Exploring Rathlin Island

It is difficult to be an introvert on a small island in Ireland; one must engage in conversation when you meet people. To the introvert’s advantage, however, is that there are not a lot of people on Rathlin. It is the only permanently inhabited island of the coast of Northern Ireland. Located about five miles from Ballycastle, Rathlin has an inverted-L shape and measures 4 miles east to west, and 2.5 miles north to south. Each year, the island hosts numerous visitors, both human and non-humans. History is replete with visitors who came ashore here. Yet, the island is not well-known today. The people who do come today, do so because of the bird colony. My interest was both the birds and the walks, but what intrigued more was the remoteness.

An ancient stone that marks a Viking cemetery 

Despite its remoteness, archaeological evidence suggests that humans have occupied the island for nearly 6,000 years. Doonmore is thought to have been the site of the epic conflict between King Nabghdon of Norway and the Irish chieftain Congal Clarineach for the beautiful Princess Taise, daughter of King Donn of Rathlin. Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland, took refuge on the island in 1306-07. Much later, World War I, particularly submarines, took a toll on the island. An old buoy in the harbor marks the wreckage of the HMS Drake, sunk during the First World War. The H.M.S. Drake was torpedoed on 2 October 1917 and had a crew of 900 officers and men. In the protestant churchyard, there are four military graves: two maker for six unknown sailors (three bodies for each marker) and a single marker for J.J. Walton from the H.M.S. Vinkor, which was sunk on 13 January 1915. Another stone simply reads: “A Sailor from the Great War.”

At breakfast one morning, there was told an old story of people trying to decide to which country Rathlin belonged: Scotland or Ireland. Looking at a map, it is difficult to distinguish Rathlin from the chain of islands off the coast of Scotland. Hence, the question: Where does Scotland end and Ireland begin? One of the guest opine that Rathlin was actually Irish because there were no snakes that were endemic to the island, continuing the idea that St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland.

There is a streak of independence or anti-establishmentarianism among the residents. The automobile tax and TV licenses goes largely uncollected on the island. A few years back, revenue officers came to the island. The people, getting a tip from their colleagues in Ballycastle and those riding the ferry over, took action even before the officials landed on Rathlin. Many locals moved their cars away from the harbor; others, removed the numbers from their automobiles, so that they could not be traced. I was told that even the priest joined in, because everyone else was doing it. 

A background to any discussion of locations in Northern Ireland is the sectarian divided. My host was irreverent about the subject and had no patience for arguments concerning the topic. He noted that there were two churches on the island, a Protestant (Church of Ireland) and a Catholic Church. But there is only one graveyard where people of both faiths are buried. Alan noted that, “they get along really well there.”

A person living on an island has a different perspective. My host indicated that Americans and Australians were accustomed to drive several hours to visit a destination, while “you can’t even get an Irishman to go down the road fifteen miles without him complaining.” I am not sure about that, but many people in Ireland said that they had yet to visit Rathlin.

In my forty-eight hours on the island, I concentrated on four walks, all originating from the harbor:

The Western lighthouse: The most obvious walk was to the Western Lighthouse, where bird colonies dominate the cliffs and small rock islands offshore. This is the place where most tourists who come to the island want to visit. At 3.75 miles from the harbor, most tourists take one of the buses out to bird sanctuary. I decided to walk. After a brief stopover at the Roman Catholic church, I began my trek in earnest. About a mile and a half out, a bus stored and asked if I wanted a ride. I declined, to which the driver said, “I am the last bus of the day.” I replied, “OK, but thank you.” My goal was to hike and explore. At least while I was on Rathlin I was going to live by Leigh Fermor’s dictum that “all horsepower corrupts.”

Of course, seeing the birds was worth the walk. The lighthouse was something of an oddity in that it is inverted. Because it is built on a cliff, rather than walking up steps to the light, one actually walks down the steps to the light perch on a high cliff. As interesting as the lighthouse is clearly most people come for the bird colonies, which was the case with me as well. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds runs a new center at the lighthouse for observation. There are five primary species at the reserve: fulmar, guillemot, kittiwake, puffin and razorbill; however, most come to see the puffins.

