I felt at Thursday night that I was up to something secret, something merely legal as I sat watching the rain falling down of Southern Dublin and cutting away the Irish tricolour from my bag with the Belfast tickets at the desk on the other side of the room. All I was missing were Daniel Day-Lewis running through the garden with representatives from the Royal Ulster Constabulary or the British Army ten feet behind. A feeling of going out on a False Flag Operation or something like that. You do take some precautions, no reason to run the risk of getting social excluded even before you enter the first pub in an attempt to do the Belfast Night life dangerous.
Then, I’m back once more from the North; and what should I say about the Six counties? Quite craic! So let me start with the first first, logically. I took the morning train from Dublin Connolly at 11 AM at Friday and did, quite literary, past the boarder in north of Dundalk backward. Always the face towards Dublin ye know. My first act in the North were –quite surprisingly- to fall asleep, but before I did so my first impression of Ulster were that it was –as people that have been to the North says- rather scare equal to England, or perhaps parts of the Scottish Lowland. Anyway, the view was something totally different from the boring Irish countryside in the Midlands. It was mountains there...it actually WAS a view! Magnificent.
However, was soon back in consciousness and the impressions of the cities like Newry Portadown and Lisburn were that the Celtic Tiger did stop at boarder, and that the transfers from overseas were rather from Brussels, than Westminster: quite new roads and Community centres, but a bunch of sadly tarnished houses and farms. Belfast on her side were something ells. I lived at a hostel in Donegal Road, close to Sandy Row (Protestant) some ten minutes walk from the City Hall. What to say about the city is that it lacks in some perspectives a bit of the outer beauty, honestly, let’s face it, the Brits isn’t the most…their cities isn’t like the Irish, French and German, it do maintain a magnificent atmosphere, and its most important value; its inhabitants. Belfast. Belfast, Belfast, Belfast. It is something with the name; a certain image of something of the history, of what was. And in the centre of Belfast the only physical remaining of the Troubled times that remains is the murals. Despite that is Belfast just another city, with a history. Just as most of the other cities that are liked with Great Britain. And that’s what makes the city so different: it is, like it or not, British. It lays in Ireland, but the city and its surroundings are just as British as England itself: the flags, the people, at least the majority, the institutions, the buildings, everything.
The people are rather a interesting mix of Irish and British, and as the rest of the province they are a result of some generations of cultural and genetic consolidations, perhaps divided, perhaps targets for each other’s paramilitary organization, bricks in UKs affords to hold the counties and the Republic’s claim to regain it, but, controversially enough, they are a kind of nation between two nationalities. However, as you walk over to Shankhill (Protestant) and the Falls (Catholic) the differences are quite, radical, indeed. To see who’s who were in fact in these days extremely easy. Do first read the inscription at the very bottom of the Bloody Sunday Monument in Derry:
“Murdered by British Paratroopers on Bloody Sunday 30th of January 1972”
Secondly; today and yesterday were days of Remembrance of those fallen in war on duty for the United Kingdom. Hence, you should then show your support to your troops in form of wearing a little red rose and attend to service in the Church, or in one or another way pay the respect for those bleeding to death in the hill sides in Afghanistan so that the enemy combatants in the Tribes don’t blow up Dungiven, Bushmills, Ballymena or Larne...or other places of importance. A patriotic act (haha!) however, in that case, you should then salute the very same troops as mentioned above. And that’s a thing the other half of the population don't do. Hence, in the streets in Belfast there were a clear majority of thouse bearing this little red rose, and in Derry it was in fact nearly a minority of the population wearing this rose (perheps of historical reasons), but this was the only way to differ the two segments from each other. The Major in Belfast at the moment are actually member of Sinn Féin and as all other Republicans (Nationalists) he stayed away from such demonstrations, and went to the Republic. Yesterday morning I went out on a little morning trip in the area around the City Hall because I rather wanted the sandwiches at Subway than the breakfast at the Hostel and that it was a quite nice morning as well. Suddenly I hear music, a march, more precisely a march from “the Longest Day” known as Luftwaffe March. So, therefore I went towards the music and ends up facing the entire Belfast Brigade of the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) who after an agreement in 2006 they transformed from a paramilitary organization to a “non-military, civilianized, organization”. However, some of those guys walking beside me have the responsibility for killing more the 420 peoples, including 14 in Dublin; they are the counterpart to IRA. If Sinn Fein raises their voice in Stormont they are told that they are as bad as the IRA, in public the UVF, a listed terrorist organization in the UK may salute their dead comrades openly at the City Hall and sell (for £2, got the last of the large badges) their symbols in stores in Shankhill. Still it is somebody in UK who thinks that the SF major in Belfast dishonours the Peace process by refusing to honour the soldiers who in practical terms killed his people and the other organization who was doing the same are allowed honouring their soldiers. I would like to see the world press if the IRA had done the same in Rossville Street. Guess Pentagon or the Commission had sent a harsh diplomatic note to Dublin and Gerry Adams. I love this place!
