Pt3-17: 

THE EMERALD ISLE

15th September - 4th October

The Stena Voyager pulled out of Stranraer at 2:45, precisely on time. It’s more small cruise ship than ferry and, judging by the bright decor and spotless facilities, relatively new. She pitched and rolled a bit on the southerly swell but the passage across the Irish Sea was pretty smooth all things considered. From my warm nest in one of the lounges I watched the smokers huddling on the exposed afterdeck, their hair boogying in what was clearly a stiff breeze. It was hilarious seeing them go through the ritual against all the odds; rotating through 360⁰ with lighters in cupped hands, taking minutes to get a flame to light the fag which then disappeared in seconds as the wind burned it off. They were lucky to get three drags. The Voyager tied off on Belfast dock at 4:35, precisely on time.

I nosed the bullet out of the bowels of car deck number 2 into bright sunshine and slipped seamlessly through Belfast on the M2, bound for Carrickfergus, Larne and Glenariff. The way here is mostly built up, a skyline of derricks and chimneys to the right and low-key commercial development and estate housing on the left. The dark, dramatic fortress at Carrickfergus is the only historical curiosity to break the suburban setting. After the big roundabout in front of the fortress the road narrows and follows the contours of the coast through well-spaced and pretty little villages, tracing around the small bays which mark the mouths of the first three of the nine Glens of Antrim.

The Antrim coast proper begins as Larne recedes in the rear vision mirror. There’s an obvious difference between the monumental landscape I’ve left behind in Scotland and the scenery here. It’s more passive somehow, the grass a brighter green, the topography more gentle, even and supine. Low headlands interleave in the hazy distance while the calm sea is a satin sheet. Unexpectedly, the roadside is a riot of wild red fuschia. There are houses twixt road and sea so close to both you could literally dangle a fishing line out the back window and step out the front door into the path of a cement truck. The headlands grow in stature as you draw near, passing through narrow cuttings flanked with steep grey stone.

I signed into Lurig View B&B in Glenariff at 6:30, hit the nearby Manor House pub for a chicken dinner and Guinness and retired to gird the goolies for Belfast tomorrow.

*

Belfast is fun, if your idea of fun is constantly looking over your shoulder. Following the warnings in every paragraph of the guidebook I found a secure carpark for the trusty bullet and loaded everything I needed for the day, including the video camera and a spare tape, into the deep pockets of my waterproof coat so I wouldn’t have to carry a conspicuous pack around. I wasn’t in this troubled city for the shopping, I was here to get a real sense of the place. With peace talks currently underway in Stormont there is a tenuous cease fire in The Troubles, a classic Irish euphemism for what is actually an ugly and complicated civil war. Would there be an air of optimism in the epicentre of the conflict? The bleak weather and brooding light made any expectations of optimism seem, well, optimistic.

I emerged from the carpark into a nondescript mall that could have been anywhere in Britain. In light drizzle I made my way over the freeway footbridge into Protestant West Belfast. A black armoured vehicle with impenetrable windows and encased in heavy gauge steel mesh prowled past as I turned left into the Shankill Road and tried to make myself a small target. The few people on the rain-glossed footpaths moved steadily about their business. Rubbish scuttled along in the gutters. Incongruous beside the Shankill KFC Drive Thru menu, artful murals depicting balaclavered fighters emblazoned with paramilitary insignia and defiantly brandishing their weapons covered every vertical surface large enough to accommodate them. Many carried mottos and slogans claiming legitimacy and dedication to a noble cause:

UFF 2ND BATT. C COY

SIMPLY THE BEST

*

1ST BATTALION

UVF

WEST BELFAST

NO COMPROMISE

*

ULSTER 1914

TERRAE FILIUS

(Sons of the Land)

*

NO SURRENDER

1690!

This last refers to the Battle of the Boyne which, without reciting chapter and verse, ensured the consolidation of Protestantism in the English enclave. Forget what I said about the tensions of the last decade; the roots of this conflict go back centuries and, like the Middle East, religion is responsible for the worst excesses. There is no war more tragic or bloody than a civil war, unless it’s a religious civil war. Someone had crudely daubed “XXXRY YOUR TIME IS UP - TOUT!” on a black brick wall, the target of the threat’s name was painted out. Further along the same wall: “FREE THE LOYALIST PRISONERS!” There was no sign here that peace might be around the corner.

