Our apartment in Belfast was on the ninth floor of the building. A tiny place, just snug enough for two, it was one room wide. One wall in the main living area was all window. The couch faced the window so that sitting there was like watching the city unfold on the big screen. I loved sitting on that couch. It’s where I blogged, read, paid bills, and did just about everything in the apartment but eat and sleep. I had a front row seat to the world, 135 feet above the pavement.
We saw a lot of birds. Seagulls mostly. Swooping and diving just on the other side of the glass. It was startling at first—a bird coming at you at 25 mph will wake you out of a proofreading stupor in a flash! Yet they always diverted in the nick of time.
We gradually got used to the bird traffic. It appeared to be especially heavy in the early evening. One evening, as I gazed out on my domain, I noticed two seagulls on the wall of an apartment balcony across the street. She sat contentedly on the wall; he landed next to her. She moved to the opposite end of the wall. He approached. She moved farther away. He retreated. She advanced an inch at a time until they were only a foot apart. He flew away. How coy!
I watched this avian soap opera develop across the way over several days. Often there was one bird. Sometimes two. Sometimes one would launch, as if the urge to stretch her wings was suddenly more than she could bear. Sometimes five seagulls would swoop by in formation and abruptly spiral vertically upward. But there always seemed to be one seagull on the balcony wall overlooking the flat roof of the building next to it.
One day I saw her descend to the low wall that surrounds the rooftop on three sides. She sat for hours, content to watch the world go by. Why doesn’t she leave, I wondered, fly around like the rest? And then I noticed the gravel on the rooftop moving. What? I picked up the binoculars. There were three little balls of gray fluff pecking in the gray gravel of the roof. All that time, on the balcony and roof wall below, she was watching over her brood.
Can you spot the three chicks on the roof?
I was obsessed with the baby birds. Every morning, first thing, I’d scan the rooftop for them. It worried me that there was no protective wall on the front edge of the building. They slept in a cluster of weeds at the front left corner, for Pete’s sake. If they roll over in their sleep…. Mama didn’t appear to be concerned. But she was always just a few feet away. I know how mamas think, and I’m sure her nonchalance was just a ruse to foster independence in her chicks.
This morning I said goodbye to all my birds as we vacated the apartment. I wished the babies good luck with the flying thing when it’s time. Practice beforehand, I advised, and stay away from the edge until you know you’ve got it down. And I wished Mama peace and consolation when it’s time for them to go.
For our last walk in Ireland I chose Belfast Castle. Not a castle built for royalty, it was built in the 19th century by the 3rd Marquess of Donegall. And in 1934 it was presented to the City of Belfast, which usually indicates financial difficulties on the part of the owner.
adorable bears, but they are extinct now on the island
caves in the hillside, from which Cave Hill gets its name
The castle was not open to the public on the day we were there, in preparation for a wedding that evening. But we weren’t there for the castle, which is a good thing. The visitor center was extremely limited in scope. The brief video wouldn’t play. The staff member shrugged. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t.
We were there for the hike. Belfast Castle was built on the face of Cave Hill and offers fantastic views of Belfast and Belfast Lough, especially at the top of the hill at McArt’s Fort, which today is just a few rocks on a promontory. I’d love to tell you more about its history, but there were technical difficulties at the visitor center….
It was the perfect hike for us. Three hours, 900 feet of elevation gain to get the heart pumping, gorgeous views, and sunshine.
McArt’s Fort
When we got to McArt’s fort, there were four guys trying to assemble a kite. Marcus watched them struggle until he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Who’s the engineer?” he asked. They all laughed. Not an engineering gene amongst them.
“I’m a clinical psychologist,” one of the guys quipped. “I can help if you need to know how we feel about making this kite.” They all laughed.
“What kind of a knot are you planning to use on that harness?” Harness?
Marcus put down his hiking sticks and shed his camera. I knew we were in for the long haul. The guys watched in wonder as he pulled his multitool from one of his cargo pockets, cut string, and tied knots that would knock the socks off a sailor.
“Should these stays be bowed inward or outward?” he asked. Stays?
