Saturday, 20 June 2009

• Belfast, Northern Ireland: 5 -7 July, 2009

  The flight is delayed, and we land in Belfast a half hour later than scheduled. It is summer in this part of the world, and the sun is in the process of setting as we clamber aboard the airport-city bus transfer. Belfast, at first glance, is much like any other city, small and quiet, huddled in a valley underneath the greenly rolling hills of the Black Mountains.

  
  Little islands off the coast; the winding pathway down to Carrick-a-rede bridge

  The city lies in the province of Ulster and is the second largest city on the Isle of Eire. Belfast was founded by the Celts, who named the city after the sandbanks that formed around the mouth of the river Farset. The Vikings attacked, raided and settled all along the coast, bequeathing red hair and their knowledge of metal works and the beautiful designs now known as Celtic knots. The English, under Queen Elizabeth I, came a-conquering in the 16^th century and Plantation started in the 17^th century, sowing the first seeds of the violent sectarianism that would come to trouble Belfast in later years.  During the Industrial Revolution Belfast was the centre of the Irish linen industry, tobacco production, rope making and shipbuilding – the ill-fated RMS Titanic was constructed here.

  There is no evidence of this turbulent history as Denise and I walk down Great Victoria Street from the bus station. Belfast is quiet, incredibly quiet, compared to London, on a Friday night. Our B&B is located near Queen’s University and the Hospital, in downtown Belfast and along the way we pass by a few bars and restaurants. For an unfamiliar city at night, Belfast feels safe and welcoming. We venture out for some naughty fast-food then hit the incredibly comfortable beds.

  An early start the next morning awaits us. The day dawns alternately bright and cloudy, and we wait for our bus that will take us up to the coast of County Antrim in the cold, blinding wind. Northern Ireland is split into six counties – Antrim, Tyrone, Down, Armagh, Derry/Londonderry, and Fermanagh. Over twenty American presidents have some Irish ancestry, and the majority of these come from these six counties. We have booked a daytrip with Paddywagon Tours, an outfit that runs a hostel in both Dublin and Belfast, and a tour that starts from Dublin at 5am, to Belfast and then onwards to Carrickfergus and the Giants Causeway.

  
  The ruins of Dunluce castle

  As we journey up north, out of Belfast, the clouds clear and there is a bright, brilliant sunshine. Northern Ireland is as green and rolling as her fair southern sister, and I soak in the views as the bus plows up on the basalt plateau that is County Antrim. Our first stop is Carrick-a-rede rope bridge, located on the North Coast in a National Park. A short coastal pathway winds its way from the ticket booth to this precariously dangling suspension bridge, spanning a chasm almost 80 feet deep. Along the way are views of the cobalt blue waters of the Irish Sea, stark white limestone cliffs plunging precipitously into the ocean and verdant, emerald grassland dotted with black-and-white cows. The bridge itself was built by fishermen to check their salmon nets, strung out from the very edge of Carrick-a-rede island. Nearby, Sheep Island stands sentinel and on the very far horizon, on a clear day like we had, are the misty blue mountains of Scotland.

  
  Sheep Island; grey slated white washed cottages on rolling green hills

  The next stop is The Giant’s Causeway, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The fable is that Finn McCool, the Irish giant, built the Causeway to get across the sea to fight his Scottish nemesis, Bernandonner. However Finn fell asleep before he could cross over to Scotland and Bernandonner came looking for him instead. Finn’s wife, Oonaugh, put the sleeping Finn in his cradle just as Bernandonner reached Ireland and told the Scottish giant that the baby in the cradle was Finn’s son. On seeing the enormous baby and logically deducing that the father must be much bigger, Bernandonner ran back to Scotland, tearing up the Causeway as he went to prevent Finn from coming after him. There are similar formations across the water on the Scottish side.

  
   
  The Giant's Causeway, Carrick-a-rede bridge 

  The Causeway’s origins are a little more prosaic in reality. Formed by a molten lava flow millions of years ago, basalt rose from the chalk beds then cooled and cracked evenly, resulting in the tall hexagonal columns that make up the Causeway today. The tallest column is around 36 feet high, towering over the crashing waves of the sea.

  
  Memorial to victims of Bloody Sunday; the Bogside of Derry; the loyalist section of Derry

  Derry/Londonderry, or Stroke City, is where we first get our first real brush with Irish Sectarianism. Our guide talks us through the history of the Troubles and the current situation, of his own personal experiences living in the Bogside, known to the British Army as the IRA’s backyard, and of the struggles of ordinary people against the military. We get a balanced view, rounded out by our Dubliner bus driver, who tells us of the tit-for-tat measures employed by the IRA – militant violence met with civilian bombings, heavy handed governmental action against murders in the night. There are schisms in Derry/Londonderry still, the Protestant loyalists huddled in their own enclave, and the Catholic republicans on the other side of the wall. Old hurts run deep and the memory of Bloody Sunday resonate too strongly in these streets.

  
  
  Shankill and Falls road; murals on the Catholic side of the Peace Wall

  Back in Belfast, we book a black cab tour. Our driver is a red-faced, florid (Republican, I think, though we didn’t ask) Irishman with a lilting accent, less hard and more rounded than Dubliners. He takes us to the murals along Falls and Shankills road, and tells us story after story of murder, intrigue, and political travesty. The names and fates of these common people are woven into the streets of Belfast, and I think their stories should continue to be told, lest we forget. Children, fathers, wives, these all, victims of British snipers, IRA gunmen, civilian-thrown petrol bombs – an eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind!

   
  The facade of the Crown Saloon

  Belfast is a safe, laidback city, welcoming of tourists and easy to navigate. Prices here are cheap still, a world away from the inflation of Dublin or London. We pass the Europa Hotel, bombed 36 times during the Troubles, and known as the most bombed hotel anywhere in the world. We walk past Belfast Town Hall, where an environmental sculpture exhibition is currently being held. We have dinner at the Crown Saloon, the Most Beautiful Bar in the World. It is a splendidly Victorian pub with delicate painted glass, old-fashioned carved wooden ceilings and intricate mosaic floors. The façade is a riot of vibrant Italianate tiles, held up by false Corinthian columns. It is cosy and comfortable, and it feels like it belongs to a world that ceased to exist 30 years ago.

   
  Protestant murals; wire over houses backing onto the Peace Wall

  In fact, a lot of Belfast has that aura, reminiscent of the 1970s, with only a few spots starting to show a more modern development. People talk about the Celtic tiger that is Dublin with more than a little wistfulness, but perhaps it is better for Belfast to catch up more slowly. Where is Dublin now? Caught up in the great Credit Crunch of 2008, the housing market there has collapsed and the inflow of foreign investment has halted. Better for Belfast to regain strength slowly rather than on false idols – this dignified, quiet city has seen enough troubles to last lifetimes.

  
   

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