I like to think that I have this bizarre superpower that nerd events just happen around me wherever I go.  It strokes my ego.  When I arrived in Glasgow, I was feeling a bit tired on account of a roughly 45 minute hike from the bus station to the B&B I was staying in.  This was Saturday, July 5th, at about 3:30PM.  Given that it was the mid-afternoon already, I decided to take it low-key and instead have a look at what was going on in the city for the following day.

Lo and behold...Glasgow Comic-Con.


I've written before about how I feel I've tapped out my Calgary Comic Expo experience from a fan perspective.  Given that, you might think it's a bit odd that I'd want to go to another comic convention, especially when I'm on vacation and supposed to be trying new things.  Well, that's the thing about comic conventions:  for all that they exhibit similar qualities and the same basic principles, the individual artists, features, and people are all uniquely different.

When I go to Calgary Comic Expo, I know basically all the vendors that will be there.  I've seen them both at the convention and at their own stores in the city.

With Glasgow, however, it was all new to me.  I can also safely say that there was a far greater emphasis on promotion and inclusion of local artists.  A major highlight of the convention were the Scottish Independent Comic Book Alliance Awards, which were presented on the Saturday.





Naturally, in terms of sheer scale the Glasgow Comic Con was much smaller than the Calgary Comic Expo.  Yet to my eye it had far more heart to it.

I think that the evolution of most comic conventions is that they tend to grow larger and more ambitious with every passing year.  The impulse is then to bring in the biggest and trendiest industry professionals, actors, comic book artists, etc. available.  To be sure, it can be thrilling to hear that the entire Star Trek Next Generation cast is going to give a talk.  But at the same time, when you pack the saddledome with people and put that cast on a stage that you can barely make out from the nosebleeds, it has the effect of making the whole thing a tad impersonal.  It's like the photo ops I mentioned at the Calgary Comic Expo.

At the Glasgow Comic Con, I got to talk to plenty of artists one-on-one, find out about their work, their background, even their personal lives.  I picked up a whole schwack of titles just because they looked interesting, not because they were written by a big name.  This is not to say that big names don't have their place...in fact, GCC hosted A-listers like Gail Simone and Alan Grant.  It's just that they weren't buried behind a massive cue or a security cordon.  They were right out front, chatting and having a great time with everyone else.



Maybe it's a "grass is always greener" situation.  Maybe it's rose-coloured glasses.  But I think that for me, comic conventions are just more fun and have more heart to them when they focus on the little guys and less on overwhelming you with spectacle.  Food for thought.

And now, some stray thoughts...

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the sheer awesomeness that was this:

Yes.  That is Ramona Flowers.  In Scotland.  Thus proving once and for all that Toronto really IS the centre of the universe.  No but seriously, as a Canadian traveling abroad this was honestly the greatest thing to happen.

And if that wasn't enough, this wonderful lady told me that I should stick around, and wait for her friend...


I mentioned trudging 45 minutes on foot with my luggage.  This could have been avoided a few ways.  1)  check bus routes and schedules more thoroughly  2)  check foot routes more thoroughly  3)  put aside some cash for a sodding cab and just do it.

Let me preface this post by saying that I do not know much about Irish history.  Everything I do know either came to me tangentially through my classes in English History, or through museums like the one I visited in Belfast.

That said, I do remember, even if only vaguely, the Troubles.

For those who don't know, broadly speaking the Troubles refer to a series of conflicts between armed paramilitary groups and their political aspirations for Northern Ireland.  The two primary groups involved were roughly separated along religious and political lines:  The Irish Republic Army, mainly Catholic, and the Ulster Loyalists, mainly Protestant.

Of course, to someone living in a country far removed from the UK, the Troubles were a hazy, foreign concept, one that I didn't and still don't fully understand or appreciate.  The news stories reached us on occasion:  a bombing in the street, an activist murdered, prolonged rioting.  Even now, we hear about the odd spate of violence, though it rarely breaks the screen of other world issues desperate to be heard:  the Ukraine, Syria, Palestine just to name a few.

When I was first wandering the streets of Dublin, I noted several separate, small demonstrations with protesters holding signs demanding justice for Gerry Conlon.  I didn't know what it was all about, and I neglected to take a picture - though if I had, it would have been disingenuous, a mere curiosity rather than actual interest.  Only belatedly did I find out that Gerry Conlon, who died June 21, 2014, was a member of the "Guildford Four," a group of people wrongfully convicted of IRA bombings who were - after prolonged campaigns - eventually released and their convictions overturned.

I found this out in Belfast, overhearing a conversation at the table next to me.  I mention this source because it happened that several conversations I overheard in my stay in Belfast revolved around this and other issues relating to the Troubles.

