Good Morning, America!

The kitchenette was quiet when I came inside and unloaded my breakfast onto the table. I had gotten four hours of sleep, and I was remarkably calm and cheerful as I started to make pancakes and put milk on to warm. It was sunny again for the second day in a row. A gray squirrel ran on the stone fence outside, looking nervously into the window at me before dashing off in a hurry.

Hannah came inside, her hair wet, fully dressed. I was in pajama bottoms and a Madonna University hoodie. “Good morning,” I said, “wow, you’ve showered and everything. I just sat up, threw my hair in a ponytail, and came down here. Aren’t you going to bed after?”

“Yeah,” she said groggily. “But I knew if I didn’t shower now, I never would.”

“Kay. Well, I’m putting the pancakes on now. Do you want hot chocolate? I’m making some.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, sitting down with a sigh. “But I think I’ll be okay.”

“Kay. If you’re sure.” I poked the limp pancake forming in my frying pan. It was thin, more like a crepe than a pancake. You’d think my mum never taught me to make pancakes.

My phone buzzed on the table. “That’ll be Victoria,” Hannah said. “I’ll go let her in.”

She left, and I hummed contentedly to myself. I flipped the pancake. It drooped unhappily, falling in on itself.

“Pancakes,” Victoria said as she came in, fully dressed and almost as awake as I was, “You know that pancakes are good for hangovers? Of course, we didn’t drink enough last night to need pancakes…”

I laughed. “It’s more like a crepe than a pancake,” I said. “I’m making eggs, too. How do you like them?”

Hannah was sitting at the table, looking faded. She had not slept the night before, and on top of Monday’s sleepless night, Tuesday had only given her four hours of sleep.

Fiona came in, a little surprised to see us. “Good morning,” she said as she started to make cereal.

“Good morning!” I said.

“Oh, God,” Hannah said, “you are too happy.”

“Tone it down, Rebekah.”

“I’m sorry. Let me try again. It’s a terrible morning, Fiona. Life sucks. It’s too darn early. Better?”

Fiona laughed. “How’d it go last night?” she asked.

Hannah and Victoria looked at their plates. I returned my gaze to my dying pancake, contemplating.

We had started preparations for the Presidential Election at one, going to the Centra to buy Doritos and plastic wineglasses, Spar for bacon and custard cream biscuits, Mace for gummy bears and bonbons. We had been planning our Election Party since we had all gone out bowling together in October, and now it was time to pull all of the loose ends together. We would spend the night in Victoria’s kitchenette, which has a built-in common room, and then have breakfast in my kitchenette. I was going to make eggs and bacon and pancakes, which was exciting. I hadn’t made a group meal since the slightly disastrous hamburger night in September.

The only problem was the time differences. We calculated that things would start going in America around 10.00 (5.00 U.S. time), and that left us with hours to pass before we could learn what was happening back home. Because it was Tuesday, we went to iCafe, and were surprised by how curious everyone was.

“It’s today, isn’t it? Have you heard anything yet?” everyone asked us, their eyes wide.

“No, not yet. It’s too early yet.”

“Oh. Who do you think is going to win?”

“We don’t know. It’s 50/50. It’s a very even race.” Besides, I thought silently, I’m in the U.K.—how would I know what the Americans are thinking?

“Who do you want to win?”

“We don’t actually talk about that.”

“Oh. Why not? Don’t you want people to know who you voted for?”

“It’s a personal decision.”

They would nod, pretending to understand. The Northern Irish political psyche is vastly different from an Americans. “Well, good luck, for whoever your chosen candidate is.”

I would also nod graciously. “Thank you.” He’s going to need it.

Anem, one of the British girls in our house, joked about it when we saw her. “I don’t need to watch the elections. I just need to look at Hannah’s face the next morning. If she’s unhappy, Obama won, and if she’s happy, Romney did!”

The Americans at iCafe grouped together today for games, shielding each other from the curiosity. When the mediators asked us for team names, one of the Northern Irish girls shouted, “Our team name is Yes We Can—just for you, Stacha!” Stacha, an American studying here for three years to study autism, blushed.

When will it end, we asked each other with our eyes. I sat on my hands and wished for the night to begin.