Later that day I went on a tour to the Giant’s Causway at the very north of the province. A splendid day, who despite rumours of continuous rain and a rather Irish autumn day, the sun broke through the clouds as we drove through the Glens of Antrim and could, because of the cold weather, face the Scottish coastline in the horizon of the sea. And at this point, in the same way as at the Galway trip some two weeks ago, once again the reason for the nick name “the Green Island”. Ireland, both North and South of the boarder are ridiculously green. Everywhere, Derry, Bushmills, Giant’s Causway of Rathlin Sound, it is green. Emerald green. The Causway, can’t really be described, just felt, or more correctly..hey…just go there. I sat at the last dry stone and watched the waves crush towards the stones around me. Try that. Something more can’t be sad, or described. But a magnificent place, with a lot of epic tales and stories. Specially that one how says that it lives a creature inside one of the caves, which for some 700 years ago had a conversation with Robert the Bruce, THE Robert, the King of the Scots, and after that time have keep growing and today sneaks out at night to steal chickens from the local farmers.
Close to the Causway lays Dunluce Castle, another fairytale castle, but this one in ruins. During a storm some hundred years ago there were a storm haunting the North Irish Coast, which actually throw the castle’s kitchen to the sea. Dunluce are massive stone, resting on a top of a equal massive cliff pretty high above the sea; I do not want to know what kind of storm that was, or perhaps it was the stuff in the glasses and the Chieftain’s need to explain to his wife why the castle were in such a manner after the dinner. Guess half of the sagas from this region have to be footed in something like that.
Back to the peoples, I love them, as easy as that. If you enters a shop and they realizes your not from there they’re start talking to you, the police in Derry says hallo to you if they meet you in one of the streets off the main streets, some of the girls do smile at you when you pass by them. The problem however emerges once they open their mouth. The fact that the British girls do posses a rather benefitted look (compared to their sisters overseas) and that the (older) Irish men have turned more British in the way they dress, gives this society a kind of a-bit-of-the-best impression, but, it is a HUGE but in this. I guess the guy at HMW used tried to be polite, but not a chance that I understood him. Their language of the Irish up there are fecking impossible to understand. The Brits are a bit easier, but the Irish. Bah. No way, no bloody way. I’ll just nod and smile and that would in 99 % of the cases turn out positive for both parts. A bit traumatic.
Anyway: A song says that: “If we banish fear from Ulster’s name, then we free old Ireland”. And that’s pretty much summons up my impression of the Northern part of the Isle. If you like British and Irish stuff, paramilitary marching the streets, paintings, easy going people. Go for Belfast. I’m on my way back already.
Dublin. Out.
PS: I had the pleasure of joining the opening of the Christmas street/shopping –of absolutely everything- in Derry. After 5 minutes of dressed out rabbits and reindeers and a bit to mechanical songs a could see the pain in the faces of some of the fathers, and mothers, who only could mean one thing: The Sunday were perhaps a bad one, but this Saturday could turn pretty nasty as well.
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