One of the missing species is the great auk (Pinguinus impennis), which was a flightless bird about the size of a penguin, although not related. The birds, hunted for the food source, could once be found on Rathlin. As the number of specimens dropped dramatically, the great auk was hunted for its skin and eggs by museums and collectors. The last confirmed specimens were killed off the coast of Iceland in 1844 and is another species, like the passenger pigeon and Tasmanian tiger, that will never be seen again. 

Walking back I felt like the last and only person walking back to the haarbor. The four cyclists who were watching birds with me passed me shortly after I left the reserve. I had the remainder of the walk back alone with my thoughts and reveling in the exploration of a new place; a remote island that sparked my interest and imagination. A few cars went by, and there was a small traffic jam when a group of about eight cows wandered onto the road and held up three cars in what amounted to a Rathlin traffic jam.

The South Lighthouse: There are too many abandoned and derelict buildings to catalog. Sheep wander among the remains of old houses and farm buildings, looking for sweeter grass. While the permanent population of Rathlin today is a little over a hundred people, in the mid-19th century it reached upwards of 1,900. Thus, there are a lot of structures from that time period that are no longer in use.

I arrived at South Lighthouse in the late morning and sheep are everywhere. I spent some time sitting on the rocks just underneath the lighthouse, jotting some notes. I looked up just in time to see a seal surface. Later, after watching birds and the sea, I got up to leave and scared a falcon that was about fifty feet away hiding in the rocks. I moved about a hundred yards down the shore and watched a pod of seals for about forth minutes before moving on to explore the old lifesaving station.

The old lifesaving station

There is a great solitude in these walks. Just as I was arriving at the lighthouse, a car with three older men, a woman and a guide dog, drove up to the old lifesaving station. I greeted the party, but walked on to the lighthouse. I saw a younger couple arrived in the distance, by foot, as I left the lighthouse to watch the seals in the small bay. I did not even get close enough to exchange greetings. These were the only interaction I had with other people while in the vicinity.

On the way back toward the top of the hill, I met two couples on bicycles (one with a toy dog in a basket) from Kent. One of the women said she did not want to go down the final hill that led to the old lifesaving building and lighthouse because it would hurt her knees going back up. She said she was “happy to enjoy the scenery,” if others want to have a look. On my walk back, the couples passed me and I heard one woman say to another, “He got a long way, didn’t he?”

The East Lighthouse: There is the taste of salt in the back of your throat as you are walking around the island. One of the things I noticed, in addition to the salt, is that there is a lack of trash, litter and debris around the island. Of course there is some (obviously); however, most is confined to areas of derelict buildings and it looks related to the remnants of party.

Another historical claim for Rathlin is the radio demonstration that Marconi performed on the island. In August 1898, Marconi and his team established a radio link between East Lighthouse on the island and Kenmara House in Ballycastle, to successfully demonstrate the utility of radio signals in tracking ships approaching Britain. It was a major step in the development of radio. A few weeks later the equipment was temporarily transferred to Don Laoghaire (Kingstown), north of Dublin, to cover the Kingstown Yacht Race. Soon after the new technology suffered a setback when ones of its young developers perished. Upon his return to Rathlin, Marconi’s assistant, Edwin Glanville, a recent graduate from Trinity College Dublin, died when he fell on the cliffs during a geology exploration.

While walking I decided that there was a dichotomy among visitors. Most people come to Rathlin for the day, taking the ferry from Ballycastle in the morning and returning in the afternoon. There is a certain camaraderie among those who stay over. It is common to hear people conclude a conversation with, “see you in the pub.” Since there is only one pub on the island, McCuaig’s Bar, and virtually the only source for an evening meal, it is a place that serves as a local gathering place. The next day I would come across people I had spoken to or saw in the pub the night before. We were each engaged in our own pursuits: Watching birds, cycling, or, in my case, walking.

Roonivoolin: In the final few hours on the island I took the Roonivoolin path, which ultimately leads to the old lifesaving station near the South Lighthouse. The trail crosses fields of sheep and follows the cliff’s edge. My fear of heights prevented me getting too close to the edge. I worried that when I spooked the sheep they would fall over the edge. As I walked, looking over the precarious edge, I worried that I would have dreams that night of falling off cliffs; however, after 48 hours on Rathlin, I slept the sleep of a man who walked for two days.

