Link to Liz Barron Originals

Thank you for your interest. I hope you are successful in securing the painting you like most.

Posted in Armenia | 4 Comments

Limited release: Liz Barron original acrylics

I am a pub singer of a painter. When it comes to drawing, I am a dad dancer. Perspective? I am the triangle player who misses her cue. In the world of amateur acrylics, I am rank. Nonetheless, at 12 noon ET, I am having a sale of some of my original and recent creations.

Lovers of fine art should move on. Those who love a splash of colour, a slap-happy brush stroke and my interpretations of everyday landscapes should check here for the link I will post on Friday October 2, at 12 noon ET.

Please note that profits from Armenian landscapes (everything but mailing costs) will be donated to support the people of Nagorno-Karabakh and Armenia at this difficult time.

Thanks to everyone who invested (ahem!) last month, and to those who commissioned paintings. Thanks for checking back tomorrow.

Fixed, affordable prices include shipping (unframed). First come, first served. Each piece is original, unique, idiosyncratic and signed.

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Artsakh/Nagorno-Karabakh: an outsider’s guide.

Born in Belfast, I don’t like to write about disputes over territory; conflicts where opponents have different religions; and fights where no-one can agree when history starts. I despise situations where power-brokers act only in their own economic or strategic interests, without thought for the value of human life and dignity. I have seen the pain and chaos all of this causes.

Unfortunately, an upbringing in Northern Ireland in the 1970s is a horribly good preparation for discussing what is now happening in Artsakh/Nagorno-Karabakh. (You see: this part of the South Caucasus uses the back slash just as it is used in Derry/Londonderry–to respect two names used by stakeholders with different points of view). You may not wish to know, but there are good reasons for people in Stroke City and far beyond to care what is happening now in a small enclave far away.

Let’s start with a map:

Artsakh/Nagorno-Karabakh is the land coloured lavender on this map.

Just over thirty years ago, the 150,000 ethnic Armenians who live on this beautiful, fertile land declared independence from Azerbaijan. A bloody war ensued, with the people of Artsakh/Nagorno-Karabakh supported by their kinfolk in neighbouring Armenia. Azerbaijan did not want to let go of land gifted to it by Soviet Administrators not even one hundred years before. Ideally, the people of the self-styled republic wanted to become part of a sovereign Armenia, a country which, like Azerbaijan, was newly free from Soviet rule. Independence was seen as a short-term solution.

Size isn’t everything

You see how much bigger Azerbaijan is than Armenia and Artsakh/Nagorno-Karabakh combined? It is also much richer, endowed with oil and gas important to customers in Europe and beyond. Common sense would say that Azerbaijan would have won in the war in the early 1990s. They did not. The ethnic Armenians strategy was better, and the people of the enclave and Armenia itself cared passionately about the fight in a way neighbouring soldiers did not. More than 30,000 people died. Ethnic cleansing ensued. Today, there are no ethnic Armenians in Azerbaijan. There are no Azerbaijanis in Armenia.

Why two names?

Armenia and the people of the enclave prefer Artsakh, a name for this land dating back more than two thousand years, to a time when Greater Armenia stretched between the Caspian, Mediterranean and Black Seas. Azerbaijanis call the territory by a Turkish name: Nagorno-Karabakh. The name means black garden, a reference to the dark loam of the terrain. Over millennia, as the shape of Greater Armenia shrunk and changed, today’s disputed land was claimed at different times by different armies, including in their time the Persians and the Turks. Did I mention that Iran lies to the South of the area in the map above, and Turkey to the West?

What is happening now?

In the last four days, Azerbaijan, supported by Turkey, has been attacking the enclave. The ethnic Armenian death toll of civilians and Armenian soldiers is 90. Many of the dead soldiers are not even 20 years old. Reports today say that there have been 400 Azerbaijani losses. In the Armenian town of Goris where I lived 2017-19, people are taking in refugees and the hospital is treating casualties from the enclave. There are reports that a Turkish F-16 has been flying in Armenian airspace, and that Syrians are being paid as border guards by Azerbaijan– Aliev knows that deaths will not be popular in his own population and mercenaries were commonly used by Azerbaijan in the 1990s.