I took a left down Northumberland for Falls Road, the Catholic heartland. If Shankill looked like a shabby working class area fallen on lean times, the Falls began to feel more like a war zone even before I stepped into the notorious road. The Divis Tower loomed at the entrance to the district. I didn’t count the floors but there must be twenty in this ugly pillar of an office block. Occupied by the British Army, its roof bristling with surveillance technology, Divis literally towers over the entire city. Big Brother is watching you!

Caged traffic lights on the Falls, shops with heavy duty security grilles on all the windows and boulders outside to deter ram raids symbolised a siege mentality not evident on Shankill. Ironically, the first mural to greet me was the Madonna and Child then, further along, the face of Bobby Sands who starved himself to death in The Maze prison in 1981 and is revered here as a martyr to the cause. Sinn Fein was a constant theme, with more elaborate murals:

FREEDOM’S SONS

D Coy

2ND Batt

BELFAST BRIGADE

*

LET THE FIGHT GO ON!

*

SAOIRSE

FREE THE POWs

The mood seemed desperate and tense in spite of the cease fire. People strode with purpose through the swirling rubbish on the sidewalks. I learned very quickly to do the same myself. Nobody gave a shit on Shankill, but when I paused to shoot some footage on the corner of Dunville and Falls I was immediately regarded with deep suspicion. I felt the hairy eyeballs drilling into my back from across the road and remembered the passage in the guidebook where standing still was described as “inadvisable behaviour”. I decided the most advisable behaviour now was to make for a cosy pub in the CBD before I got dragged down an alley and had my head punched in. I’ve been to some scary places in the world, but the Falls in Belfast is hands down the scariest. Maybe I just caught it on a bad day, but I doubt it.

Back in town I did something I never do in the middle of the day. To steady my nerves I threw down two pints of Caffrey’s in slick succession at the quaint Crown Liquor Saloon. I say quaint because the Crown’s decor is, let’s just say, eclectic. Ornate tiling, enclosed snugs, pressed tin ceilings, wooden pillars weirdly carved with stylised palm trees compete with stained glass windows and internal screens; the Crown is a cathedral to booze.

Later, I wobbled along to Shaftesbury Square where the guidebook said there was a RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary) guardpost. And indeed there was, right at the start of Donegal Pass. The steel gates were open and pedestrians and vehicle traffic moved freely through the barriers. Along the left side of the street stretched a low building encased in heavy gauge mesh with an observation tower rising over all. No sooner had I stopped on the other side of the road to watch the goings on and size up a video shot than an RUC officer in body armour and full comms rig appeared at my elbow. If I thought I’d left the paranoia behind on the Falls I was spectacularly wrong; here was another reminder that if you stand still for a second in Belfast you must be up to no good.

“Are you looking for something?” he asked, tone polite but firm.

“No, just looking around.” His face relaxed into a smile when he recognised my accent.

“That's ok then.” He kept sizing me up. “Haven’t taken any pictures around here have you?” indicating the street generally and the post in particular. I could see a shadowy figure behind the tinted glass of the observation turret.

“No,” I said, keeping my hand over the camera bulging in my coat pocket. Another few seconds and he’d have had me red handed.

“That’s ok then,” he said again. This time his tone was unmistakably “Time to move along”.

As I wandered off it dawned on me what a suspicious figure I must have cut from the observation post as I loitered against a slogan-splashed brick wall with my hands buried in the bulging pockets of my long, black coat, hood pulled over my head against the drizzle, and peering intently at the darkened windows of the observation deck. The duty sentry had obviously alerted his colleague on the street within moments of my arrival and I was grateful I hadn’t had time to whip out the camera. It was certain that if I had I’d have been escorted through the black doors marked Security Area - RUC Personnel Only for a friendly interrogation. Big Brother is watching me.

After this exciting little interlude, the more venerable buildings of historical Belfast seemed a dull prospect. As I returned to the carpark I was aware that several people who realised I was meandering quietly along behind them kept glancing over their shoulders at me and slowed down deliberately to let me pass. I noticed, too, that nobody was taking photos or shooting footage; the only cameras were the conspicuously visible caged surveillance cameras swivelling slowly on their stalks. Seriously, this place makes Jerusalem look like a holiday resort.

You don’t leave Belfast so much as escape it, which I did now for Glenariffe.

Coming up: the road to Derry...