Belfast Central Library

The decorative wrought iron, tile, and wood bookcases in
the Belfast Central Library

Opened in 1881, the Belfast Central Library is constructed of red sandstone and stands majestically as a symbol of an important city of the industrial revolution. It is located on Royal Avenue and is adjacent to the Belfast Telegraph newspaper building. The library survived the Belfast Blitz during the Second World War and the Troubles, without any damage.

Situated around the library today are copies of historic posters that advertised interesting and topical lectures from the city’s past. For example, a notice telling patrons that the library would close at dusk during the Easter Rising in April 1916. Another poster advertised a lecture by Francis J. Bigger on, “Ireland in Peace: Her Art and Industries (illustrated by lantern views)” on 14 February 1912.

A display on trademarks in the lobby offered the motto of Arthur Guinness, founder of the famous brewery: “Earn all you can. Save all you can. Give all you can,” which happened to be the motto of John Wesley as well.

On Books, Bookshops and Libraries

One of my great pleasures of traveling is visiting one of two places: a library or a bookstore, preferably used. I recently read two pieces that helped give form to some of my thoughts on why I find libraries and bookstores so valuable and why I seek them out while travelling.

Nick Bilton’s piece chronicles the love he shared with his mother for books and reading. Their shared fondness was interrupted by an argument over the utility of e-books. It seriously damaged his relationship with his mother and led to deep reflection about the importance of books. Like him, I occasionally use an e-reader while traveling. Yet most of the time, I prefer the tactile pleasure of a physical book. I am a person who needs physical reading materials when I need to concentrate. The temptation to become distracted while on a computer or e-reader is just too great.

Bilton’s disagreement with his mother is further complicated after he moves to the United States and it becomes apparent that his mother’s cancer is terminal. After her death, his sister who is sorting through their mother’s belongings, sends him a text message asking if he wants her iPad. It is a devastating question. He does not want it; he wants her library – the books she held, felt, wrote in, spilled things on. The iPad is a piece of electronic gadgetry that will someday become obsolete and ceased to work. The beauty of the book is that it is a technology that can always be used and does not require a “reader,” other than the person holding it.

Treasures from used books: A "Hullabaloo" 

For me, part of the thrill of finding books is to see the name, date or inscription written inside. It is a great treasure to find a little note or newspaper clipping left between the pages of a book. While in Edinburgh I shopped a charity used book sale at a church and purchased a copy of Historical Streets of London, written in 1923. It has an inscription that reads, “To John and Nancy for friendship + hospitality, March 1979.”  Used books connect us with other people, from around the world, sometimes who died before we were born. As with Bilton and the messages to and from his mother, the personal notes left for others are a gift. The gift of a book is not simply a gift of hours of pleasures, but a lasting epigram of messages and meaning. Perhaps the messages left for me are less literary, but they are every bit as meaningful.  Even without an inscription, the gift a book carries meaning. Books are collections of stories or ideas that the owner thinks is sufficiently important that he/she is willing to keep it among their personal possessions. Giving a book as a gift is sharing these ideas and messages. It is a reminder to ourselves (and others) of who we are and what we think is important. In the corner of a messy closet I have a small collection of my father’s books. There are no great editions, nothing of substantive value – just his books. The move to digital media makes me wonder what will become of my own library when I am gone.

Forsythe’s essay is more upbeat and amusing; however, the message is still serious. His central thesis is that bookshops are essential for an educated life. The problem with knowledge is that we don’t know what we don’t know. Hence, the joy of book shopping, especially in a physical bookstore, is that we browse, search and discover. It is a journey of the mind. The book can be held and taken for a test drive. We get a preview: Does it hold our attention? Do we like the way it looks?

I make the same claims about libraries. The library is a repository of knowledge and information that is limitless. Even the smallest library contains unknown useful and/or interesting information. A public library is a place where the citizen can education oneself. Yet, we overlook libraries and take them for granted. Often libraries suffer from neglect. People only pay attention when there is a controversy. Yet, the loss of a library is a serious blow to a society.