Armenia did not seek this fight, does not believe there can be a military solution, and seeks the support of the OCSE Minsk Group and other international bodies to stop the fighting and restore international law. Just like Northern Ireland. But if they have to, every Armenian will fight to the death for Artsakh’s right to self-determination. Why? Because if the republic falls and its people are killed or scattered, Armenia itself will be next. Look at the map, and imagine the squeeze between Turkey and Azerbaijan.

A century ago, as Azerbaijan got control of Nagorno-Karabakh, Turkey launched an attack on ethnic Armenians living on its sovereign territory to the West of today’s fight–families who had lived there for many generations. 1.5 million were killed and many more fled. Today there are many millions more Armenians living outside the region, than there are in Armenia itself–a country of only 3 million people. Armenians are terrified and angry, fearing that another genocide is underway.

What’s it to You?

Destabilization in the area is dangerous for us all. Turkey seeks to be a superpower. Russia, selling arms to both Azerbaijan and Armenia, is an ally of Armenia in order to keep Erdogan in check–but Putin has yet to make a move. Macron spoke out today in favour of a ceasefire–France, like the U.S. and Russia is a key member of the Minsk group. Trump has said and done nothing–yet. Iran waits and watches. The South Caucasus is where the Christian and Muslim worlds meet.

I have called both WV Senators’ office and my representative. A mix of Democrats and Republicans, their staffers were polite but mystified. All the other calls they are getting are about the Debate and the Election, I bet. I care about those things, and many more, but I do not think any of us can afford to turn our back on Artsakh/Nagorno-Karabakh. Please do what you can to support a return to peace in the region, and the well-being of the people under fire.

I am not an historian, or a politician. I believe what I have written above is factual, and I have done my best to be even-handed in my language. If I have made a mistake, please do let me know.

Posted in Armenia | 3 Comments

The Artist formerly known as…

I have been taking online classes in acrylic painting during lockdown (check out Racquel Keller’s classes here) and have found it an unexpected joy. I was never considered artistic at school or at home, but I have always loved colour and of course it is pleasing when people compliment me on what I have created.

Unlikely as it seems, it is now possible to buy a Liz Barron original on this site. Should you wish, please check out

Posted in Armenia | 3 Comments

My inner voice is aristocratic

I have renamed my inner voice Lady Louisa Chick. LLC is the impossibly smug sister of the always-socially-distant Mr Dombey in Dombey & Son. (I have yet to read this Dickens’ novel, but binge- watched an old BBC version this week, hence my introduction to Lady Louisa. The series is on Amazon Prime.)

It is Lady Louisa’s practice when faced with the newly post-partum and consumptive, to urge them to make an effort. Things would be all right, she strongly implies, if people would only give themselves a shake. In the novel, they never do.

‘If you would only make an effort’ I have trained my bustle-wearing, bonneted alter ego to beseech. This morning LLC’s entreaties encouraged me into foundation wear and made me put out the bin. I also changed the trash bag in the kitchen can. TBH, that is probably it for the day. I was almost tempted to make the bed until I got detained by an online article on the topic. Apparently unmade beds allow dust mites to disperse. Plus there is less risk of injury when sheets remain tousled. I am doing it — or rather not doing it–for YOU and to protect our harried health workers.

In the manner of all Victorian ladies, I am to spend the afternoon painting and corresponding with friends. If only there was a glass of Madeira in my future and a footman to present it.

Be safe. Be well. Watch period drama.

View from my window. Someone regularly grazes his horse on the traffic island. Other than that, there is not much going on.

Posted in America, art, BBC, bras, Charles Dickens, clothes, coronavirus, Household tips, lockdown | Leave a comment

Tacos and Knuckles, Alive, alive, oh

IMG_6308My six-year old grand-daughter has been staying for a few days. Like almost every other kid in America, she is out of school as part of our communal attempt to contain coronavirus.

We bake and cook all day, and Niya spends a lot of time in the bath.At night, I sing her to sleep with a selection of Irish folk songs. It gives both of us enormous pleasure. I know I am lucky to have found such an appreciative audience.

Yesterday I heard poor, long-suffering Alexa being berated for failing to play a song Niya was requesting.

‘What song do you want?’ I asked.

‘Tacos and Knuckles’

“What? Who sings it?’

‘You do. You know Grandma. Alive, alive oh.’

The song she wanted, and which Alexa finally produced, was Molly Malone.

The verse about the ghost with the barrow is particularly relished by both of us. I have loved it ever since my father used to sing it to me at Belfast bedtimes in the 1960s.

Here, in case you do not know the song, is Sinead O’Connor singing it just a little better than I do. And below that, a bonus picture of Niya in her two-tone sequinned shamrock t-shirt and proudly showing off her first wheaten, made to Auntie Dot’s recipe. I’ll make an Irish woman of her yet. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.






Posted in Cooking, Cross-cultural understanding, family, Ireland, making bread, molly malone, music, National pride, nationality, St. Patrick, story-telling, things kids say, Things that gladden the heart, wheaten bread | 5 Comments

A life in pictures

I have only myself to blame, which makes the loss of the pictures even more galling. 2019-11-22 (2)They are all gone: the limited edition William Conor print Sour Apple which I bought from the Linenhall Library in Belfast because it reminded me of my sister when she was a child.

Half a dozen hand-coloured prints from Mychael Barratt, bought at a rate of one a year from Liberty of London. My favorite was titled It’s not over ’til the fat lady sings.

A print of three burlesque ladies in  colourful corsets I bought in Sydney, because the women –a blonde, a redhead and a brunette–reminded me of me and my schoolfriends Heather and Niki–even though Heather and Niki aren’t fat, and none of us dance, or wear garters.

These were just a few of more than seventy framed pictures I took down from the walls of my house by the bay when I needed to get it redecorated and depersonalized, ready to rent. That was three years ago. At the time, my helpful building contractor said ‘Throw the pictures into the basement of the house we are working on up the road. It is clean and dry and the pictures will be safe there until you have a place to put them.’ Neither he nor I knew it would be nearly three years before I’d show up again in Shady Side. By then, the house with storage space would have been sold, the basement cleared, and my pictures inadvertently thrown on a skip. This is the kind of shit that does happen.

2019-11-22 (4)

Another of the lost Mychael Barratt prints

2019-11-22 (7)The mistake was discovered only last week and since then I have been mourning the loss of the 6 wooden combs painted like Chinese ladies that I bought in Hong Kong, mounted on red velvet, and had framed by my favorite print shop in London’s Crouch End. The deeply politically incorrect framed set of cocktail stirrers in the shape of ageing women with drooping breasts. Deborah Toner’s linen runner stitched with outlines of Belfast’s most iconic buildings.

2019-11-22 (9)


In financial terms, none of these momentoes was worth very much in the first place, and some I can probably one day replace. The cost of glass and frame was, in most cases, the major expense, and the unplanned clear-out does provide new opportunity for a fresh collecting spree. Plus, the purge will save my daughter the trouble a decade or two from now. But still, but still, but still…

Fortunately, the items of most sentimental value–a Paul Crook painting of my childhood home, commissioned by my sister after my father died; my father’s own pastels of Northern Irish landscapes; and a pair of Maryland tobacco barns painted in exuberant purple and yellow–are safely stowed in my friend Judy’s guest bedroom closet.  Peggy has three yellow and red nudes, a gift from my friend Susan, reclining behind the desk in her own spare bedroom. All is not lost. These will be coming soon to a wall near me.


Posted in accident, art, errors of judgement, friendship, grieving, havjng a bad day, life lessons, Lonely this Christmas, loss, moving house, packing | Leave a comment

Splash-down in Shady Side


Missing Gayane and Arsen already

I had not been back in Shady Side for even an hour before I was using a tumble-dryer, an appliance I hadn’t seen for nearly three years. In Armenia, where I spent twenty-seven months serving with Peace Corps, a washing machine is a luxury. Clothes are always dried outside on a line. In winter, laundry freezes hard.

Rain threatened the day I arrived at Peggy’s house with a giant suitcase, much of it filled with dirty washing.

‘Do you have a clothes rack?’ I asked for I had spent the last few weeks in the UK, returning home from the Caucasus by the scenic route. There, using a tumble dryer is a crime punishable by Greta Thunberg. They have tumble dryers, but it is no longer considered appropriate to use them.

Guiltily I pushed my wet clothes into the maw of Peggy’s mighty machine. The guilt evaporated as the tumbler began. The hum of the hot air and the regular thump of damp cotton on steel drum was reassurance that I was finally home.

I stayed a couple of nights in Peggy’s spare room catching up with all the news—my own house is still rented. This is just as well as I have no job—yet.

