🇮🇪🇬🇧🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 Love Inc.

Hello Adventurers, 

Remember in Lord of the Rings when iced-out Froyo’s ring would glow when it detected thrilling terror nearby? Well, I get that same chilly feeling on a cellular level — like in my blood and guts — when my marathon-battered, hobbit-like feet step onto the British Isles; being that collection of green floaters (i.e. my ancestral shit) in the blue waters of earth’s toilet. And for me, this Middle-earth mannered region is frighteningly funny…because the human theatre there is like an overflowing loo of shitty misfits and pissy muppets, like;

The teen mum caked in self-tanner that’s smoking a cig and pushing a pram…while visibly pregnant with another one. The fat old blokes in the too tight football jerseys…with the bottoms of their bellies hanging out. The beanstalk kids in the trainers and tracksuits talking mad shit to one another…and then to you (if you stare at ‘em too long). And the elderly Kathryns and Audreys strolling down some side street they’ve lived on for 40 years…both of ‘em decrying the unacceptable state of Evelyn’s garden (who they just exchanged pleasantries with moments earlier). And all the immigrants…bless ‘em…especially those stuck behind the counters of the food take-away shops…prolly sickened by the bluster of the belligerent customers, and very much homesick for a place less rude. And all of these scenes…they’re set on the stages of the high street, in — and outside — of the pub or the market or the bookmaker, and in the dog shit-covered park with the busted playground and/or wherever else the realness and the rawness resides.

And I love it all — as well as the rainy greyness — and have since my youth in the 1980s (when Mum first started taking us to Manchester to see Nana Ethel and Grandad Gerry…who were these exact types of Northerners living this same type of dramatic northernly life). Like I once heard my Nan order a BLT sandwich and say, “But no lettuce or tomato.” The best! And shockingly, Ethel lived a long, wild, tempestuous life — and totally defied science / average life expectancies / had the Keith Richards gene — drinking, smoking, and dietarily non-vegetable’ing right ‘til the end (at which point we learnt that she had never technically been married to Gerry)…a plot twist fitting for something like EastEnders or Coronation Street.

The issue of the newsletter covers six marathons across Dublin, Belfast, and Edinburgh. So let’s get into the craic with my fellow freaks,

- Ben Pobjoy

P.S. If you enjoy my free weekly newsletter, please consider donating to my friend Paul’s incredible fundraising initiative for a worthy youth program.

2023 TREK TRACKER

Where in the world...record am I?

• Countries visited: 35

• Flights taken: 39…plus one train from Dublin to Belfast

• Kilometres flown: 60,749

• Marathons completed: 111

• Kilometres trekked by foot: 5,285.1

• Total kilometres trekked since 2015: 68.376

RAPID WEEKLY RECAP

A speedy synopsis for time-crunched readers

• The Wildest Thing: Belfast’s legit pride in having constructed the Titanic…which, um, sank four days into its maiden voyage🤔

• The Biggest Obstacle: Unpredictable Irish weather…like, it rains when it’s sunny out (not kidding)😵‍💫

• The Lesson Learned: Diversity is beautiful...but identity politics — when taken to an extreme endpoint of true division — is ugly. I saw the outcome this week, and can promise you that we don't want that type of world. So let's celebrate our differences, but embrace our commonalities to future-proof our humanity😘

FIELD NOTES: DUBLIN, IRELAND

Unfinished business

I came back here to settle a grudge. Why? Well, in 2020 I attempted to trek 10,000 kilometres by foot (as a means to inject some worth into another wastoid pandemic year)…and I failed. Like, I came up 259.9 kilometres short of my goal. And no excuses…I’m to blame…I just didn’t put in the requisite effort, I ran the clock, and I pantsed myself.

My overall attempt was partially thwarted by a client who sent me to Dublin — to make a commercial — in December 2020 (and I had to spend a week quarantined in a hotel room there, do the job, then spend a week quarantined back at home in Toronto when I got back). You may be rolling your eyes at this now…but it was the COVID-19 protocol back then. So I was stuck inside, couldn’t trek, and bombed.

So when I was planning the Marathon Earth Challenge...you know Dublin was on the hit list…because I’ve had a chip on my shoulder for three long years. And wise-ass Dubliners? They’d surely tell me…”thassa too longs a time to keep a stale crisp nears yers mouth you dumb fook.”