You might think, given how recent the Troubles were, that these mutterings and murmurings were dark or malicious in nature, that they carried with them a nasty undertone of hatred.  If anything...they all sounded weary.

There was sadness there, yes, but it had not been warped into revenge.  It was a general malaise that said, in a quiet subtext, "maybe now we can get on with our lives."

I talked to the lady who ran my B&B about my impressions.  She nodded emphatically, and told me of how travel within the city was once restricted, with curfews and military-run blockades in place.  Attacks - from both sides of the conflict - were totally unpredictable.  Gunfire could be heard from time to time, punctuated by the odd explosion.

She told me that if I really wanted to get a good idea of what the troubles meant to Belfast, and to Northern Ireland, I should go to the Ulster Museum.  They had an exhibition of work based on and from the time of the Troubles.



Unfortunately, I can't post any pictures here from the Exhibition.  A copyright ban on photographs was in place (understandably) as most of the work was either recent or on loan.  All I can tell you is that it was one of the most powerful exhibitions of art I have ever seen in my life.  There was no judgement there.  No "taking a side."  It simply stood up, invited me to share in the crisis, and left me to make my own decisions.

One mechanical sculpture, an accordion hooked up to a picture of Bobby Sands, an IRA member who went on a hunger strike and perished in 1981.  The accordion, when activated, plays a single, off-tune note, creating a general atmosphere of unease and discord.

Another metal sculpture depicts a woman caught in a bomb blast.  The metal is rippled and warped, heart-wrenchingly communicating the concussive effects of an explosive device.  Her face is obliterated, covered by her dress as it flaps up, almost smothering her.

One room held a movie that showed several scenes cut from a small glade.  The images seem to show the aftermath of some great struggle:  empty shotgun shells, bullet holes in trees, and a campfire hastily extinguished, still crackling as the last log dies out.

I don't know if I've ever been more effectively convinced of the healing power of art than at that exhibition.  The images, though dark, represented for me a kind of catharsis.  Here, they said.  Look at what happened.  Acknowledge it.  Remember it.  Learn from it.

As a Canadian, I don't think I'll ever fully understand or appreciate the Troubles and how they affected people's lives.  Our own separatist movement, though at times violent (the October Crisis and the FLQ) never approached the level of civil conflict that was seen in Northern Ireland.  I don't as such feel qualified to pass judgement on the Troubles, and the future of the republic and the union.

I do know, however, that when I arrived in Glasgow from Belfast, I found a dirty city, with bottles smashed in the streets and filth in the gutters.  Somewhat perplexed, I asked the hotelier there what had happened.  With a weary sigh, he explained:  "The Orangemen parade.  We're always very wary this time of year.  Many people have...strong feelings about it."

He was not the only one in Scotland to mention the Protestant marches celebrating the victory of their army over the Catholics at the Battle of the Boyne.  Like in Belfast, I heard many conversations, and had some myself.  Unlike Belfast, however, the tone was different.  It wasn't punctuated by sadness.  It was punctuated by resentment.

I think it would be incredibly naive to suggest that Belfast is completely free from its Troubles.  That may be just as well.  With the memory, and the scars, still fresh, there is a chance to learn, and to heal.

And now, some stray thoughts...

If you've never heard of it, The Giant's Causeway is a geological feature in Northern Ireland consisting of several hexagonal rock formations that were formed by volcanic activity thousands of years ago.  It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a National Nature Reserve of the UK, and I'm making it sound tremendously boring when it is anything but.

In actuality, the Causeway is absolutely stunning in its natural beauty, and despite the crowds of tourists clambering all over it, it remains incredibly distinct amidst the other cliffs of the Emerald Isle.  Now, these times of columns are not entirely unique per se, with similar formations in Mexico, Russia, and China, just to name a few places.  However, the Causeway is most definitely unique in its cultural background and history.


There's just something wonderfully magical about people making up stories to explain their extraordinary surroundings.  It suggests a wonderful depth of imagination that is often lacking from our own modern, cynical age.

The legend surrounding the Giant's Causeway is a charming one.  Very simply, it tells of a feud between two giants, one Irish - Finn MacCool (Fionn Mac Cumhaill), and one Scottish - Benandonner.  One day, Benandonner challenged the braggart Finn to a fight, and, with Finn's acceptance, Finn took it upon himself to bridge the gap between Ireland and Scotland with a huge causeway.  However, when Finn caught a glimpse of Benandonner coming down the causeway, he realized the Scottish giant was much larger and fled for his home.  Once there, Finn asked his wife to hide him, and she did just that...by dressing Finn as a baby and placing him in their crib.  When Benandonner arrived at the home looking for Finn, he instead saw the "baby" and said "If that's the size of the baby, imagine the size of the father!"  With that proclamation, he fled back to Scotland and - just to be sure - tore the Causeway up behind him.


