's edition! Small town, indeed...

Downpatrick has many historical sites (old churches, abbeys, jails, trains, etc.) but it's claim to fame is being the final resting place of St. Patrick himself, on a hill near the Down Cathedral. I visited his alleged gravesite and poked around the cathedral, but didn't have the time to see the new flashy exhibit nearby. We had to make it all the way back to Dublin that night.

Maleaha pretty much let me do my own thing that day, but we both thought it was the best part of the trip. She got to relax and I got to see some of my heritage. I suppose that it's sort of a superficial thing, trying to find one's "ancestry", because if one thinks about it, their parents come from 2 families and their parents also come from 2 families, so by the second generation, there are 4 families, then 8, then 16, etc... and I'm only looking up the paternal line that had the good fortune of carrying its name down for generations, like a victor in a giant tournament of nomenclature. From my grandparents, I know I also have Welsh and Polish heritage as well. I haven't even begun to look into my mother's side...

Does this define me as a person? Yes and no. It definitely explains why I love potatoes and why I have such a funny countenance, but it doesn't really explain why I am the way I am. It can show me the past, but not the future. As much as I enjoy and identify with Irish culture, I would still consider myself a Canadian, as probably would my parents and grandparents. History teaches us where we come from and how we came to see the world as it is, but as many of my friends (especially the postmodernists) would tell you, there is definitely a limit to all of this.

At the same time, it's fun to be able to uncover history for yourself, especially when you have a personal relationship with it. I'm sure that one day I'll be back again and this time I'll do my homework first. I could make a big historical tour of it, really, checking the archives in Belfast and Downpatrick, finding specific places. I could even take the ferry to Scotland to go even further back beyond the 1600s all the way to the the family's castle and the 12th century!

And that's a whole different story altogether...