“I think it would be more aerodynamic if they bowed inward.” Sure, sure, they chimed in as they watched over his shoulder.
Thirty minutes later, the kite was constructed and Marcus was instructing them on the rudiments of flight. Their eyes glazed over.
“You know, trying to launch a kite on the edge of a cliff is a bit dicey,” he counseled. “You might want to try it on more level ground, where you have room to run with it.” Yeah, thanks mate. We’re good. Cheers!
view of Belfast Lough behind the big heads
We continued our walk. Every now and then we’d hear a cheer in the distance and look back. The kite would get some wind, and then nosedive back to earth.
the city of Belfast with the Mourne Mountains to the south
Of all the things I love about Ireland, I’ll miss walking the most. Every good-weather day (probability of rain less than 50%) we’d find a trail within 50 miles of where we were. We were out in it three or four times a week. And with each walk you never knew what, or who, you’d find. As with this three-month journey of ours, there’s an adventure waiting around every bend in the trail.
A Canadian couple we met on this trip heard we would be traveling to Belfast and highly recommended the Black Taxi tour of the city. “It will give you a good perspective of the Troubles.” I was especially interested in taking in Belfast’s experience after learning a bit about Derry’s. I expected murals and other artifacts of the riots and violence that rocked Belfast in the late 20th century. What I didn’t expect was a wall.
This building was gutted by petrol bombs in the 1970s. Now they have a wall to protect them.
A three-mile “peace” wall, no less. 45 feet high in some places and topped by razor wire and other sharp objects. Heavy iron gates, manned by video surveillance, are opened during the day. But at night, when there is a greater propensity for violence, they are locked tight as a prison cell. Over the years they have reduced the number of gates from 20-something to two. Tighter security or tighter control?
Access through this gate is no longer an option.
The wall cuts through the heart of West Belfast. Nationalists live on the south side. Unionists on the north. (I’ve stopped calling them Catholics and Protestants because, as our Black Taxi guide told us, this issue has nothing to do with religion.)
Nationalists identify with civil rights causes around the world.
Unfortunately, civil unrest here led to violence.
Memories of happier days in West Belfast.
Nationalists sympathize with other states’ struggles for independence.
Bobby Sands, an icon for Nationalist Ireland.
King Billy, an icon for Unionists.
The wall was first built in 1969 after the outbreak of violence during civil rights protests. It was only meant to stand for six months. Okay, I get that. But because the wall was effective in reducing the number of conflicts at the time, they built it longer, taller, and more permanent. That I don’t get. And since the Good Friday peace agreement in 1998, which I thought was working of its own accord—albeit tenuously—the wall has been fortified further. There is talk from the Northern Ireland Executive of taking the wall down by 2023, but the locals are not optimistic. It continues to grow in length as West Belfast expands toward the mountains.
I can’t believe there’s a wall! In all my reading, nothing was said about it. No one has mentioned it. I was shocked. I barely noticed the murals. I couldn’t focus on what our guide was telling us. I couldn’t think of what questions to ask.
Peace wall—a political oxymoron. In Derry, a peace bridge celebrates a peace agreement with art that bridges—geographically, if not yet ideologically—two parts of the city. It’s open, it’s accessible, it’s optimistic. A wall, no matter what word you tack in front of it, promotes nothing but segregation and alienation.
We talked to a guy here in Belfast who told us that when he was growing up in the 70s, all the schools were either Catholic or Protestant. You didn’t get to know kids from the other side of the wall in the intimacy of a classroom. You certainly didn’t attend church with them. And you didn’t play with them on the streets or sports fields. The lesson learned was: They’re different; stay away from them. The first step toward peace, he said, is to start living with them side by side, get to know them, and come to accept them. Only then can the wall come down.
It will take generations to accept the differences and forget the hate. Peace won’t come from politicians on a certain date; it can only come from within in its own time.
the most bombed hotel in the world–36 times during the Troubles
fun architecture
Our last stop on this beautiful island. We couldn’t have picked a better city in which to wind up our trip. Belfast, with a population of around 350,000, is not a large city, but it’s just perfect for us. It has plenty to offer in the way of art, architecture, history, culture, and outdoor activities, and it is incredibly walkable. We’re staying in an apartment a half-mile south of city hall, and our car hasn’t left the parking lot.
the Cathedral Quarter
Pottinger’s Entry
our favorite pub, the Duke of York
inside the Duke of York
love the artwork!