And there's so many more features of note:  the giant's gate, the windy gap (which really is TREMENDOUSLY windy) the onion skins...the list goes on.  The best part?  They actually LOOK like the things they're meant to represent in the story context (at least in my opinion).  The more I looked around myself, the more I found myself feeling caught up in the magic of it all.  It sounds silly, I know, but there's something to be said for childlike imagination.

And now, some stray thoughts...

I like trains.  I like them because they're better for the environment than driving, they're more relaxing than planes, and they let you sit back and think, or read, or write, or whatever strikes your fancy.

Now, my only experience with trains prior to my UK and Ireland visit had been the mass transit systems in Calgary, Montreal, Vancouver and Toronto, but even those are at times quite efficient and accessible.  In the UK and Ireland, they've really got it down to a science.

But before I go further, let's talk about Ireland itself.  In case you don't already know, Ireland is split in half between the Republic of Ireland, with Dublin as its capital, and Northern Ireland, which remains part of the UK and has Belfast as its capital.  I'll talk about the history in a later entry - or at least as best as I can; after all I'm no historian and no Irishman - but for now suffice it to say that travel between the two countries is actually quite simple despite recent events.

So, with that in mind, let's talk about the trains I've ridden so far.

First off, the stations themselves, while not universally pretty to look at, are often under-appreciated works of art like this one, Connolly Station:


I know I'm showing my Steampunk fetish here, but I really just love the look and feel of old train stations.

Now, I took two trains in Dublin.  The first is the DART commuter train:

It's an IE 22000 Class diesel engine, it runs very frequently (at least on the routes that I accessed; I hear that some more remote routes are very infrequent), and the interior - which I sadly neglected to grab a shot of - is clean and comfortable.  As you can see from the shot I took of Connolly station, these trains run in the city of Dublin on elevated rails, though in more remote areas of the city it is at grade.  Best of all, the route is integrated with the Dublin-Belfast Enterprise service, which I'll talk about now.

I have heard horror stories about breakdowns on the Enterprise line occurring with alarming frequency, which I can't speak to.  What I can speak to is my own journey, which was seamless, pleasant, and best of all - inexpensive.  My ticket from Grand Canal Station to Dublin Connolly, on the DART Commuter, ran €2.10.  The ticket from Dublin Connolly to Belfast Central, meanwhile, ran €12.99.  Now, for someone who lives in the country, that might not be the best alternative and driving between the two cities is probably a better method but for a traveller like myself, the cost of renting a car + petrol, or worse yet flying, would be downright exorbitant compared to a pittance like that.

The train itself departed right on time, and arrived exactly on time as well.  The interior was a treat, and best of all it was sparsely occupied so I had an entire 4-seat section to myself:



The ride was smooth and pleasant, with a few stops in small towns and villages along the way that each lasted maybe 2-3 minutes.  I had plenty of time to sit, write, and look out the window at the countryside rolling by my window.

And now, some stray thoughts...

Band of Note:

Man, I sure hope I'm using that word correctly.  Anyway, let's talk about day tours.  I'd never done a day tour before.  Like, ever.  I don't count school trips; those were pre-organized, never took a full day, and the only vivid memories I have either centre around awkward social interaction with the opposite sex or the latest South Park quotes circulating like illegal drugs.  These days I limit things entirely to awkward social interaction, but I digress.

Seeing one of Ireland's treasured natural spots, the Cliffs of Moher, seemed like a good choice for a full day tour.  It was a simple way to get out to the opposite coast to Dublin, to catch a glimpse of the country in between, and to have somebody tell me what I should be looking for and doing, and in a timely fashion.  Plus it had the advantage of letting someone else navigate the narrow country roads.

Example:  Kinvara.  Note the car parked half on the footpath out of necessity, to allow the flow of traffic.





That last picture should give you an idea of the scale of the place.  So...actually, I guess now you can conceive of how tall they are.  Huh.  How did I screw that statement up so bad?  Inconceivable!

And now, some stray thoughts...

Pro-Tip for any Day Tour:

...at least, none that are particularly obvious or helpful.  No, really.  It's kind of bizarre.  Yes, there is plenty of highway signage on the way into Dublin City proper, and again on the way out, but once you're in the thick of it, right on the River Liffey, you suddenly find that signs are placed in locations where no driver would ever spot them without the aid of a sniper spotter, or maybe a warg from Game of Thrones and a well-placed hawk.

See, the thing is, most of the road signs in Dublin City aren't free-standing; they're nailed/drilled to the side of whatever building happens to be on the corner.

Here, an example:

Wildlife: