BREXIT: COLOURING IT IN

Like a silver ball being bounced about on a Pin-Ball machine, the traffic in Birmingham's city centre slides from roundabout to roundabout as it finds its way out of the city's confusion and on to the great roads that connect with the bigger world beyond.
For mapping purposes these great roads stretching out across the Midlands of England, carry alphanumeric titles such as A38, A41 and A34. But for the city’s natives, and those requiring easy-to-remember directions, they are more often referred to by names that mark their destination, thus: Bristol Road, Coventry Road, Warwick Road and so on.
 

Among this vast network of roads are housed millions of people from all parts of the world. Some are indeed indigenous English, but many more have roots which, like the great roads themselves, reach out far and wide, geographically and historically. There are people here whose origins connect with Pakistan, India, Ireland, China, Turkey, Tibet and elsewhere. Their presence indicated by names over shop entrances, modes of dress, places of worship, their language and accents.



One of these roads leaves the city bearing the title A41 and the name Stratford Road. It is bound for the birthplace of William Shakespeare, Stratford upon Avon. Shortly out of the city centre it sprouts a sibling which is to be known as "Warwick Road". The newly born road takes on the title of A41 while it's older brother now becomes A34. This, the "Stratford Road" is our route.

The traffic is less confusing than in the city centre, but still needs careful handling. There is a steady flow of vehicles both in and out of the city, while all the while cars turn left and right, their occupants finding their way among the thousands of semi- detached houses to that numbered dwelling which, regardless of their personal origins, is now "home".


We take one such a turning and find ourselves in the home of an Irish couple in their seventies. They have given most of their adult lives to this great English city, but their origins have always been dear to them and remain so today. Husband John hails from Diralagh a mere townland in the country parish of Moynalty, itself far from conspicuous on most road maps. But today, Diralagh is more of a presence to husband John than any of the more well known places roundabout him. Only a couple of rows of houses separate him from the lines of traffic humming past on the great "A" roads stretching across the country. But today Diralagh is writ larger than ever on his private inner map, the map of his feelings.


It is March 17th, St.Patrick's day, a day dear to all born in Ireland but especially dear to this man from Diralagh. "My father always planted potatoes on St.Patrick's day" he had once told her, and so she was not in the least surprised when she saw him head for his garden, spade over shoulder, to answer an inner call many of his neighbours in this cosmopolitan place might well regard as "foreign".


Later as he accepts the proffered cup of tea, he looks at her and laughs. "Why wouldn't I?" She knows better than to reply. An answer would only disfigure the question. The heart will always do its own reasoning.