“Are you going out? To the Parlour?” another person asked. “They’re having a huge Presidential Debate there.”

“No, we’re staying in,” we would say.

“Good luck,” they would say, and again I would nod, and say, “Thank you.”

After the games, red-faced and energetic, we went for doughnuts and hot chocolate, while Cosmin stood up for our usual Bible lesson. Our weekly iCafe session is hosted by Crescent Church, and all of the volunteers are Christians. Before each iCafe night there is an hour-long Bible study in an upstairs room, which I have never been to, but each night the group pulls together a power point and teaches us a valuable moral.

Cosmin’s power point was about Claims that night, and he started by talking about the election. “I know many of you are aware that tonight is a very important night for America,” he said, in his strange Romanian-Irish accent. Victoria, Hannah, and I all cheered. “Barack Obama, who is the president, is running to secure the presidency. Against a republican candidate. Mitt Romney.” He showed us the powerpoint, all of dashing photographs of the two candidates. “And they are each making claims, tonight, about who can better run America. About who will better influence the world…”

He went on, tying in the Presidential Election to the last moments of Jesus upon the Cross, with His magnificent claim that He was the Son of God, and how He was challenged by the man on the cross next to Him, who said, “If You are the Christ, why do you not free yourself, and free us with you?”

But it was the other man being crucified with Jesus that we remember most, for he said, “Do you not fear the punishment we are going to? For we have been justly accused of crimes, but this man—this man has done nothing wrong!” and turning to Jesus, he said, “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom!”

We sing these words at Mass every time Easter draws near. It is always a haunting song, slow and mournful, an elegy.

“I say to you,” Jesus said to him, “This day, you shall be with me in Paradise!”

I really could not see how Barack Obama and Mitt Romney could be compared to the two men opposite Jesus on the Cross, but Hannah and Victoria shut me up before I started a scene and then dragged me to the Drink store to by WDK Blue and Red.

I have never been in a real Drink store before, one that’s whole purpose is to sell alcohol. I went in and found what we were looking for immediately—WDK Blue looks like toilet cleaner, which stands out on a shelf—and waited for Hannah and Victoria to browse the dusty black bottles.

As we paid for the WDK, the cashier looked at us and said, “So did youse vote, then?”

“We voted absentee,” we said, “about a month ago.”

“Oh, I see. Well, good luck to youse.”

“Thank you,” we said, and we headed out, the WDK bottles clinking in a little blue bag. I was sorry that we didn’t get one of those large Drink buckets; they come in handy for all sorts of things. Apparently, though, you need to spend more than £5.50 to get a fancy bucket.

Victoria’s kitchenette was empty when we came, bearing sugary goodies and pop and the WDK bottles, which we put everywhere. Victoria set up her laptop, and Hannah and I set up ours (although the internet fizzed out, and we ended up relying in Victoria’s internet). We opened the WKD Red, because none of us had had it before. Victoria poured me a little bit, and when her back was turned I downed it .When she turned back around and saw it was empty she gasped and said, “What? Did she actually drink that? …Did anyone get that on video?”

No one had. I smirked.

We played political games; I sent everyone to isidewith.com to see which political candidate they most resemble in personal views. We were high up and the Libertarian and Conservative side.

As we were taking the quiz, a blond boy poked his head in. “So who won?” he asked.

“It’s too early to tell. It’s only five p.m. in the U.S.”

“Oh. When will you know?”

I laughed. “Five in the morning.”

He blinked, surprised. “More like three,” Victoria amended for me.

“That’s a long time.”

He went away. A little while later a girl came by. “Who’s winning?”

“None of the results are in.”

“Mm. Are you staying up all night, then?”

“Yup.”

She went away too. I turned on the t.v. and found BBC coverage of the entire event, laid out neatly, without any of CNN’s premature guesses or American biases. Each reporter was wearing a poppy on their lapel, in solidarity with veterans, and explaining to their U.K. viewers how an American election works, from swing states to electoral college votes.

The boy came back and started to make a late snack. So did the girl. Soon we were all discussing politics, and comparing.