On day three I ventured into Washington DC, driving for the first time in nearly three years. Peace Corps doesn’t permit its volunteers to drive cars anywhere in the world—the risk of accident is too high. I was pleased to find that steering a car is like riding a bike—until I got into the city. Bike routes are now everywhere—perhaps to atone for energy wasted in tumble-drying? In principle, I approve but in my own lane I got in more and more of a lather. How could I turn right without mowing down at least two scooters and a cyclist? I made it to my appointment highly agitated, but without life-threatening incident. An American miracle.

I was visiting a temp agency, hoping to pick up a little office work to keep me solvent. The charming, well-groomed woman behind the perfectly ordered desk was quite encouraging. It was all going well until she mentioned a Word and Power Point test. It turns out there are waaay more things a person can do in Microsoft Office than I ever realized—or know how to do. It had also been a mistake to go to the temp agency before I signed up for phone service. I drove nervously to a carrier’s kiosk. Could they fit me up with a new sim card? They could—as long as I could share the last four of my social, create a six-digit pin, and so on.

‘I think I’ve forgotten how to live in America,’ I wailed to the two women in the shop. They laughed.

Off to the Doctor next. Peace Corps supplies its returned volunteers with a thick wodge of forms. These vouchers allow us to catch up with all sorts of procedures designed to sort out any health problems we may have experienced abroad—and to check we haven’t developed anything nasty and new. Doctors offices, naturally, dislike these forms, and don’t really know what to do with them.

‘Best if you pay yourself and claim it back,’ they say. It takes a lot of charm and patience to persuade them otherwise.

On Saturday morning, I had a 9am appointment for a mammogram. I sorted out my forms and doctor’s order (thank you Dr. Sheesley from Bay Community Health). I had a CD of images and last year’s report from an Armenian hospital. Lingering jet lag meant I had no trouble waking up early to drive to the appointment. I showered, and remembered not to use deodorant or lotion. I was on top of this. I made it to the clinic in good time, signed in and sat for half an hour waiting for my name to be called. I handed the forms to the woman at the front desk. She looked at them carefully.

‘I don’t think I can do anything with this.’

I began to explain, with just a hint of imploring.

‘I think it is the wrong form’ the receptionist said finally. ‘I don’t recognize anything here.’

‘But you deal with Peace Corps’ I said piteously. ‘It says so on their website.’

She handed me back the form, shaking her head. ‘Means nothing to me.’

That was probably because it was a form for a gastro-intestinal follow-up. Could I still have my mammogram if I promised to bring the right form back later? I could not.

I drove to meet friends in DC reflecting how much I missed Armenia—a country where there are very few forms, where rules are eminently bendable, and people like to say Yes—even when they should say No. It drove me mad when I was there, but some of it seems to have rubbed off on me. I began to wonder if I would ever manage in America again.

My DC friends treated me to a nice lunch to say welcome home. I had crab cakes and braised greens. Delicious. Seafood is not part of any menu in Armenia—the country is totally landlocked. Pot-likker isn’t a thing either. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until I tasted it again.

Back in Peggy’s welcoming spare room I listened to the sound of cicadas in the crepe myrtles as I fell asleep. In the morning, there’d be a cup of drip coffee and a chat on her porch overlooking the Bay. Perhaps I could adapt after all.

A version of this article first appeared in Bay Weekly. Thanks to Sandra Olivetti Martin and the team for printing my stories from Armenia. Good luck for whatever is next you guys!


Posted in America, Armenia, Cross-cultural understanding, Odd One Out, Peace Corps | Leave a comment

How did it change you?

If people ask questions at all, they ask ‘How did it change you?’

At first I was rather sheepish in my answer. Following two-plus years as an international aid volunteer in Armenia, I seemed to have managed re-entry to the first world with remarkable ease, and completely unimproved. I was back on the gin, had bought a couple of expensive frocks, and was eating all the posh cheese I could get my hands on. No change there then…

There may be more work needed to make me a truly reformed character, but now, six weeks away from Armenia, I can see a little of the difference it made.