On my first trip to Dublin, I was shocked by two things; how small the city is as well as how massively expensive it is (especially the accommodations). And on my second trip here, those things remained unchanged, and I just don’t think this city-as-place is worth the cost of admission (well, for me at least). Basically, Dublin is a great destination for alcoholics (e.g. the OG Guinness brewery and the Jameson distillery are here, and you can tour them and get hammered) and this place is great for word nerds (writers from James Joyce to Oscar Wilde are from these parts…and are pimped out accordingly with statues and experiences). But beyond that, there’s not much else.

Yes, the city centre has some decent shopping districts that are pleasant to stroll and the supernatural Hungry Tree is wonderful and the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre conversion is marvellous and the Lidl with the dig site is LULZ…but everything closes early, lots of stuff is closed on Sundays and Mondays…and the notable library that costs $20 USD to visit? The latter can kiss this cheap ass’ arse.

But the people? They compensate for Dublin’s shortcomings. They aren’t particularly nice…but they’ve got the gift of gab like no one else…and you really gotta go to Ireland once in your lifetime to hear them riff. Don’t believe me? Here’s some evidence…

I was marathoning along the Grand Canal when I observed a mischievous pack of little shits wreaking havoc at the 1st Lock. Some were in wet suits diving into the water, one had a piece of wire (and was trying to whip passing cyclists in the bike lane), and the rest were throwing rocks as well as insults at nearby commuters waiting at the train stop. And me? I didn’t escape this firing squad…comprised of Dublin’s finest rascals.

I don’t know which little twerp yelled it, but I was greeted with a goad of, “Heys you fat old cunt…bet yous won’ts jump in!” So I pulled over, rolled up to the lock, and started peeling my clothes off…and they fucking loved it! There was hooting and hollering, and I cannonballed in…and was promptly hit in the head with a lifebuoy ring (that’d been thrown my way). I looked back and was like, “What the fuck, man?” to some kid — who shrugged— and replied, “We’s didn’t knows if yous coulds swim!”

Anyway, I got out and hung with the kids for about 30 minutes, and the expletive-filled banter as well as their really bad behaviour was top shelf: the kids were smoking and vaping and one tried to sell me a lighter for a fiver and they were endlessly tearing me apart as I was ripping them back and one wanted to do a backflip off the lock in my sunglasses and they intermittently punched each other in the backs of the heads when one was hogging a ciggie too long…and it was all such wonderful madness. Bad kids are my fave, and we had sooo much fun together!

And before I left, the youngest one goes, “Heys waits…are you Garda?” to which I replied, “You dumb fuck…listen to my accent!” And then he goes, “Wells thens, gives mes a hug before yas goes” And extends his arms…so I give him a little hug, and then all the others lined up to give me hugs and well wishes…and it was completely ridiculous…and just such standout moment.

One last one…this fucking asshole (pictured) threw my half-full latte into the canal, fished out the cup, told me to take a photo of him throwing water with said cup, and when I showed him the photo said, “Yep, tolds yas it’d make a fooking great photo. Class one that is!”

And that is precisely why grey and drab Dublin is, well, sorta great by virtue of how colourful its characters are!

FIELD NOTES: BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND

Unsettling family business

Some stories just aren’t mine to tell…so I can only speak to the fact of the matter; my Dad was an active RAF paratrooper when he was in his twenties. And fifty-ish years later, I still don’t think he was keen for me to stomp through his old stomping grounds; be it Northern Cyprus or Northern Ireland. And that wasn’t said outright, it was intimated ‘cause that’s his craft; make it felt, but leave no mark.

Now, if you live in The West — and watch a lot of news or shows or movies — you know that rah-rah-rah ‘macho American soldier / veteran’ archetype; obnoxiously militaristic in dress and dialogue (i.e. serve once, speak about it forever). And my Dad has always been the exact opposite; with him, everything is on a need to know basis. And you’ll know if — and when — he determines there’s a need for you to know. So there’s no framed military photos on the walls, no military medals on display, no military buddies swinging by, no commemorations, and no grandstanding. Like, I’ve heard some things from him…but his ‘cards close to chest’ comportment seems forged by his time in those say nothing parts (where he cut his teeth).

But when I was a kid, my Mum once told me something that made a lifelong impression; when my Dad was home in between military tours of Northern Ireland, he’d regularly go do these long runs in his military boots on the wet sand of a beach with either a rucksack full of rocks or like a huge driftwood log on his shoulders or in the rucksack (the exact detail of what he lugged — and how he lugged it — is something I can’t recall…all that matters is that it was electively torturous). And my Mum ended the story saying something like, “And your Dad was very fit then” and it was paired with a look (always the true tell with unsayable Brits). And not a ‘hubba hubba former hubby heart eyes’ look. But this look that conveyed an acknowledgement of a serious point in time that necessitated serious preparedness.