Tom and Ashley Kate both liked Obama, and they were surprised at our reluctance when they brought up his name. They were also annoyed that Victoria would not tell them who she voted for.

“Why don’t you want us to know?” Tom demanded, breaking away from his original thesis, that America is headed to war with Iran. “Why is it such a secret? WHY WILL NONE OF YOU TELL ME?”

I turned the conversation around, so the focus was on him. “Why do you like Obama, then?” I asked. This is what I gathered:

The U.S., in regards to Northern Ireland, is extremely capitalist. Hannah will balk at me writing this—because she says we are not a true capitalist society, whereas I believe that if you’re going to do something you should not do it half-arsed. She would not see us as excessively capitalistic. But in any case, we are living in socialist territory here in Belfast—and before anyone gets upset, I want to remind everyone that Belfast is the second safest city in the U.K., that it is cleaner and nicer and the people are happier than in Dublin, and that there are actually more human rights here than in the U.S. However, in all fairness, as Tom later told us, all of this is thanks to Britain and its money.

Anyway, Tom continued, Obama was more like the Northern Irish in the way that they thought. He was kinder in foreign policy; Tom claims to have observed that more Republican presidents send us to war than Democratic ones. And if we go to war, he will go to war.

I interrupted him, to ask if this bothered him. He said no, he was glad that the U.K. and America were allies.

Good, I said, I’m glad we’re allies too.

“He’s only been a president four years,” he said, coming to the climax of his opinion, “what good is four years?”

“You forget,” Ashley Kate said, “they see four years as a long time. It’s not like our Prime Minister.”

Somehow this led to a discussion about sexual values. Tom was surprised that Hannah and I had not kissed anyone yet, and he was very frank about his own experiences in this field—such as kissing a guy on a dare.

“Why not?” he asked with a shrug. “We knew we were straight, we knew we weren’t attracted to each other. It was all for the craic.”

Craic is, of course, the buzzword for Let’s teach the Americans slang, and I learned a lot of dirty words for my slang list. Every so often I would look over at the t.v. and see that the numbers had jumped, and we would take a shot: Blue WDK for Obama, red for Romney.

“Why is Romney half gone?” Tom asked as he joined us in taking shots. The red one tasted like cherries, and the blue was blueberries. The blue was our favorite. I thought it burned less on the way down, too.  

“Because we hadn’t tried the red before, and we started drinking before the results came in.”

“Oh. You’re going to run out if you keep doing shots.”

“Yup.”

“You know this isn’t alcoholic, right?”

“Yup.”

“Okay. Just making sure.” He held up the bottle, then turned to Ashley Kate. “You know what, I bet you could get drunk on this.”

“Sure.”

“No, really. It doesn’t even taste like alcohol, you could drink it without knowing, and suddenly you’d be drunk and wouldn’t know why.”

That was about the time I stopped taking shots.

Tom stole Victoria’s laptop and started researching how many of America’s presidents had Irish in them. At one point he started counting our presidents backward: Obama, Bush Jr., Clinton, Bush Sr….going back farther than I could have gone.

“Wouldn’t it be interesting if we had gotten this excited about our election,” Tom said.

“I don’t think I even voted,” Ashley Kate said.

Around three in the morning, Tom, Ashley Kate, and Chrissy, who had joined us around two in the morning, left to go to sleep. Obama was ahead in the polls, but the race was still close. I was starting to fall asleep; when I tried to pour myself a cup of 7Up I ended up spilling it all over the raspberry bonbons and the leftover candy corn. Hannah was crashing on the couch, trying halfheartedly to get the internet on her laptop to work. Victoria was on her laptop, reading a goodreads review for Fifty Shades Free. I was munching Doritos like nobody’s business and working on a new story.

BBC started to show the Democratic headquarters. Everyone was waving the flag, and cheering. One of the poppy-pinned newsreporters said, “They are cheering because Obama just released a tweet. He says, This happened because of you. Thank you. Do you think that this is a premature celebration?”

A man replied to her question, then they went back to talking about the Women Factor, how more women registered to vote than ever before. How would the blacks and the Hispanics vote?

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered. “You’re labelling.”