Our favorite section of Belfast is the Cathedral Quarter. Off its main roads are small alleyways called “entries” that draw you in by virtue of their snugness. I feel compelled to wander down them, exploring their boutiques, restaurants, and pubs.
sheep, an icon of everything Irish
Finn MacCool’s Salmon of Knowledge, aka the Big Fish
my old friend
Thanksgiving, symbol of hope for Belfast
the weir on the River Lagan
The River Lagan waterfront has undergone a major renovation in recent years, beginning with the river itself. A weir was built across the river to allow for control of the tidal river’s water level, making the shallower stretch upstream of the harbor a friendlier place for wildlife, small boat traffic, and development. We chatted for a while with a guy who works at the weir, and he asked us if we wanted a behind-the-scenes tour. Heck, yah! He took us down into the maintenance tunnel that runs under the weir. We walked from bank to bank underneath the river!
The city has commissioned art pieces for the waterfront area as well, including my old friend, the Salmon of Knowledge. [Finn’s Causeway]
the Titanic Quarter
the beautiful new Titanic Belfast museum
shipyard cranes Samson and Goliath, icons of Belfast’s shipbuilding industry
the portal into Belfast Lough, the Irish Sea, and the world
Over the centuries, the structure of the river has been straightened and deepened to accommodate increasingly larger ships in the busy harbor. Shipbuilding, a mainstay of Belfast’s economy for centuries, reached a pinnacle in the early 20th century when emigration peaked in Ireland. In 1907 the White Star Line authorized the construction of three Olympic-class luxury liners to assist in the transport of emigrants to America. The second of the three was the HMS Titanic built by Harland & Wolff ship builders in Belfast between 1909 and 1912.
In 2012, the centennial year of Titanic’s maiden voyage and tragic sinking in the North Atlantic, Titanic Belfast, a museum commemorating not only the Titanic phenom but also Belfast’s shipbuilding industry, opened on property that once belonged to Harland & Wolff. We can attest to the quality of the exhibits; we spent three hours taking it all in. We also had lunch in the new Titanic Belfast Hotel on the property, built in the refurbished White Star Line offices. Very classy!
What was formerly known as Queen’s Island, home to Belfast’s prolific shipbuilding industry, has been renamed the Titanic Quarter and has been a huge boon to Belfast’s tourism industry. The two large, yellow Harland & Wolff (H&W) gantry cranes, nicknamed Samson and Goliath, are no longer in use, as shipbuilding has all but died in Belfast, but were left standing to pay tribute to the industry that made Belfast a major world city. They’re visible from many places throughout the city, and we’re always delighted to see them peeking around a corner.
I saw a photo of the Dark Hedges years ago in one of those emails that circulates with some of the most amazing photos you’ve ever seen of über-remote places on our planet. I mentally swore I would go there one day. Today I did.
The Dark Hedges is rated as one of top five tree tunnels in the world. Tree tunnels—I didn’t even know it was a thing. And who rates them anyway?
The tunnel would have been magnificent, except for all the tourists—GoT tourists, for the most part, some dressed in costume. Yes, the Dark Hedges was used in the wildly popular Game of Thrones as the King’s Road which Arya Stark traveled to escape King’s Landing in Season 2. And I got to visit the King’s Road today with Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen.
The road—one of those ordinarily gorgeous, backcountry Irish roads—was closed to vehicular traffic a couple of years ago because of the tourists. The Woodland Trust is concerned that high vehicular traffic could damage the already fragile shallow-root system of the beech trees. Five trees have been lost to storms in the past few years.
Today there were two full-size tour buses, both with the Game of Thrones logo emblazoned on the back window, and a dozen or more cars parked just off the closed road—on another ordinarily gorgeous, backcountry Irish road. The locals in this peaceful wee community must be beside themselves.