Many would argue that the internet make books, traditional libraries and bookshops obsolete. Yet, these kinds of arguments do not take into account the usefulness of adjacent information. In the book lover’s parlance, the law of the good neighbor suggests that often the information want is not in the book you are looking for, but in the book next to it on the shelf. The bigger the collection, the larger the size our fields of information becomes. At the end of the day, while books, bookstores and libraries might seemed to be institutions of the past, we live in a world where high-level knowledge still requires each.

Nick Bilton, “In a Mother’s Library, Bound in Spirit and in Print,” New York Times, 14 May 2015, page D2.

Mark Forsyth, The Unknown Unknown: Bookshops and the Delights of Not Getting What You Wanted (Icon Books, 2014). 

The Palm House

There is an idea that human development is measure on our ability to control and tame nature. It actually rarely works out, but the cultivation of this idea during the industrial revolution led to something interesting innovations. Located in the Botanical Garden of Belfast, the Palm House is one of the more artistic attempts to grow tropical plants and flowers. Built in 1839-40, a time in which the city was growing exponentially because of growing factories, the house is one of the first examples of curved glass, and predates Kew Gardens in London. Later two wings were added on to accommodate more specimens.

The plants, buildings and park served as a status symbol for the new and increasingly important city in the British Empire. The Victorian architecture provided a sense of grandeur while at the same time a green space to a population that was likely to work in dirty, polluted factories. Situated adjacent to Queens University, it continues to be a place where the people of Belfast gather, visit and relax.

Translating English

Traveling often requires translation, even if we are traveling in a place where the same language is spoken.  Much like Pittsburgh or Central Pennsylvania, and a number of other places, local shops in Ballycastle sell curios and souvenirs with local colloquialisms translated for the visitor. Although sometimes accurate, these tourist gifts do not help when confronted with difficult dialects. Hence, when my host at my bed & breakfast in Ballycastle asked. “Did you see the whale?” I was a little befuddled and unsure how to respond. Did I miss something in the news? Had a whale beached itself along the coast? I decided it was unlikely and feigned that I did not hear her and implied I would like a restatement.  Translation: did you sleep well? 

Falls Road Library

The Falls Road Branch Library is one of the three Carnegie Libraries in Belfast. Built between 1905 and 1908, the library is located in one of the most famous areas of Belfast, known as a particular stronghold for Nationalists during “the Troubles.” In fact, from the windows of the adult section of the library, you can see the Bobby Sands memorial painted on the side of Sinn Fein’s headquarters.

Inside the library is a small, but thoroughly modern, collection. One can still observe the original tile work and wood finishes peeking through recent renovations. About half of the floor space is allotted to children’s books; the adult section has a number of books on Irish interests and history.

The library walls contain a number of quotes from Seamus Heaney; however, a translation by him of a ninth century poem is appropriately quixotic:

The small bird chirp – chirruped

Yellow neb; a note spurt.

Blackbird over Lagan water

Clumps of yellow whine – burst!

(“Blackbird of Belfast Lough”)

Drinking History: An Introduction

Food and drink are evocative memory generators that can help us relive past experiences. Furthermore, old recipes can help us experience the lives of our ancestors. It has become fashionable to drink beers that are brewed from old recipes. In a sense, what we are doing is drinking history. In our travel explorations, both physically and temporally, we endeavor to make connections with other cultures, our memories or our heritage. In many ways it is a natural response to the globalized food and beverage world of the early 21st century.

Growing up in Louisville there were often a number of bars around that would display Oertels ’92 signs. It was a local brewery that was long out of business by the time I was old enough to try beer. I often wonder what the beer taste like (I understand that it would have been, most likely, disappointing). There is a connection, in my mind, between the history of Louisville and Oertels. Many of the neighborhood “beer joints,” as my grandparents referred to them, proudly displayed the name of the tavern on beer’s logo. Although my grandparents occasionally imbibed, the so-called beer joint on the corner was a source of great consternation. No doubt it was contrary to their German-American belief in the essential necessity of consistent work as they cornerstone to success and salvation. Yet, at the same time, drinking beer was a part of their German heritage. 