In Armenia, I tried to say ‘yes’ to every experience and outing I was offered, fearful that I would never be asked again, or that the opportunity would pass me by. No more: I’m too tired tonight, I have work to do or I don’t think that’s my kind of thing. Now I have developed muscle for being in the mix, I make more of an effort to see and do all kinds of things while I am in the UK. Last night, in a howling gale, I saw Hamlet at an open-air pop-up theater in the medieval town of York in the north of England. I had a blanket round my shoulders, and Joanne wore her winter raincoat with the hood up. The play was great. I had never seen or read Hamlet before. I didn’t even know (spoiler alert) that he died at the end. Hamlet was gorgeous and delightfully mad, Ophelia was heart-rending. The only thing I said No to was the experience of being a groundling: for 12.50 pounds sterling, it was possible to stand in a pit in front of the stage, seeing the play from the same angle as Shakespeare’s original audiences. My stubborn knees would not have acquiesced to this. We paid for proper seats.

I am rather hoping seats will be available at the Isle of Wight festival I am going to in a couple of weeks. (Buy your own tickets here.) The event commemorates 50 years since Bob Dylan turned his back on Woodstock and instead flew to perform on the small island just off Southampton. Dylan is not slated to make a return journey this year, but there are many folky and hokey bands and performers whose names other oldies will recognize.


The event is billed as a dementia-friendly music festival. Possibly prudent to start looking for these sort of descriptors on events I plan to attend. ;(.

Other things I have said yes to in recent weeks include finals of a local stand-up comedy contest (genuinely good fun–I voted for Christian Russell-Pollock who came second), dinner with an old, old boyfriend (also good fun), and cooking for a large house party in Italy (riotous).  I swam in the salt water pool every day, even though I had to ask for help to get in. I intend to keep up the practice of giving things a go.

I notice color and texture much more appreciatively now I am away from Armenia. There, the landscape is lovely, but urban design is often ugly–or completely lacking. Looking out over the City of London from a restaurant rooftop, I marvelled at the glorious mix of old stone and new steel and glass. Sure there is deprivation and bad planning and squalor still in London, but the parts visitors see are easy on the eye.  At Roots in York for my birthday dinner on Friday night, I enjoyed the curve of the ash table, and the simplicity of the blue and white plates and napkins almost as much as I did the tasting menu. Truth to tell, although all the food was exquisite, I would have been content with only the multi-seed crispbread and chive butter served at the beginning of the whole extravaganza. Delicious. I bought a magenta silk dress covered in a giant tropical leaf pattern to wear to my niece’s wedding in Australia in December. I touch it every day, and marvel that it is mine. I know how lucky I am to have the means and the freedom to travel the world.

Above all, I am grateful for the English language and my ability to use it and hear it with joy and delight. Although I had good friends with excellent English in Armenia, there is nothing to beat nuance, the verbal shorthand built through years of friendship, and the fun of getting everyone’s news without having to stop to ask for explanation, a mime or a sub-par translation. I gurgled with joy while watching  Upstart Crow with Jill. I nearly burst with love during catch ups with by brother and sister and cousins and countless friends. I am reading Milkmana prize-winning book written in backstreets Belfast style. I roared my leg off at Derry Girls. International jobs I apply for specify: native English essential. Maybe I missed language more than anything or anybody while I was away. I am lucky to have English. I know that now. IMG_3527IMG_3417IMG_3464IMG_3499rootsIMG_3500









Posted in Armenia, drinking, eating out, English, Food, friendship, joy, Language, Language learning, life lessons, Shakespeare, Things that gladden the heart, Things that make a difference, travel, United Kingdom | 3 Comments

Pure moments of bubbling joy

At the wedding, we all sang along to the music played by the DJ. The bride and groom were in their sixties, and so all the music was of a certain vintage. The only people under 40 in the room were relatives of the newly married couple, and they didn’t seem to mind dancing alongside droves of ancients bellowing Brown-Eyed Girl. 

Van Morrison’s hit was the song of this summer in Belfast. The grumpy one is still pounding it out himself of course, more than fifty years after its original release, but The Killers  also performed it as a singalong when they played Belfast’s Ormeau Park a month ago. I wasn’t at the concert. Indeed, I had never heard of the Killers, and I certainly had no reason to believe a world-famous band would play in Ormeau. No, I heard the band (backed by the Belfast crowd) from Brendan’s balcony in the city center where we were sitting outside drinking Botanist gin and Fevertree tonic. I enjoyed the feel of the bubbles on my tongue, and marvelled at continuing change in my hometown.