We were there, so we took photos—full of tourists—and moved on. I feel bad for having contributed to the hullabaloo. Poor timing on my part. I wish I had traveled this road before Arya did.
Once upon a time there was an Irish giant named Finn MacCool, or Fionn mac Cumhaill as he called himself in his native language. Finn wasn’t a Jack-in-the-Beanstalk kind of giant. He didn’t eat little children. Nor was he an ogre. He was pretty much a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, just very large. Finn used his hunting and warrior skills to fight evil, for the most part, but occasionally also took care of a few items on his own agenda, as is a giant’s prerogative.
When Finn was a boy, he trained under the druid Finnegas. Finnegas had spent seven years trying to catch the Salmon of Knowledge, a wonder of a fish that lived in the River Boyne and had become all-knowing by living off the hazelnuts of a holy tree. Whoever ate the Salmon of Knowledge would gain from it all the knowledge of the world.
While Finn was under the druid’s care, Finnegas finally caught the fish-of-all-fish. He told Finn to cook it for him, which he did while Finnegas eagerly anticipated his eye-opening meal. But while cooking, Finn burned his thumb and instinctively put it in his mouth, thereby tasting the fish and receiving its knowledge. Far from being angry, when Finnegas saw the light of knowledge in Finn’s eye he made sure Finn polished off every last bite of the salmon. Finn was able to call upon this knowledge in future confrontations with his enemies.
Finn decided to build a path of stepping stones across the twelve miles of water between Ireland and Scotland so he could easily cross without getting his feet wet. One day as he was working on it, he heard that a nasty old giant named Benandonner (definitely one of the ogrey kind) was looking for him. Knowing Benandonner was up to no good, Finn asked his wife Oona to help him hide. Oona dressed Finn as a baby and put him in a cradle. When Benandonner showed up, Oona told him Finn was away but was expected back at any moment. She offered Benandonner a griddle cake she was making. Unbeknownst to Benandonner, Oona had baked griddle irons into some of them. Benandonner took a bite, broke his teeth, and howled like a baby. Oona made fun of him, calling him weak. She fed a cake (without metal in it) to her “baby” who, of course, gobbled it down quite easily. Benandonner, afraid of what the father of this monster-child must be like, decided to clear out before Finn got home. He fled across the causeway to Scotland, destroying it as he went so that Finn couldn’t follow him.
The Giant’s Causeway is a geological wonder of over 40,000 interlocking basalt columns created by the slow cooling and shrinking of lava flows under the sea over 60 million years ago. It is like nothing I have seen before.
This crazy, curious landscape, and the engaging legend the Irish created centuries ago to explain it, is what brought me to Northern Ireland. The rest is icing on the cake.
We’re in Ballycastle now, on the northeast coast of the island. It’s a cool, wee town with the hustle and bustle of the village out the front windows and the idyllic farm pastures out the back—like watching FarmTV on a large-screen TV. We’re constantly checking to see where the animals are.
“What are the sheep up to? Oh, grazing.”
“Did you notice? The sheep that were in the upper right pasture yesterday are now in the lower pasture, under that tree line.”
“The cows are sleeping off their third breakfast.”
“Aw! That ewe is nursing two lambs. And grazing at the same time!”
“Take a look at those black rain clouds rolling up over the ridge!”
“Where are the cows now? I hear them bawling. It’s 4:30. They must want to be milked.”
“Are those sheep going to stay out all night?”
“What? Are they still grazing?”
Giant’s Causeway? Bushmills? Carrick-a-rede? The Glens of Antrim? Why do we need to leave the apartment? Pull up a chair.
After we crossed the border into Northern Ireland, we drove the few miles of farm road to Derry and parked the car in front of our new home-from-home for the week. Well, we did use it once or twice during the time we were there. One gorgeous day, we took to the road to find the church where my great-grandfather was baptized. Cumber Upper is a wee, bucolic town just ten miles south of Derry.
“Miles?” Marcus asked. “Why are you giving me the distance in miles? You’ve always given me distances in kilometers.”