Concerns about alcohol became prevalent as industrialization and the modern world began to take hold. Most of these concerns were focused on the working class. Reformers were concerned that workers would not be able to adequately perform their jobs if they imbibed too much during their off-hours. If too many workers resorted to alcohol use, then factories would not run at peak efficiency, or at worst stand idle. Thus, one of the motivations to limit access to alcohol was economic in nature. In the United States, a dalliance with prohibition reset the brewing history of the country. Prior to the First World War there were over a thousand breweries that dotted the country. Anti-German sentiments and proposals by the Anti-Saloon League for a ban on the sale of grains to brewers and distillers, helped to cut the number of breweries by half within the first months of the war. Beer became synonymous with treason in the United States because the public thought most beer was from Germany. No one mentioned the beer from Belgium or Ireland during this time.

A water fountain, in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware,
placed by the Women's Christian Temperance Union
during prohibition in 1929.

The introduction of prohibition, through constitutional amendment, shuttered most of the remaining breweries across the United States. The emergence of a temperance movement in the late nineteenth century by the puritanical impulse meant that between 1920 and 1933, alcohol was not allowed to be sold. This had a devastating effect on American beer production and, in many ways, reset the history of American beer. Some brewers, such as Budweiser, made non-alcoholic beverages during this time. Budweiser was called Bevo, but when you are on tour at the Budweiser factory do not ask any questions about it. You get a polite, no comment and the tour moves on.

As with many families, there are vignettes about life during prohibition. My grandmother tells a story about her father in upstate New York. One night, while she was staying with him, a police officer came to the door and took her father into town. It turns out that there was a federal agent in town and the local law enforcement agency needed to demonstrate its effectiveness in enforcing prohibition. Apparently my great-grandfather helped to stage a bootlegging operation, was arrested in front of the federal agents, and when the agents left town, was released.

Following the lead of the United States, and with the help of American Dry forces, New Zealand nearly instituted Prohibition in 1919.  In April 1919 a national referendum on prohibition yielded 49% of the vote to prohibition. As the first votes were reported it appeared that dry forces had carried the day. It was not until after the votes of New Zealand soldiers who were still overseas were counted tipped the scales, was it realized that proposal was defeated. Today the referendum is referred to as the soldier’s vote.

In Britain, the emancipation of women after the First World War led to concerns about the effect of alcohol on females. The idea of returning to a romantic past, where women did not drink is ahistorical. Prior to the modern age, many people, especially in Europe, drank some form of alcohol because it was imminently safer to drink than water.  Yet in a 1926 article in the Manchester Guardian, a doctor complained that ‘girls’ had been consuming more alcohol and it “was distasteful to those who remembered the healthy lives that women lived formerly.”  The doctor went on to suggest that the increased partying among women was having an effect on the health and beauty. The article intimated that the partying without appropriate sleep led to “the lines that rightly belonged to the woman of middle-age” in girls as young as 20. In calling for a return to the Victorian Era, the article suggested that young girls had “acquired the habit of living for excitement so much so that they found themselves unable to break the habit and live a normal life with any prospect of happiness.”

Despite these concerns, the real problem with alcohol was, and is, the overindulgence. Early nineteenth century French thinker Jean Anthelme Brilat-Savarin, in his classic work on food, remind us: “Those persons who suffer from indigestion, or who become drunk, are utterly ignorant of the true principles of eating and drinking.” The culture of massive alcohol consumption obfuscates refined techniques and craftsmanship. It hides a legacy of sharing a drink and conversation passed from one generation to another. It diminishes a history of common people, who worked hard enjoyed time away from their labors.

Discussing Life in Marks & Spencer

I stopped for a late-morning coffee and scone at Marks & Spencer, located at the corner of Grafton and Duke Streets. The small meal has become a habit I have developed while travelling in Ireland. I chose a secluded corner at the window bar to write and watch the world go by. It was a beautiful Sunday morning in Dublin and there were several people out. I had a prime seat to observe a man making huge soap bubbles with long pieces of string and yarn attached to two sticks. This seems to be an increasingly popular activity for street performers across Europe.  Just down the street a talented folk/rock band drew a large crowd and provided a soundtrack to my contemplation. Meanwhile, the bubble maker was very popular with the under-five set and their parents.

