Mum was saying that Bean might come too, at least for a while, because I leave around the same time that she wants to set out on her 'wander'. I think I like this idea, though I know that if Bean and I are together while we're there we won't separate, and I'll probably end up wandering with her. Or her with me. Which is fine, because these things are always safer with company.
Chantelle thinks it would be best if I could push the date ahead on my ticket, to go a little later to give me a little more time...I find that idea appealing, but I know that if I do that I'll never get out of here. I need to leave. This post-post-secondary school lethargy has gone on long enough. Life awaits.
She was also asking me - in an attempt to help me plan - what I want to get out of this trip, and where I want to go, etc. I'm not entirely sure. I know I want to get my UK citizenship, and I know this means that I'll likely have to spend five years living in the UK. Which I'm fine with, because there's no point in becoming a citizen of a country you're not prepared to live in.
I want to see the "Land of My Fathers"...well, mother. I have half a mind (or a quarter, at least) to looking up my mum's biological parents. Not to meet, but to find out who they were so I can trace my ancestry on that side back beyond mum.
I want to see the place that Gran and Granddad grew up in. It's called Cogan, and apparently it's in Penarth.
I want a piece of bluestone to wear around my neck so I can make other fluffbunies jealous. And another piece that I can mail back to Chantelle to add to her collection of rocks and crystals.
I want to go to Scotland to take a picture of Uncle Tom's statue. And so I can go to Scotland.
I want to walk from one end of Wales to the other along the coast, and go camping and stay in bed and breakfastses, and take awesome pictures of stuff.
I want to see Stonehenge, and Woodhenge, and other neolithic sites, in Wales and England and Ireland and Scotland.
I want my own little studio somewhere, where I can write and take pictures and learn how to draw better. And sell my own pictures, too.
I want to learn what it really means to be Welsh.
Is that enough? Should I want more out of this? That last on the list...I've often scoffed at the idea of anyone wanting to learn about their cultural identy, because I've never seen the point. How can anyone not know? And why does it matter, anyway? I am ME, and I always will be, even if ME is changing constantly due to personal evolution. But in recent years (and in no small part because I've finished my degree and now don't know what to do with it) I've been thinking that merely because my ancestry is Welsh doesn't mean I am Welsh. Especially since I was born and raised in Canada.
But then, Canada's cultural identity is based on the fact that we don't actually have one. Our 'culture' has to be determined by government offices because our population is made up of various stages of immigrants from elsewhere. And, I don't like hockey, I rarely eat poutine, W.O Mitchell and Margaret Atwood SUCK, and I neither fish nor farm on a prairie. So am I really Canadian?
I hope to find that out. And, like all pilgrims in search of wisdom, my journey must begin elsewhere.
Damn. This could be the preface to my autobiography, or a photojournal, or something. I suppose, in a way, that's what I'm actually writing. Only on the internet. And I'm not getting any money out of it.
Chantelle thinks it would be best if I could push the date ahead on my ticket, to go a little later to give me a little more time...I find that idea appealing, but I know that if I do that I'll never get out of here. I need to leave. This post-post-secondary school lethargy has gone on long enough. Life awaits.
She was also asking me - in an attempt to help me plan - what I want to get out of this trip, and where I want to go, etc. I'm not entirely sure. I know I want to get my UK citizenship, and I know this means that I'll likely have to spend five years living in the UK. Which I'm fine with, because there's no point in becoming a citizen of a country you're not prepared to live in.
I want to see the "Land of My Fathers"...well, mother. I have half a mind (or a quarter, at least) to looking up my mum's biological parents. Not to meet, but to find out who they were so I can trace my ancestry on that side back beyond mum.
I want to see the place that Gran and Granddad grew up in. It's called Cogan, and apparently it's in Penarth.
I want a piece of bluestone to wear around my neck so I can make other fluffbunies jealous. And another piece that I can mail back to Chantelle to add to her collection of rocks and crystals.
I want to go to Scotland to take a picture of Uncle Tom's statue. And so I can go to Scotland.
I want to walk from one end of Wales to the other along the coast, and go camping and stay in bed and breakfastses, and take awesome pictures of stuff.
I want to see Stonehenge, and Woodhenge, and other neolithic sites, in Wales and England and Ireland and Scotland.
I want my own little studio somewhere, where I can write and take pictures and learn how to draw better. And sell my own pictures, too.
I want to learn what it really means to be Welsh.
Is that enough? Should I want more out of this? That last on the list...I've often scoffed at the idea of anyone wanting to learn about their cultural identy, because I've never seen the point. How can anyone not know? And why does it matter, anyway? I am ME, and I always will be, even if ME is changing constantly due to personal evolution. But in recent years (and in no small part because I've finished my degree and now don't know what to do with it) I've been thinking that merely because my ancestry is Welsh doesn't mean I am Welsh. Especially since I was born and raised in Canada.
But then, Canada's cultural identity is based on the fact that we don't actually have one. Our 'culture' has to be determined by government offices because our population is made up of various stages of immigrants from elsewhere. And, I don't like hockey, I rarely eat poutine, W.O Mitchell and Margaret Atwood SUCK, and I neither fish nor farm on a prairie. So am I really Canadian?
I hope to find that out. And, like all pilgrims in search of wisdom, my journey must begin elsewhere.
Damn. This could be the preface to my autobiography, or a photojournal, or something. I suppose, in a way, that's what I'm actually writing. Only on the internet. And I'm not getting any money out of it.
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