In the ’70s, Ormeau Park was a bleak and scrubby place, as  unfriendly and unloved as the eponymous road that adjoins in. Now there are abundant flower-boxes on the King’s Bridge, and the near-derelict shops around the famous bakery have all been restored. Most of them now seem to be cafes and wine bars.  When I was at school, I would have snorted in derision if you had told me that 40 years’ hence there would be people dining al fresco on the Ormeau Road. For a start, it would have been hard to believe the weather would allow this, even in July. But the weather all month has been beautiful. 70+ degree every day, and sunny.

Not everything has changed in Belfast of course, and this is a good thing. Breakfast is still served with three kinds of bread, two of them fried. It is however now possible to order your soda farl with smashed avocado if you prefer. My school friends remain as funny, kind, creative and beautiful as they always were. One of them, and her family, have had a gruelling couple of years. It was good to see them all together, happy and dancing at their eldest boy’s wedding–and a great excuse for us all to see each other.

school chums


To Yorkshire, and more talk of matrimony. My niece is to be married in Australia in December and was home from Victoria to plan the  celebratory reception that will be held at the Hepworth Gallery in Wakefield in the New Year. My sister and I had a week or so of sampling menus, drinking preparatory champagne, and trying on frocks and hats. We will, of course, need both a summer and a winter outfit each…




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A day out in Lytham with my sister, and a visit to a stately home and garden–although all of England seems to be a heritage park now. Bunting everywhere. Dahlias. Plus fours may soon make a comeback, and there is honey still for tea. Meanwhile everyone, both Remainers and Brexiters, wonder nervously what will happen next, with a new Prime Minister and a new world order on their way. Consoled ourselves with fish and chips and rhubarb gin. Never mind. My nephew got a First in Engineering.




The train to Devon, and still more bunting,  seaside, delicious fish, and still more to drink. John took part in a dragon race on the Dart. In each boat, a cox kept time with a drum as the boatsmen rowed. We saw a seal keeping pace in the river. On Blackpool Sands, more singing along, this time to the Proclaimers and Wet, Wet Wet. Marti Pellow no longer fronts the Wet Ones–his stand-in was English and told us he’d been three years old when the band had their first hit. Sigh. The Saltire still flew though. Jill and I stood waiting for our taxi home and fantasized about hitching a ride with the two Proclaimer brothers–sti as Scottish and earnest and entertaining as ever before.

‘But we don’t know their names’ I reasoned, just in time to stop Jill attempting to rush a likely looking mini-van. Then again, probably none of their groupies today can remember much…

The entrepreneurs at Hill House Nursery–a couple of young women in sun dresses and wellies- have planted a lot of seeds in an adjoining field. Visitors are invited to take a florists’s bucket and pick whatever they like from the nursery. The flowers are a wild, glorious tumble, and a bucket costs only eight pounds. Find more about the Lychgate cutting garden here. 

In Tavistock, close up views of Charles, Prince of Wales and his wife Camilla who were opening a new wing of a market we were visiting. People turned out, but not in such numbers that we couldn’t get a close-up or two. The Royals walked through the market and stopped to shake hands and speak. Everyone stood silently and stared, or tried to grab a selfie with the heir to the throne in the background. It must be such an odd way to live, everyone you meet on their best behavior, and cameras constantly in your face.


Hilary asked me to share my three favorite things about Armenia. I stopped to think. In truth, I have not thought much about the country I left behind a month ago, because of all the excitement of reunions here. I realized that I couldn’t really break down my two-year experience into moments or standalone memories. Like Ireland, like England, like my part of America, Armenia now enfolds me. A soft-loomed shawl accessorizing a layered life. This July, I have been greedy for landscapes and smells and tastes I have missed–fields of corn and hedgerows, sunlight on streams, and the sound of the sea. Cheddar. French wine. Prawns in Marie Rose sauce. Next summer, it may be the mountains I long for. My teenagers. The apricots. A glass of Trinity 6100 red wine at In Vino. We shall see.



















Posted in Beauty, British food, British Royal Family, cocktails, Cross-cultural understanding, drinking, eating out, Food, Gin, joy, love, Northern Ireland, Nostalgia, singing, The Proclaimers, Things that gladden the heart, ulster fry, United Kingdom | Leave a comment