An elegant Irish woman, wearing a tan colored rain coat, came and sat right next to me. She had a small tea in a takeaway cup. Seeing that I was alone, maybe she surmised that I could use the company. We exchanged pleasantries and she offered, “This is a nice corner isn’t it?” (There was no writing now; that would be rude.) We began talking about the young man who was making bubbles on the street. “It is a hard way to making a wage,” she offered. I said that it was nice to see the children enjoying themselves. There was a moment of silence. She noted that the children were helping him pick up coins off the ground, where people missed when throwing coins into his box. Children all want to help in some way, she said. We live in a world, she continued, where young people are keen to help. She was amazed at the number of young people who volunteered at the same hospice where she did. Her own grandson, age 19, called at least once a fortnight to see if she needed garbage out or anything done – and always refuses pay. 

Our conversation turned when my new found friend posited that children were more aware of the world today than when she was growing up. I gently disagreed, saying that children in America were often overprotected and lacked a certain empathy. She continued saying that when she was young, she had no idea how other people lived, especially in the North (a reference to the “troubles” in Northern Ireland). She felt like children in her day were protected from the problems that many people faced. She could not wait to leave Ireland. The island seemed so small and stifling; everyone and everything seemed the same. At 17, she left for London, met a Dublin man, and moved to Australia. They returned to London for a few years before permanently returning to Ireland in 1993. Upon her return, however, she loved being in Ireland. “It has opened up so much today.” The diversity and all the wonderful things people brought to the island made her love her home once again.

After about twenty minutes, she took a sip of her tea and looked at her watch. She had to be going, and was “due to be across the road at half twelve.” I told her I was glad we had the opportunity to chat. She grabbed my hand and gave it a firm handshake, “My very best wishes. God bless you.” I smiled and replied, “God bless you.” 

“Made you look”

"In memory of  fallen heroes who fought for a free and
democratic Czechoslovak Republic"

I was walking into the Praha Masarykovo nádraží train station, a regional train station near Náměstí Republiky in Prague, when I stopped to photograph the war memorial inside. Although near many of the historical sites of the city, very few tourists enter the station because it only serves regional destinations. A grandmother, mother and girl of about twelve were walking behind me into the station. Given the light and the angles, it was a difficult monument to photograph. The young girl looked to see what I was studying and photographing. She soon became transfixed and stared at the monument, reading the text that I could not understand and would have to translate later. Her mother, who walked ahead not paying in attention to memorial, realized that she was not there and called after her. The girl looked at her mother, but did not budge. The mother soon came back to retrieve her. But before she would go the girl pointed and asked questions in a low voice. I moved on; but I knew photographing a little noticed monument had spark an interest of a girl in Prague.

The Distillery in Kilbeggan

While riding Bus Route 20 through Kilbeggan, Ireland, the sight of a waterwheel attached to a distillery along the River Brosna is captivating. Of course, this feeds the imagination of tourists and is a lucrative enterprise for the town. What is fascinating, despite the lore and prominence given to Irish whiskey, is how much the industry has struggled over time. This particular distillery is billed as the oldest licensed in Ireland, dating to 1757 when Matthew MacManus licensed the Brusna Distillery Company.

The Locke Family took over the distillery in 1843 and ran it until 1954 when it ceased production, totally closing down in 1957. Declining whiskey sales in Ireland and Britain during the depression in the 1920s and 1930s, coupled with the closing of the American market during Prohibition, all but finished Locke Whiskey. Transportation costs for the distillery were high, particularly so because the railroad was never built to Kilbeggan. In 1947, an attempted sale to two men from Switzerland with dubious backgrounds fell apart because of political pressure. The sale of the distillery was derailed when questions were raised in the Dáil (parliament) about the proposed deal. The controversy arose because officials uncovered an attempt to sell whiskey on the English black market and the perpetrator was one of the Swiss men soliciting the purchase of the distillery. Some politicians worried that flooding the black market with the whiskey made in Kilbeggan would do damage to the reputation of Irish whiskey in general. Additionally, questions were voiced about whether the government showed favoritism to a foreign interest over an Irish concern. The deal fell through and the heirs to Locke Whiskey continued to run the business for another decade.

A group of local people in Kilbeggan helped to preserved building after it sat empty for a quarter of a century and established a museum of the Locke family distillery. In 1988, the Cooley Distillery bought Kilbeggan and in 2007 began producing whiskey at the site again. Most of the original 19^th century machinery remains intact, complete with the waterwheel. Today Kilbeggan Distillery serves as a museum, a tourist destination, as well as a working distillery.