At 4.30, more results came in. BBC took us to a chart, which propelled Obama over the 170 line. Hannah started packing up her laptop, her mouth pressed in a thin line.

“Hannah,” I said, “did they just say Obama won?”

“Yup. He crossed the 170 mark.”

“Well,” I said, “I guess it’s appropriate to start singing There’s No One as Irish as Barack Obama.”

We walked back to our room. A black cat was skulking in the shadows. A few white clouds passed over the dark blue sky. “What did we even talk about tonight?” we asked.

Holly 4 was quiet. When we had left the foyer smelled of cigarette smoke, and there had been loud music coming from the upstairs. Hannah went to bed, and I started writing in my diary, and going onto tumblr, learning what BBC had omitted. Maryland and Maine had voted for same-sex marriage. An openly gay woman had been elected a senator.

What amazed me most, however, was the number of United Kingdom citizens who were online, at five o’clock in the morning, just to see who ran for President. I remembered what Ashley Kate had said when we asked why she was so interested. “When America sneezes, we all catch cold,” she had said simply.

One of the girls in my flat was still online, cheering the re-election of Barack Obama. Another girl posted, “MY HOUSEMATE IS BLASTING “PARTY IN THE USA”. WE ARE IN SCOTLAND. HE IS SCOTTISH. IT IS 4:30 AM.” The Canadians were cheering. “Never scare us again, America!” they cried. Hastily-made Mean Girls references abounded. Obama was posting cheeky twitter pictures, and talking about how he had never loved his wife more.

Then, of course, were the rumours: Puerto Rico is becoming a State! (If that’s true, I can stop being sarcastic and confusing the Spaniards by telling them we have 50 ½ States.) I turned my laptop off and lay in bed for a long time, staring at the stars on my ceiling, wondering if this would all be a dream; if I would wake up and Romney would be the American president. A story that Mr. Pyle told me in high school was running in my head, about the man who went to bed thinking he had won the presidency. A reporter came to visit him, and his aide said, “I am sorry, the president has gone to bed, and must not be disturbed.”

“Maybe you should tell him he’s not the president,” the reporter said, “and see if he wakes up then.” That was how I felt—as if the world would rearrange if I closed my eyes, and be unrecognisable when I woke up the next morning.

But I had learned what fifteen years of schooling couldn’t teach me—that the American president matters just as much to the world as he does to us. I now realise it is not enough to vote for a man who will take care of Americans at home. Like it or not, America is a central figure—and we must vote with the world in mind.

Good morning, America. Did you hear us cheering with you last night?

"Are You for the Zoo?"

“Are you for the zoo?”

Hannah and I were in the midst of discussing something ridiculous, a conversation in which I was deeply invested—my reply was on my tongue when he spoke—but instead of getting sullen I blinked, because what I had just heard was spoken in the most brilliant British accent.

We had noticed him coming towards us. It was rather hard not to take note of the people passing us by, from the Asian girl in what looked like pink pyjamas to the boys dressed for a day at the gym. He had come from Chestnut Crescent, dressed all in black and—something I had noticed with interest in the back of my mind—his brown eyes on us.

Hannah answered something in reply (I am notoriously shy with strangers), and he smiled, relaxed. “Oh, good. I had thought I was the only one. My name was the only one on the sign-up sheet,” still speaking in that gloriously amazing accent.

We had only signed up the night before, and Hannah had seen his name. “Look,” she said (I hadn’t), “there’s only one other name on this list.” Hannah replied saying something in this vein. Then came the inevitable banter: What are you studying. Where are you from. Hurricane Sandy. The presidential elections.

Meanwhile, Hannah, the RA, was running around trying to figure out where the bus was, and what was going on with the zoo trip we had signed up for. She kept popping in to give us general updates—I’m off to reception! I’m calling the bus company now! I’m calling my boss’ boss! Finally, she came back and said, Due to the fact that only three of you signed up for this trip, it has been cancelled. But never fear! We can get there ourselves, if you’d like.

We all of us looked at each other and said, We’re not doing anything today; why not? And so we all bundled in the QUB minibus, and got a lift from one of the lads working at Reception that day.

