Booking a trip

Whenever I travel overseas, I try to read novels ahead of time, usually mysteries, which take place in the countries I am visiting.

It wasn’t always that way. I didn’t read Icelandic mysteries until after my husband and I visited that country. We’d heard that there were a lot of authors in Iceland who loved to write, especially during the long dark cold winters, probably one in three of the 375,000 residents. Perhaps that writing bug had been sparked by the Edda but it was something with which I, as a writer myself, could identify. Yet I discovered when reading the books, one set on an island off Iceland where a lava flow had obliterated a town not all that long ago, that I wished I had read the book first so I could have had a sense of place and known to ask more questions while I was there. I can’t beat myself up too much about that though, since the book was not available in the U.S. It was just something my husband picked up (along with a copy of the Edda he still hasn’t read but does double duty as a doorstop) on our way home.

We both enjoyed the Icelandic books and for a while bought as many as we could find online. Many were written by Yrsa Sigurdardottir and Arnaldur Indridason. The descriptions of the land, weather, and amount of daylight, which was either too much (no such thing in my opinion) or too little, fascinated me, as did their children naming conventions.

Taking our past experience into consideration, I read a few mystery novels written on the Emerald Isle to get a sense of what we might expect on our trip to Ireland. I found that while the language is the same, (at least the English, not the Gaelic) there were several words that I didn’t know. More words unknown to me were explained by our tour guide when he mentioned “gob,” which is mouth, “bog,” a word used in many places but in Ireland refers to where peat comes from, and “craic”  which somehow meant good, or news or gossip or conversation, I think. I’ve been taking a refresher course by reading a book by Patricia Gibney and watching Derry Girls, with the helpful subtitles.

I tried to find Scottish writers’ books before our trip. I had read Outlander many years ago, but I still wanted to see some modern-day people and activities, so found one mystery by Pete Brassett. It put me on the lookout for Scottish food, such as sticky toffee pudding, black pudding, haggis, and the ever-present shortbread which was as common as fish and chips. I also read about the extremely changeable weather which was totally integral to Scotland.

I looked forward to learning some Scottish words and I was not disappointed. I heard terms like “hoolies” (big windy storms, not to be confused with a hooley, a traditional dance and music party,) which tap into my inner linguistic interests. I’d learned long ago about all the words for snow the Inuit have, depending on the conditions, and I was fascinated that the Scots have “dreich,” “snell,” “fret,” “drookit,” “stoating” and many more for rain. They expect the weather to change frequently, and I found myself layering up, but always leaving the umbrella on the bus when the sun was shining, only to be caught in rain on the way back to it.

Shortly after returning home, I picked up a book by Jenny Colgan about a fictional island off the northern coast of Scotland. I had almost forgotten about the unpleasantly sweet drink called Irn-Bru, which our tour guide offered us, when I saw it mentioned in Jenny’s book. She reminded me of many other things we had learned about during our trip, such as Cranachan, a delicious whipped cream raspberry dessert never prepared the same way twice. The book also referred to the coos, which is what they call cows, especially the adorable Highland ones wearing bangs. Reading it was almost like extending our trip.

Don’t get me wrong. I like books written in this country too, and many of them remind me of places I have visited. But if I go somewhere new, there is a very good chance I’m going to try to find a book written by a local author.

A Child's Hallowe'en in San Francisco

'Arawn' - Ruler of Annwn
(the Underworld), illustration
 by Ioan Einion, © Alys Einion, Y Lolfa

All Hallows' Eve has been celebrated across the Christian World since the formation of a structured church. Calan Gaeaf (Kal-ahn GEYE-ahv), as it is known in Wales celebrating the start of winter, has been a festival since earliest pagan Celtic times. In Ireland, the festival is known as Samhain (SOW-en), celebrating the decay of life and is derived from an ancient cult of the dead.

Hallowe’en as we know it today, did not exist in America, or for that matter anywhere in the world, until the great influx of Irish immigrants in the 19th Century. This day of ghouls and goblins would not exist now if not for Irish children extorting food and money from their neighbors at the behest of their parents, with threats of tricks if the better-off neighbors refused to submit to giving treats.

Although the Irish were Roman Catholic, the religious holiday melded with the pagan to facilitate the youthful blackmailers’ chicanery.

During my childhood, Hallowe’en was a children’s event, anticipated throughout the early Fall with intricate plans for costumes. Gypsy or witch, princess or fairy were the choices we girls preferred. Boys chose Frankenstein’s monster, Dracula or headless ghosts.

From the moment the sun dropped below Twin Peaks, we were out in packs of threes, fives or tens running from one house to the next, ringing every doorbell. I lived in the Haight-Ashbury and our territory for our night of extortion was as far as we could go without getting lost.

Ceridwen, the Witch,
illustration by Ioan Einion,
© Alys Einion, Y Lolfa 

If we breached the entry of an apartment complex, we had access to every resident. Once in a while, there was a party going on at which we caught glimpses of Hallowe’en Future: adults behaving like … us! The only difference was that the adults were not subject to extreme sugar highs – theirs was a high of a different kind.

The total world domination of Hallowe’en as experienced in the USA was not achieved until the appearance of the film, E. T. Phone Home, in which the opening scene was the epitome of my childhood escapades. Even then, fully three decades passed before “Trick or Treat” on October 31st became the norm in the six countries of Britain, five of which are Celtic.

We cannot go back to the innocent times of our childhood. In this city, Hallowe’en is not an event in which children can participate with any sense of the safety, excitement and freedom that I and my fellow witches and monsters enjoyed. Adults have reclaimed the ancient cult of the dead and any aspect of the religious meaning is subsumed by Bacchanalian excesses.