In case you were wondering, Kilbeggan means “Church of Beccan,” a sixth century saint who was a recluse in the area. Now he has a whiskey named after him. 

Raining in Athlone

After spending a rainy day in Athlone, with wind gusting to 30-40 mph and temperatures in the 40sF, I have come to the conclusion that malls in Ireland are somewhat different from those in the States. It is much more likely that you would find a proper meal in an Irish mall. Typically, Irish malls are located in the city center, rather than in the surrounding suburbs, thus preventing the blight that became common in the downtown sections of many American cities. And, it is doubtful that you find a full service butcher in an American mall; much less one that advertised that the shop sourced the meat from their own abattoir. 

Betlémské Kapel

The interior of the chapel

Bethlehem Chapel (Prague) was founded in 1391 and is an important building in both Czech and Protestant history. The charter of the chapel stipulated that sermons were to be delivered in Czech, rather than Latin, a major departure from church practices of the day. The building was also important because it could contain the largest meeting space of anywhere in the city, up to 3000 people. Despite the size, the building was never considered a church.

Perhaps, however, the more historically important aspect of the chapel was the appointment of Jan Hus as preacher in 1402. Largely unknown outside of Bohemia, his sermons and writings were of great renown, even drawing Queen Sophia, the wife of King Wenceslas IV, to hear him. He preached on the evils of too much money, citing the tenth chapter of Matthew, Hus worried that the church would be captured by earthly riches and would refrain from preaching the Word of God. As such, Hus was also a critic of the practice of selling indulgences, which drew the ire of the king and Church. In 1412 he was forced to flee Prague. He was arrested and burned at the stake on 6 July 1415, the anniversary of which is now the Czech national day. Hus is seen as the precursor to the Protestant Reformation that would occur a century later and Martin Luther cited him as his predecessor.

The illustration of Jan Hus in flames

The interior of the chapel, austere and sparse like many early Protestant churches, evokes a serenity not found on the busy streets of Prague. Reproductions of medieval paintings on the walls tell the story of Hus and his followers. Today the chapel is a part of, and maintained by, the Czech Technical University in Prague. It hosts formal graduations of students and each 6 July an ecumenical meeting on the anniversary of Hus’s execution. Stepping into the chapel is almost stepping back in time. There are very few distractions and almost no tourists; only fellow travelers. 

Žižkov Television Tower

The tower from Jiřího z Proděbad Square

It may be one of the oddest attractions in Prague, but I enjoyed my visit. Built between 1985 and 1992, the Žižkov Television Tower was one of the last major architectural undertakings of the Czechoslovak communist government. Because of the modern, socialist-inspired architectural that intruded on the traditional landscape of Prague, some residents thought it represented the Communist Party leader, Miloš Jakeš, giving the city the finger. The advent of cable and satellite television robbed the structure of its original use.

The view

Interior

Located well outside the center of the city, at the Jiřího z Proděbad metro station, the modern tower is a place where the traveler can take in a panoramic view of the city. I understand that this attraction could be quite hokey, and the tower does, almost inexplicably, have an exhibition that was originally installed in 2000 that has babies crawling on the tower. Yet, the interior is understated, peaceful and tasteful. Despite there being a snack bar on the observation level, there is almost a Zen feel (especially when there are a limited number of people visiting). It offers a beautiful view of Praha 3 and the center of the old city in the distance. From the vantage of nearly 100 meters up, there is a much better of the valley of the Vlata. The walk to and from the tower, which takes one through the residential neighborhoods, allows a realistic view of living in Prague.

Babies crawling on the tower

A bizarre encounter

I was walking down a side street in Prague at 8am, on Friday morning. My goal was to drop off a little laundry before the weekend and have it ready about lunch time. An unmarked lorry pulled up beside me and the driver leaned over, and asked in Czech, either, “Do you have a drink?” or “Do you want a drink?” He pretended to have a cup in his hand and make a drinking gesture. I said no, he smiled, waved and drove off. As he drove away I wondered how he came to the conclusion that I might be interested in such a proposition. Was it that I was carrying a canvas bag full of dirty laundry? Or, was it the fact that I was out and about at eight in the morning?