The zoo isn’t that far out of South Belfast; it’s almost at the edge of North Belfast, if my directional abilities read true. It didn’t take long to get there, and we bought our tickets and started to look around. It was cold, but not as cold as it has been recently, although it rained hard before we came. Hannah claimed she had seen hail. But the weather had cleared up nicely, which was a relief; I didn’t feel like tramping though a zoo trying to peer out of rain-speckled glasses.

I’ve been to the Toledo Zoo a dozen times, and that was what I was expecting. But the Belfast Zoo is a lot smaller, and it isn’t as well kept up. As we walked along, we could see worn away paint on the ground, where it used to be in the shape of human shoeprints, or elephant prints, but now were barely there. The first building we saw was the run down Floral House, which was once apparently a major dance house, but has since fallen into disrepair. Dead vines were crawling over the surface, and rainwater was dripping down the broken gutter. Some of the exhibits were dirty like this, too. The bear enclosure had a pool full of leaves, the seal and penguin pools had little window-watch spots where the glass was scratched and messy, and one exhibit had been dismantled and was now dank.

“Nothing could live there, look at how black the water is,” Adam said when he saw that exhibit.

We each had something that we wanted to see most of all, and Adam said, "I'm keen on the Malaysian Tapir." He was very insistent about going to see it, and led us through less-known paths, strewn with leaves, until finally we came upon the panda-anteater cross which is the Malaysian Tapir. 

 “It looks like it’s wearing a coat,” Hannah the RA said, laughing. She too is a GB student, although her accent bled into the Irish. She said she is from Liverpool, which apparently has a high Irish population, explaining her accent.

“It does, doesn’t it?” we all said.

Adam seemed pleased. He made some remarks out the Tapir, pleasant offhand ones. He and Hannah both did this. They make the correct comments at the right time, largely impersonal remarks, but appropriate and well-timed.

Today really was a lesson in British boys for me. I know a few British girls, but they all act free when we’re around; Adam didn’t seem to really open up. Hannah the RA even seemed more open, more like the Northern Irish. You could tell Adam was British by the way he talked, and even the way he walked. He kept his hands behind his back like someone in a movie, and really the only way I could tell there was anyone human in there was because he made the oddest facial expressions. 

Notice the way the he holds his hands.

 After we saw the Tapir, we followed the path and saw pink flamingos, which reminded me of the creatures in The Labyrinth, and then seagulls and ducks. There was also a peacock and a peahen, and as we wandered around looking at domestic farm animals, we saw that the peacock had flown out of its little house and was walking over the street. Hannah the RA was rather surprised by this, but Hannah and I, as hardened country girls, were not. We were surprised, however, that the peacock kept following us all over the zoo. Hannah decided that he spread gossip around the zoo, and sure enough, when we arrived at an enclosure all of the animals would be clustered together, pacing, until the peacock came and delivered its news. 

Peacock in the Meerkat den

Peacock delivering gossip to expectant penguins

  Hannah the RA really wanted to see the bats, and everywhere we went we kept seeing signs that promoted the bats, but no actual bat enclosure. Our Hannah wanted to see the red panda, but when we stopped at its enclosure, it did not come out. We passed it by at least three times, but the red panda stayed hidden.

Hannah, Hannah the RA, and I all stopped to watch the animals, while I took pictures, and Adam tended to go on ahead on his own. I wondered if he felt outnumbered, three girls to one boy. Sometimes I would turn around and he would be gone; I would look, but could not see him anywhere.

The best part of the entire adventure for me was the African enclosure, which had giraffes, ostriches, elephants, and zebras. Adam was very obliging and said zedburrah an awful lot, which probably made this my favourite part of the zoo trip. Zeebrah just sounds coarse next to zedburrah, especially when Adam says it in his wonderful accent.

After we had gone around the zoo (it only took about three hours), we went to the Lion’s Den to eat something small, and we called a taxi and went back to Queen’s. We'll be watching Downton Abbey with Fiona at half ten and hopefully we shall see Adam again later this month, when we go to the local gaol. 

(Don't tell my mother I'm going there!)

The Mountains of Mourne

“Bloody Bridge, return ticket, please,” I say.