Anyway, before I went to Belfast — and I’m paraphrasing — my Dad said something like, “Stay alert. They’ll remember the Pobjoy name.” And I understood the warning, but didn’t heed it; because I wanted to do some marathons and kick up dirt, retrace some of my Dad’s footsteps (being streets and places I’ve known from looking at the photos he took of Belfast in the 1970s while on missions) and me — in doing so — it was an attempt to leave no stone unturned about things unsaid through a personal and physical inquiry of my own…in a place where the dust has kinda-but-not-really settled. And I tried to do this with a lot of sensitivity; knowing it could piss off everyone; from the locals to my Dad. And all of it was a risky gamble — one I luckily executed safely — that was very rewarding for me.

Today, you can go to Belfast and do a lot of modern things…but that wasn’t my MO; I went there to go back in time and visit communities that are very much stuck in time by way of sectarianism…where the passing of time is long but memory is short.

These field notes are anchored by my time spent marathoning Falls Road and Shankill Road. And this dispatch — through Catholic and Protestant parts — is conceptual…so forgive me Dad for I have sinned…by going to the one place where a son can still be held accountable for the perceived sins of his father. And it’s not water under the bridge. Rather, it just is what it is.

My political beliefs — which are radical and internationalist and occupation-hating — are my own…and they may differ from my Dad’s beliefs as well as yours, so the following is a neutral assessment of what I saw on my marathons in Belfast (with no desire to get into the he-said-she-said of how this conflict started ‘cause it ultimately fucked everyone involved)…

In working class areas of West Belfast, there are numerous murals that celebrate Republican / Nationalist / Catholic killers and/or martyrs from the community as well as memorials to those in the community that were killed by Loyalists / Unionists / Brits. The most popular flag here is green, white, and orange. This community does not forgive or forget; most signage reminds locals and visitors of such.

Anecdotally, I did not see any mural and/or monument in this community dedicated to inter-community peace. All iconography here appears to be focused on past injustices and/or past sacrifices. This place loves God and Country.

I saw a lot of school children in these communities — walking by the reminders of conflict and violence — and wondered if their futures would be different than their parents’ pasts.

In working class areas of East Belfast, there are numerous murals that celebrate Loyalist / Unionist / Protestant killers and/or martyrs from the community as well as memorials to those in the community that were killed by Republicans / Nationalists / Catholics. The most popular flag here is red, white, and blue. This community does not forgive or forget; most signage reminds locals and visitors of such.

Anecdotally, I did not see any mural and/or monument in this community dedicated to inter-community peace. All iconography here appears to be focused on past injustices and/or past sacrifices. This place loves God and Kingdom.

I saw a lot of school children in these communities — walking by the reminders of conflict and violence — and wondered if their futures would be different than their parents’ pasts.

And one parting anecdote for you; I was marathoning a few blocks north of the Loyalist Shankill Road (and a block north of Republican New Lodge) when a bunch of TBD-to-me teens atop a pile of wooden palettes caught my eye…so I wandered into the empty lot where they were doing whatever the hell they were doing…to go learn about whatever the hell they were doing.

“What are yous?” one yelled out as I approached (as his mates gathered ‘round to take up a defensive position). And I knew what he was asking, but I refused to appease his sectarianism…so I answered with a deflection;

“A tourist.” I replied. And I said it in good faith — one that’s neither Catholic or Protestant — ‘cause I’m an atheist (and have a great sense of humour).

And luckily, my icebreaker worked and we all got chatting, and the Protestant teens informed me they were stacking stolen palettes in preparation for Eleventh Night (something I’d never heard of before…which they invited me to attend). And they told me a lil about themselves (like, one is a drummer in a Loyalist street marching band), and I couldn’t reveal much about myself…but they dug that I was marathoning around their parts, but warned me to avoid New Lodge and its “Ugly Catholic rats there” (their words, not mine). And remember that sentiment, before reading ‘bout the beatings in the next paragraph (‘cause everyone’s an angel-dipped devil in these parts).

