I'm Irish. But home has never been Ireland.

Notes on belonging

Hi lovely, I’m Aimée, a soulful copywriter who helps lovely brands grow a joyful and thriving business. Here, on my Substack, I share seasonal tales from my little corner of the Cotswolds. Come on in, take off your boots, and cosy up by the fire. I’ll pop the kettle on.

I seem to be the only person in the world who doesn’t love Ireland. Whether it’s through folklore or literature, movies or music, or because their ‘granny is originally from Ireland,’ everyone seems to think of it as a magical place.

And it is. I suppose. In a way.

But the truth is, I couldn’t wait to be out of the place quick enough. I’m from Northern Ireland – so less stone walls and old men in Aran jumpers and more murals of terrorists in balaclavas.

When I think of Northern Ireland, the only word that comes to mind is ‘gloom.’ Harsh landscapes. Miles of nothingness. Rain – constant rain. Dreary history that everyone loves to bang on about. 1960s architectural eyesores. A defunct petrol station by the side of the road. New-build bungalows and pebble-dash council estates. Flags. A lot of marching around. Industrial farmlands that are far from pastoral. People with pinched faces, hardened by the wind. And everywhere, the sea, the sea, separating that place from the rest of the world.

I know that many non-Irish people have a connection to Ireland for one reason or another. Irish pubs are renowned all over the world, but to me, they are symbols of the mass exodus from that island.

I believe strongly in the spirit of place—our soul connection to landscapes and the built environment. I think I could have been happy somewhere over the border, in a place like Galway or Cork, but that was not the Ireland I knew.

It is a sorry state of affairs when you feel absolutely no connection to your homeland and the place where your story began is somewhere you have no wish to be.

Anyway, this wasn’t supposed to be a piece lambasting my birthplace. It was meant to be about belonging. But on St. Patrick’s Day, when the rest of the world turns green, I wanted to write something honest. Something true for me.

I suppose what I am trying to say is that home can be anywhere. That home is somewhere you create, not something you’re necessarily born into.

I found my soul home at eighteen, there amongst the grand honeyed streets of Georgian Bath. This is my place.

Because home to me is knowing the cheese monger by name. The packed pub on a Wednesday night for the quiz. Pimms on the green at the village summer fété. Nipping down to Devon for their excellent folk festivals. The hop-on-a-train and go somewhere different. The softness of things. The pioneering independent spirit of even the smallest of towns. The way that people here fiercely protect what is beautiful.

I have never got very far with my family history so I have no idea who my people are. My surname is ‘Coates’, which apparently means cottager. As someone who has always lived or dreamed of living in a cottage, the name pleases me immensely. I wear it like a birthright.

I wonder if my ancestors were from the South-West where I live now. If, (by some misfortune), they ended up in Belfast but always longed to go back to their glorious patch of England. When they died out, their line continued in Northern Ireland. Until me. That my ‘going over to England’ was less about moving for university and more about returning to a place written into my DNA.

I like to think so.

Anyway, there we have it. Home means different things to different people. I hope that wherever home is for you, you love it well. And, for what it’s worth,

P.S. - Once upon a time in Northern Ireland is a really moving watch. It digs deep into unseen stories and real people’s lives. It’s so honestly told, so human I came away with a new-found appreciation and respect for Northern Ireland and the bravery of its people.

P.P.S. - I’d love to know in the comments what home means to you. Is it the place you were born? Somewhere you created for yourself? Maybe it’s a city you visited once and fell in love with or the memory of your granny’s house? Perhaps home for you is a person.