“Thirteen pound seventy,” the bus driver says, and I hand over the last of my money. In return, he gives me a ticket, and I go to the back of the bus to join Hannah and Victoria.

The air outside is biting, the wind strong, but the bus is snug and warm. Victoria and I shrug off our coats and hang them up to let them dry. It is raining in Belfast, but we are reasonably confident that our destination will be dry.

“Hey,” Victoria says, “We’re all wearing our Queen’s hoodies!”

The first month we were in Belfast, the three of us bought almost identical Queen’s hoodies, and this was the first time the three of us had worn them at the same time.

“A for coordination, guys,” Victoria says. “Great planning. We should get a picture of this before we all go home.”

“That’s a good idea,” Hannah says. She is already dozing off in her chair. I watch three other people board the bus for Newcastle, and then our empty bus rattles south, to the Mountains of Mourne.

We switch buses at Newcastle, getting on a bus bound for Kilkeeny. Looming ahead of us are the Mountains of Mourne, shrouded in mist. To our left is a giant bay, the waves crashing heavily against the shore. Everything else is a giant stretch of green farmland. We watch a seagull floating carelessly on the icy water. “Did you know seagulls actually spend up to seven months at sea?” Victoria says. “They can actually drink saltwater, and they have a little filter in their mouths which separates the water from the salt. That’s why their beaks are always encrusted with salt.”

“I can’t believe we’re going to Bloody Bridge on Halloween,” Hannah says again. None of us can believe it, really. I have built up a location in my mind of a slightly rickety wooden bridge, surrounded by looming pine trees, with a dark creek running beneath it. Yet I do not recognise our stop when we finally arrive, and our bus driver has to turn around and say, “This is you, guys.”

We scramble off of the bus, and take in our surroundings. There is a steep dirt path leading down to the bay, and then across the road is a gate leading to the mountains. I bolt for the bay, Victoria threatening to leash me if I do not behave.

“She’s like a puppy,” she complains to Hannah. Hannah shrugs; at least I am entertaining. We take pictures of the sea, of the waterfall, of the bridge, which is a simple concrete one that evokes nothing in the way of gothic art or death or blood. As we climb back up the slippery slope to the road, and cross to the mountains, there is only a little stone sign, about a metre high, that says, simply, BLOODY BRIDGE.

Happy Halloween, I think, this isn’t terrifying at all. 

 We follow a little gate, one that we have to squeeze through, and find ourselves on a stone path leading up. Next to the bath is a steady stream, with several small waterfalls cascading down. We start our ascent. It had rained here this morning, too, and I slip a few times, my hands flailing around, grabbing nettles for balance. Then nettles sting me, even wearing gloves. “Ow,” I hiss, each time, and Hannah and Victoria turn to make sure I have not twisted my ankle.

Hannah takes pictures of the flora and fauna, while I inch closer to the waterfalls. Victoria bounds ahead, and when she realises we are not in earshot, turns around and waits impatiently for us to catch up.

“Sorry,” I say, with a grin, “you need two dedicated backpackers to climb this mountain with, and you’ve got two avid photographers instead.”

The way is rocky. Through man’s intervention or God’s intercession they fall like stairs in most places, sometimes falling away to large rock faces. It is relatively easy to climb, and despite my clumsy falls into the nettles, we make good time. Soon we come to a nice wooden bridge, which we cross with a sense of relief—until, at the other side, Victoria discovers…. “Be careful,” she calls back, “there’s poop.”

At the end of the bridge is a large paddy, larger than a cow or a horse. Victoria is our future veterinarian, and she decides it must belong to a mule. Our way becomes more treacherous, as we negate the narrow rock stairs and try to avoid stepping in mule dung. The way is getting even steeper now, and the trail seems to be hidden by the brush. Victoria is again rushing ahead, eager to reach the top and look down at the world below. I am climbing more slowly, taking photographs, conversing energy.

I come to the top of a small hill, so that the path levels out for a bit, and stop short. Hannah is behind me, and she stops too, confused.

“Victoria,” I say, too loudly, “I found who was leaving the scat.”

Victoria turns around, confused, only to see me almost face to face with a yak. 

 I have only ever seen yaks in pictures and on Everest documentaries, but I know a yak when I see one. It had long yellow-orange hair, and it eyed me and the others with a bit of curiosity.

“Wow. How did I miss that?” Victoria asks. I finish climbing up so Hannah can see. Hannah is a little panicked, but together we assure each other out loud that there is nothing to fear from yaks. They are gentle creatures, and strong ones. As we climb higher, we will again return to the yaks, wishing we could harness one and ride it to the top. We continue on, and count about four yaks as we pass them by. They pay us no mind, and I watch them curiously.

Our first test came in the form of the waterfall bridge. Like the scene in The Labyrinth were Ludo calls forth rocks to act as a bridge across the Swamp of Stench, we were supposed to cross the top of a waterfall by mounting different rocks and jumping to the other side. Victoria does this easily, and Hannah follows carefully. I snap pictures of the others, and then follow them across. 

 From this point on, the path becomes large, a rocky driveway leading straight up. The weather becomes colder, and a driving wind presses against our faces.

“I know that these mountains are supposed to be Narnia,” I say, “but all I can think of is Lord of the Rings.”

“That’s because they were friends,” Hannah says, “C. S. Lewis and Tolkein, I mean. They were friends, and taught together at Oxford, and were part of a pen group together. Dianna Wynn Jones had them as teachers.”

“Yeah,” I say dubiously, “but Tolkein was British. Only Lewis was from around here. What were their first names, anyway?”

“Maybe they compared notes,” Hannah said, “And it was Christopher. I think. Maybe something else? And I know one of the R’s in Tolkein’s name stood for…was it Robert?”

“Let’s just call C. S. Lewis Louie,” Victoria says.

The book discussions turn into movie quotes. The Mountains of Mourne apparently encompass every movie we have ever seen; we quote Monsters Inc., The Princess Bridge (“THE CLIFFS OF INSANITY!”), Lord of the Rings, Narnia. More scat appears, this time in little bullet-like pellets. “Deer,” Victoria says.

“Oh, my God,” I say, “What if they’re reindeer?”

“I don’t think so, Rebekah.”

“Yeah? Well, did you expect yaks on this mountain?”

We continue to climb. The wind is driving, cruel. The tallest mountain is still shrouded in mist, calling forth images of the Misty Mountains. We stop and look down below at how far we have come. The bay looks like Cair Paravel.

I start to become tired. I breathe through my mouth, but feel the need to rest. I keep stopping and watching the sheep (perpetrators of the bullet-sized scat). Victoria is still bounding ahead, and Hannah falls between us. I take ragged breaths and cough.

“Do stop coughing, you are getting on my nerves,” Victoria says lightly, quoting Mrs. Bennet. I roll my eyes and have to rest again.

This is ridiculous, I think. All my life, I want to climb mountains, and now I am on one, I can’t walk more then ten steps without feeling like fainting! How are you ever going to get to Base Camp on Everest, or see the sun rise on Kilimanjaro, if you act like your corset stays are laced too tight?

I am yelling at myself when I see it. “Look!” I cry. “The wardrobe door.”

“What?” the other say. “Where?”

“There!”

“I can’t see anything.”

I start to laugh uncontrollably. “Oh, God,” I say, “I’ve finally lost it. I’m seeing things.” I start to walk faster, to see what it is, and the closer I get, the more it reminds me of the entrance to the Mines of Moria.

We are almost there when the path seems to divide. One goes swiftly upward, to the top of the shortest mountain. The other continues to the door, and a giant rock wall. The path up the mountain is odd. At the top we can see little squiggles—stairs, maybe? Train tracks? But what would train tracks be doing on a mountain? Skiing equipment? Curious, we start up the path, just a little ways. We see wheels, gears, parts of train tracks. Those are not stairs at the top of the mountain. They are the remnants of train tracks, now taken apart. The other path, leading to the wall, may take us up to the top of the misty mountain. Or it might not. We cannot see that far, and it is almost noon; we still have to climb down the mountain and take the bus back to Belfast before they quit running for the night. None of us are quite sure of when the return bus is.

 “Well,” Victoria says, “Do you want to go up the train tracks?”

“This is not a path,” Hannah says.

“We’re halfway up, we might as well,” I say. I have become oddly hysterical, and find this entire situation laughable. I look down, and see the figures of three others, climbing slowly up after us. If we die, they will probably find our bodies and contact the proper authorities. We’re all wearing clothes that mark us out to be the Property of Queen’s University Belfast; there’s not much that can go wrong.

We climb.

But what seemed to be a path is actually a stream. The ground is soft, muddy, marshy, the water cold. Hannah’s shoes quickly become wet, as do Victoria’s. The stream grows into a small cataract, covered by a wet bridge of four wooden planks. I put my foot on two of the more stable ones, and they shake under my weight. We continue to climb, but before we even make it to the train tracks we decide it is best to retreat. (“THIS IS NOT PATH, I TOLD YOU,” Hannah repeats.) Hannah looks disgruntled. Victoria lopes off down the mountain. I am giddy and take my time, calling down to her that this must be the inspiration for the marshes of the dead in Mordor.

“If I see any faces looking back at me,” Victoria says, “I’m outta here.”

“Everyman for himself,” I agree cheerfully.

We make instead to the wall ahead. There are two buildings, decayed and destroyed by time; what they were used for is anybody’s guess. The first one has two large stone planks inside, looking as if they were cut in two. “This is where Aslan was sacrificed!” I shout, still giddy and hysterical. Victoria offers to slap me. Considering she took a puff of her inhaler before she climbed the mountain and is now pumped full of drugs, I do not appreciate this comment. 

 The second house is the one I saw from below, which looks like the enterance to the Mines of Moria. It looks less like a mine from up close. We step around the sheep scat and find a nice clean rock to eat lunch on, looking at the wall and the waterfall.

We only climb a bit further than this, and when we reach the highest we are going to get, Victoria plays “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” to celebrate. We’ve already sung “Steward of Gondor,” “Climb Every Mountain,” “The Sound of Music,” and the theme song for the Hobbit movie.

As we climb down we run into a man in blue, who greets us. He is an avid backpacker, in boots, with a compass, and a real climbing coat. We make small talk about the mountain, about Hurricane Sandy, and then go down.

Going down we are silent; there are no more stories about C.S. Lewis or Tolkein. Victoria does not make up a story about a man who chased her with a four eared dog. Climbing down is treacherous, because at every moment our balance and weight works against us. I fall at least three times, and must be caught by Hannah, who tells me clearly that I am not allowed to run down a mountainside, or I will die. My fingers are numb in their gloves. We have not climbed a mountain. I am still partially hysterical, and positive I am making a fool of myself, but at least now I’m keeping up with the group.

By the time we reach the place where we saw the yaks, the weather has gotten warm. The sun is peeking out from behind the mountain we almost climbed, and Hannah tells us the story of Loki and Balder to keep us entertained.

Balder was the son of Odin, and he was very much loved, so he became, like Achilles, indestructible, except for one weak spot. He could be killed by nothing but mistletoe. So Loki shot him with an arrow made of mistletoe, and Balder died.

“That is very depressing,” Victoria said. “Why did Loki do that?”

“Because Loki hated him, I don’t know.” 

 We reach the bus station and wait. The bus comes in good time, and I fall into a trance, half awake, half asleep. The bus is busy now, with children dutifully reciting nursery rhymes, students talking about how their expensive mascara was stolen whilst they were drunk.

In Elms, everyone is getting ready for Halloween. A tray of carved pumpkins is laid out in Reception for judging, and we pass boys in onesies, batmans, Rosie the Riveters. The girls in my flat are going out dressed as Smurfs. Friends coordinate their outfits, so that they are dressed the same. Everyone is going out drinking, but Hannah and I are costume-less. As someone who has dressed up for the past two years, this was sad. But there was nowhere to go. In the end, we stay in and watch Zombieland, listening to fireworks go off in the distance. 

 

A Note on the Text

C. S. Lewis's full name was Clive Staples Lewis. He was nicknamed Jack, for reasons I do not understand. Tolkein was one of the men responsible for converting Lewis to Christianity, so we have Tolkein to thank for Narnia, and Screwtape.

J. R. R. Tolkein's full name was John Ronald Reuel Tolkein.