Small towns, Big Cities…

I live in what could with some generosity be considered a coastal ‘town’ in North Down. It offers many pleasures, including: a lighthouse, a coastal walk, a great pub/ restaurant and  nicknacky shops I can wile away a Saturday in. It is eight miles from home and only six from work. The kinda place other people actually drive to visit. But what it lacks is too long a list to mention…

I spent last weekend in the tiny little village of Glaslough in Monaghan: which I presume (although I am much too lazy to do the due dilligence of actual historical research) is only in existence at all because of the huge Castle Leslie estate to which it is attached. It was the most fabulous of fabulous weekends: a source of many 365 style moments, if such blogging crazes still existed…but  beyond the splendor of the luxurious house we stayed in, the Egon Ronay food and Victorian spa, there was a real community spirit: a group of people connected by their sense of belonging to a place and welcoming of the strangers in their midst.

After dinner (with copious amounts of wine) the Sten of the party (our reason for leaving the ‘black’ North) demanded that we find dancing and invited himself into the bar beside the castle. What looked like a private party was in fact a fundraiser for Glaslough FC and the barman assured us in an easy drawl that ‘You are all very welcome.’ And we were: offered barbeque and drinks and ballot tickets. It was our/ my sort of party: with live traditional music, a dance floor and boys fit enough to run around a football pitch.I was up dancing with a man who was easily in his 70s and making his way around the marquee dancing with whichever young lady he deemed fit for him. The ballot was a site to behold: various ladies, all known personally to the MC, were called to pick tickets: ‘Good girl yourself Sinead, send Siobhan up here…’, there were players of the year whose fathers and grandfathers had also played for the team, and locals were coaxed out of their money with gentle jibes and old stories. This was a local football team that was the heart of this community: they were proud of their season’s accomplishments and looking forward to and trying to financially make their next season possible. We left at 3am with the party in full swing, all quite chuffed to have been part of it all…

The next day, as we searched for a picnic spot we were told to watch out for the lamposts, pillars and post boxes as the villagers were out painting; more than one person stopped to asked if we’d enjoyed ourselves the night before and enquire about the health of our heads.

And yes, ye cynics of blogland, I can hear you tut, it is easy on a weekend away, or rather on any holiday to fall in love with a place and its people and the easy responsibility free a holiday existance seems to offer…but my desire for a community feel reaches beyond the easy hedonism of last weekend’s Sten.

A flourishing friendship with a work colleague has given me cause to head down the peninsula and discover the delights of another coastal community. This girl has lived here all her life, married a local boy, bought a house close to her parents and is raising her family in the same village she loved growing up in. The last night I was there I was at a fundraising concert for the local playgroup: a family folk group that the entire village had turned out to support ( in the interest of full disclosure I should tell you that my interest in this particular event was the singer in group giving the concert: the source of my current unrequited love affair). It was one of those nights were the audience were enchanted by the talent and the special mentions. The women had made tea and brought buns: and everyone was there to support a very vital service within their community.

When we went to the local bowling club afterwards; my friend A, her husband G and the elusive lead singer of the band were greeted by everyone and all: it was one of those Western moments: when the stranger (me) stepped into the bar. The ‘boys’ had got a team togehter to give the Under 16s a game of football the next morning: so there were various team tactics and jibes being thrown around the bar…everyone knew everyone else.  If sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name: this is the place to go…

But as anyone who has ever glanced at my blog drivel before now; I am a self-declared wannabe city chick. I aspire to the life NYC and London offers: the theatres, the museums, the shopping, the restaurants, the nightlife, the endless possibilities… I like to be nameless in a crowd, to encounter strangers that I will never meet again, to be exposed to experiences and culture that small places simply can’t offer.  I love that feeling of fear as a city pulses beneath your feet and intoxicates your mind with its offer of debaucherous fun.I read my Twitter feed/ texts from my London living friends and family with undisguised and often outraged envy of the world they are experiencing that is passing me by.

So what’s a small town girl to do? Does she pack up her life and move to a smaller community: hoping to make the inroads that will eventually mean she is a local, a blow in obviously but one of the gang. Does she ignore: the small  (and often sectarian) mindedness, the lack of retail and cultural distractions, the utter void of professional and personal (for this read boyfriend acquiring) possibilities for a bar fly who knows her name?

Should she instead embrace the bright lights of a big city? Live in fear of entering the city she exists on the expensive outskirts of; a city that is quite simply dangerous for the single girl? Wither away in the frustation that a world full of possibilities lies beneath her feet but she lacks the financial capabilities to embrace; and the company to truly appreciate it?

One of my many character flaws; and one I know I guiltily share with quite a few of you is: that for me, the grass is always greener/ the pavements always shinier.  My best friend and I joke that we should co-exist in each other’s lives: 50% of the time I could play her role as wife and Yummy Mummy and 50% of the time she could play responsibility free singleton with endless hours to fill. Life as we live it simply doesn’t have enough scope…

 In my lucid moments I know that I would smother in a small village where everyone knew my everything; and that London or NYC would leave me lonelier than I could bear…and yet I will continue to take flights of fancy and real life trips to discover the pleasures of each possibility; mentally moving the best imagined version of myself to enjoy the delights each offer.