And as I chatted to these four, one told me how they’d been jumped / stabbed by a group of Catholic teens. Another said they’d got their skull cracked when a group of Catholic teens hit him in the head with a hammer. And one narrowly escaped a petrol bomb. Allegedly, these fights and the 30-on-30 brawls tend to happen in the parking lot of the nearby Tesco.

Now you may think this was just kids bullshitting…but here’s something I can honestly tell you about men (regardless of their age); we don’t boast about losing fights (there’s no bravado in that…especially in these parts). So I’m confident these kids were being truthful. Plus, when I asked to take a photo of ‘em, they all put their hoods up, “Because wes don’t knows yous…and we fooking hate journalists.” (which I told them I wasn’t).

Catholic or Protestant, Republican or Loyalist, Nationalist or Unionist…everyone looks the same here (to me at least), so I asked the teens how they identify those ‘other teens’ they consider to be the sworn enemy. And one kid’s answer said a lot; about yesterday, today, and maybe tomorrow;

“I’ve known ‘em — and hated ‘em — mys entire life…since I was born. So it’s fight on sight.”

And I looked at his hands, and all his knuckles were skinned.

These kids weren’t alive during the conflicts of the Troubles.

And all of ‘em were born in the ‘peace’ after the Good Friday Agreement.

And I wish I could’ve talked to some Catholics in a Republican / Nationalist stronghold to get their perspective on things, but I couldn’t for security reasons (because there’s still a possibility that my old man’s actions could turn me into a figurative mounted bust — like a vengeance victory trophy — on some other old man’s wall who has a bone to pick until he dies).

Like I said, the passing of time is long everywhere, but here memory is short.

And it’d be naive to suggest that aggrieved parties — where memory cascades down from one generation to another — should just forgive and forget…but I nevertheless hope us kids can learn from our parent’s mistakes.

FIELD NOTES: EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

In good company

Three things you need to know; Edinburgh is absolutely stunning, the locals are the nicest people I’ve ever met (not kidding), and the Scottish won the global lottery for the best accent on the planet. And many hyped this place to me — like my Mum and my Brother — and I hate going to hyped places ‘cause it burns when they disappoint (e.g. Colombia). But wow, Edinburgh punches way above its weight class; incredible architecture, beautiful gardens everywhere (they do roses here like nowhere else), there’s a killer food scene city-wide, and so much culture (that spans shops to galleries).

I can’t say I did a lot here; like, I went to the beach in Portobello, really enjoyed the cool shops along Leith Walk, found Stockbridge to be so damn charming, enjoyed the campiness of the Royal Mile, appreciated Arthur’s Seat from every angle, and was just tickled by the little park in the city centre where you can do a bit of golfing. And around every corner and bend there was always a pleasant surprise; a stream, a book store, a great coffee place, a nice chatty person, etc. I loved it here, and am confident you’d feel the same.

But really, you don’t need plans here because the whole city is an architectural gem to stroll…and I’m not just talking about the castle and the churches and the monuments. Like, I travel lots and it’s very common for a city to have a ‘historic centre’ and they can be very pleasant…but they’re almost always encircled by modernity which is the majority of the city. Edinburgh? This place has completely held onto the old — which new and cool things are growing out of — and it’s just phenomenally unique that way.

Many deride the internet — as well as social media — as being / doing more harm than good…and I’ve always pushed back on that…because they’re just tools (and everything comes down to how you use them). And over the last 15 years, all things digital have legitimately bettered my life IRL; I met one of my besties via an email, I met my mentor by tagging her in a Facebook post, I met my wife through an app, and connected with my guy Rancho over social media. And I’ve been dying to meet the latter for years because we have 30,000 shared interests.

Anyhoo, when I told Rannoch I was coming to Edinburgh he was like, “Dump your accommodations, and come stay with us!” And so I did — and showed up looking like a lunatic in tiny running shorts and my long leprechaun beard — and just had a total blast with him and his lovely missus Laurenne (both of whom have the best sense of humours).

We went out to dinner, they drove me around Edinburgh giving me the local lowdown on all things, we chatted for hours every day, Rannoch cooked, we drank wine and tea…and they have the most beautiful home with prolly the best view of the city…in the city! And it was just sooo kind of these two to open their doors to me, a total stranger.

Rannoch and Laurenne, THANK YOU! You two made my time in Edinburgh incredible, I hope we can do it again one day, and I can’t wait to return the hospitality should you ever come to Canada.

And to everyone else…the internet is full of some really good people IRL…if you’re digitally open to the possibility of such!

BEST LOCAL THING-Y

I just spent three weeks in Portugal, and the food there is chef’s kiss; it’s yanked out of the land or ocean that morning, and eaten by the evening. And everything is freshly made with what’s locally available (and you can taste the soul in the food from those parts). However, the downside — if I have to stretch to find one — is that everything there is made from everything there. So, when it comes to seasoning, it’s pretty basic; excellent sea salt and robust olive oils and some zippy vinegars. And that’s not a bad thing.

But when I got to Ireland, I was definitely craving something funkier in terms of flavour, and luckily stumbled into the Mr. Wu Asian Takeaway (which was around the corner from my Airbnb). And I ordered the Satay Tofu ‘cause it’s generally a sure shot anywhere, but the regionalist hack here threw me for a loop;

“With rice or chips?” - the grumpy cashier asked

“With the what?” - me, replying confused

“Do you want the satay tofu on rice or chips?” - grumpy cashier, now annoyed with me ‘cause I have overstayed my welcome

“Um, chips? I guess…” - me, half-committal yet fully worried this combo would suck ass.

So did it work together? Ha ha, I honestly can’t say…the Satay Tofu was really good on its own…but stabbing a piece of tofu with a chip and then chomping it was a bit weird in terms of mouth feel. But mostly, I just loved that this multicultural mashup meal exists in these parts. And it’s evidence of how fun and tasty multiculturalism is, and how much racism sucks (and how boring a racist diet must be…like, are racists in denial of how good tacos are?).

Also, I wished the cashier a wonderful day when I left with my take-out and — no word of a lie — she just responded, “No.” And I love the no-fucks-given customer service in the British Isles! That is always the best local thing-y!

POBJOY'S GLOBAL PRICE INDEX

This is an on-going documentation of how much things cost in different places around the world. Here are some of the things I bought in Dublin, Belfast, and Leith (all prices converted to USD):

• One 100 gram jar of instant coffee and two 200 gram bags of cashews and dried cranberries from a grocery store in Dublin: $10.24

• Two 500 millilitre bottles of Pepsi Max, Two 200 gram tubs of hummus, one 400 gram bag of sliced carrots, and one pack of eight plant-based rashers from a grocery store in Belfast: $12.60

• One 85 gram flapjack and a soy latte from a café in Leith: $7.00

MARATHON MUSINGS

On parks as prophecy

On one island, I went to two very different parks, and each tells a very different story…

For me, Pheonix Park is the best thing about Dublin. It is 707 hectares of exquisite parkland that’s a coupla kilometres west of the city centre; where there’s fields and fields of long grasses, and where the rangale are visible day and night as dear locals are near invisible laying in said grasses regaling with one another. The park is expansive, everyone is chill, you can sorta do what you want…and it just feels like total freedom where everyone is welcome to hangout.

And for me, Alexandra Park in Belfast…represents the worst of Belfast (as well as the worst outcome of identity politics when Thelma & Louise’d off a cliff). And to be neutral, I’ll just cite Wikipedia:

“Alexandra Park is believed to be the only park in western Europe to be divided by a three-metre (10') wall. The barrier was erected in 1994 and is one of a number of "peace walls" built across the city in attempt to prevent violence between Nationalist/Republican and Unionist/Loyalist communities. The wall's foundations were laid on 1 September 1994, the day of the first IRA ceasefire. The northern part of the park was accessible only from the Antrim Road whilst the southern part could only be reached from the Shore Road. In September 2011 a gate linking the two communities was installed in the wall. The gate was initially open on weekdays from 9am to 3pm for a trial period of 3 months.”

And I offer no commentary other than this: if ‘all things woke’ keep you awake at night OR you’re some progressive that regressively dunks on anyone that disagrees with you online OR you just want to codify very personal beliefs to be public policy that limits the breadth of how another can exist…please go visit these parks, and tell me which one is better.

I’ve covered a fuck ton of ground since 2015 — and celebrated some recent milestones like 700 marathons completed as well as 68,000 kilometres surpassed by foot — and trust me when I tell you that the best places are the most peaceful places, the ones that embrace common ground (while recognizing differences) and then protect everything by practicing kindness which nurtures togetherness.

Parks tell us a lot about a society’s values, and if you value awesomely open and inviting parks…then be a peacemaker in the culture wars, and let’s stop the latter from sneaking the spectre of sectarianism into our lives.

Anyhoo, I look forward to seeing you in the park…and never want to see you there through a fence (especially if we differ in our beliefs).

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