“For some reason, Google Maps is now giving me distances in miles,” I replied.
That should have been our first clue.
On another day we had to drive to Derry airport to return our second rental car and pick up a third. (For car insurance coverage through our credit card, we can only rent a car for 30 days at a time. Before the 30-day period is up, we have to return one car and rent another; otherwise, we’d have no coverage.) This was another ten-mile drive, but this time along a major thoroughfare.
“Why are these drivers riding my bumper?” Marcus asked. “I’m driving the speed limit.”
I looked in the sideview mirror. There were several cars queued up behind us. One guy passed us and honked, albeit politely. What gives? City drivers! we decided. Always in a hurry to get places.
At the end of the week we checked out of our Derry apartment and started our 60-mile drive to our next destination on the County Antrim coast. We weren’t far into the trip when traffic started piling up behind us again.
“I won’t drive over the speed limit,” Marcus insisted. “I’ve been told by several people that the police here won’t hesitate to pull over a rental car for speeding.”
Why didn’t we have this problem “down south”? I pondered. Why is it just since arriving in Derry? “Hang on a sec. Let me check something.” I pulled out my phone and googled: Are the speed limits in Northern Ireland in mph? Answer (from Wikipedia): Speed limits in Northern Ireland are specified in miles per hour. Those in the Republic use kilometres per hour.
Oh, my! We’ve been driving 60 kph (37.5 mph) in a 60-mph zone! 80 kph (50 mph) in an 80-mph zone! Neither Fodor’s nor the road atlas we picked up, both of which cover both countries, thought to mention this. It’s a wonder people haven’t been making rude gestures as they pass. Obviously, Irish drivers are very patient and kind.
And we thought crossing the border was seamless. Who knew?
Cumber Upper, Co. Derry, where my great-grandfather was from
Today we walked across the Peace Bridge, a beautiful foot and cycle bridge built in 2011 to commemorate the 1998 Good Friday Agreement that brought an uneasy, but workable, peace to Northern Ireland. The bridge connects Derry’s west and east banks.
The west bank is the historic part of Derry with its walled city and the Bogside. It’s predominantly Catholic and Nationalist, but not completely. (Nationalists want Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland to unite into one island nation.)
view of the west side, from the east side
The east bank is the newer part of the city and is mostly Protestant and Unionist, but not exclusively. (Unionists want Northern Ireland to remain part of the United Kingdom.)
view of the east side, from the west side
As you can see, the bridge connecting east and west is hugely symbolic.
I love the contemporary design. To me it says this peace is new and fresh. Forget past injustices, anger, and failed treaties. We are living in a different era now. Our eyes are on the future.
So, Marcus and I are walking across this bridge that is shared by east and west, pedestrians and cyclists. The deck of the bridge is curved and has two different surfaces. There’s a wider, paved path, and off to one side a narrower path made of metal slats that run contrary to the overall direction of the bridge. We discuss the two paths as we walk. Is the narrow path for bikes or pedestrians? we wonder. We decide it’s for bikes and the wider, larger path is for pedestrians because there are more of them. So we keep to the wide side, which is important to cyclists so they don’t have to brake or stop for pedestrians, and important to pedestrians so they don’t get run down by a bike.
Part way across the bridge, I notice our pedestrian side is getting narrower. The bike strip is intruding into the pedestrian space, effectively dividing it into two pedestrian paths. Eventually there is not enough room on either side of the bike path for two people to walk side by side. What do we do now? I wonder. Should I walk on one side of the bike path and Marcus on the other? Or should we walk single file on the same side? Either way, it would be impossible to have a conversation. I find myself getting annoyed. Why would the designers of the bridge intentionally divide the majority of its users and put them at a disadvantage?
Aha moment: Was this invasive cycle path design deliberate, to make a point?
By the time we get to the other bank, the cycle path has shifted all the way to the other side of the bridge deck, and we are once again enjoying a nice, wide pedestrian path…from a different vantage point.
Maybe I’m reading too much into this, as I’m sure most people just ride or walk wherever they want without a care in the world. Even so, that kind of peace of mind is priceless.
