Yesterday I was reading on the bus and I came to a particularly funny passage. I tried to keep from laughing, but I utterly failed and thus received those odd quizzical (slightly disapproving) looks people get when they laugh too hard or too loud in public and don't share the joke. At school we've been studying the effects of laughter on an individual's emotional and physical health, especially in the healing and/or recovery process. The impact laughter has is remarkable, it greatly improves wellbeing. This is visible on even a cellular level.
Since laughter is on my mind, I wanted to share two excerpts I thoroughly enjoyed reading yesterday, but first I'll give you the context... and also, indirectly, recommend the book to you.
I'm a huge fan of travel writing in it's various forms, and I have adored Bill Bryson and Will Ferguson for years (among many others).
Will Ferguson was born and bred on our very own Canadian soil, which leads me to feel oddly connected to him, a strange sort of loyalty I guess. His latest book is called Beyond Belfast and it's the one I'm currently reading. It's the story of his 'misguided attempt at walking the Ulster Way, the longest waymarked trail in the British Isles'. He journeys through the small towns and half-forgotten villages of Northern Ireland, along rugged coastlines and across barren moorland heights, past crumbling castles and patchwork farms. From IRA pubs to Protestant marches, from bandits and bad weather to banshee and blood sausage. Right down my alley. Plus, he's a skilled and witty writer that runs into some impossibly hilarious people and circumstances. Long story short? Great book.
Number One:
Cushendall is a nice place for a stroll. (A short stroll, admittedly, as one soon runs out of Cushendall to stroll through.) It was quiet that evening, almost as though under curfew - and perhaps it was, considering the solid square presence of the centerpiece tower. The village was once owned by a gentleman named Francis Turnley, who undertook many a varied improvement, the most enduring of which was a sandstone tower built at the crossroads. Known as the Curfew Tower, it was intended to be "a place of confinement for idlers and rioters." What a splendidly imperialistic time that was, I thought, when a gentleman might simply "purchase" and entire village, lock, stock and peasantry. A time when "idlers" were a real concern. A forelock-tugging, "yes m'lord" era. It must have been a great time to be alive - if you were the tuggee and not the tugger, of course.Sullen teenagers (a redundancy, I know) were hanging around out front when I got to the tower. Which is to say, the loathsome "idlers" were with us still. Damnation, where is my walking stick with which to scatter them!"Is the tower open?" I asked.They stared at me with bovine gaze, shrugged. Ah, to be young and burning with lassitude and apathy.I tried the door. "Closed," I chirped. Like they cared.Drawing on all their inner resolve, they managed to shrug again, barely able to lift their shoulders, so great was the weight of their existence upon them. One of them took a weary drag on a cigarette. Another attempted to bring his can of cola to his lips but gave up halfway, the effort being simply too much for him. He clearly had larger, metaphysical issues to grapple with."You know," I said - and no, I don't know why I was trying to make conversation with them - "this tower, it was built to lock up loiterer and riff-raff, such as yourself."The irony was lost on them, alas, and I wasn't rewarded with even a shrug this time, but only heavy-lidded, morose stares."Well, see ya later!" I said.
Number Two:
I had done it. I had gotten lost on one of the most well-travelled routes in the Glens. Retracing my steps, past droopy fishing poles and sleepy teenagers, I found the waymarker that had pointed me into the wooded cul-de-sac. The sign had been turned around. Intentionally. And I just knew it was those ne'er-do-well teenagers I'd passed earlier. I considered going back to give them a proper finger-wagging, but the fact that (a) they might, possibly, be innocent and (b) I could very well end up with both fishing rods inserted up my backside helped dampen my determination.I did rejoin the main trail, though - the elderly birdwatchers had pulled ahead - and I did eventually reach the Ess-na-Crub Falls behind the restaurant."We were about to send a search party," was the greeting I received."I took the scenic route," I said."Aye? Thought we'd lost you. Were going to send someone out w' breadcrumbs.""Me?" I said. "Lost? Naw. I'm from the Great White North. We can track polar bears across ice in the middle of a blizzard. We're trail-finders, it's in our blood. I was just taking my time, exploring all avenues. I didn't want to rush through, you see. I wanted to savor the experience.""So," he said. "You got lost, then?""Yup."After supper, and a fine meal it was, he called a taxi for the long run back. The day was winding down, and my feet ached in a manly sort of way.
These are but two of the hundreds of smiles this books as brought to my face. Hope you enjoyed them! Happy, happy Friday to you all!
