Day 18
Wow! What a full couple of days I have had. I woke up on Wednesday at 10 am and after a relaxing hour or two talking to Iris, I set off to Derry.
Iris, once again, packed me a lunch and sent me off with her family’s best wishes. Standing outside the back of the house in the rain, when I was struggling to get my backpack on and balanced, and then myself onto the bike, she had such a look of pity for me on her face that I almost laughed. It looked as though she thought someone was forcing me to do all this. She told me to wait and she ran inside, to come out shortly after with a camera. She took a photo of me, and told me to send her a card from Sweden. I thanked her for her kindness again and set off, down their steep driveway, and then turned right, up the hill towards Derry.
The weather was very cold and wet. The rain was, once again, never heavy, and it wasn’t constant, though there was never a break in the rain that lasted more than five minutes. When it was raining - the spells would last between five and ten minutes at a time - it was a horrible cold and drizzly rain. The kind of rain that trickles down the back of your neck (if your not wearing a hood) and makes you uncomfortable for the rest of the day.
The wind was the worst. It wasn’t constant either but when it was blowing, it was really blowing. The weather forecast predicted gale force winds across Scotland and Northern Ireland. Thankfully, the wind came from the west and not the south (although in hindsight, it would have been better to have come from the northwest!) Inishowen is, of course, north of Derry, and the road I was following headed due south, most of the time. However whenever the road turned slightly inland, I would struggle against the wind. It was slow going and it took me two hours to ride the 20 km to the Derry bus station (thankfully on the same side of the river, so I didn’t have to cross that bridge again).
I passed the spot where I had gone down to the beach and eaten a banana and bread breakfast in despair and panic two weeks ago. This time, however, I was a lot more confident. And the weather was slightly different. Yesterday the wind was stronger and the clouds were low. I couldn’t see the other side of the lough.
I passed through Muff, the roads still horrible. I guess it was only two weeks between my passing through the town the first time and now, but so much has happened to me, it feels as if others should have changed with me. I almost expected the potholes to be filled when I rode through the village, but they weren’t - and probably won’t be for a very long time, according to any one I speak to about the place.
There was no sign to announce that I was entering Co. Londonderry (and N. Ireland) however the roads became instantly better and I would have been able to tell with my eyes closed. And the signs were more organised. I suddenly knew exactly where I was going, my options for going elsewhere and how many miles it would take to get there. I even knew what type of roads I would be travelling along if I decided to go to those places. Ahhh ... Great Britain.
I rode quickly along the nice smooth rode. It was fairly sheltered by trees at this point, so the wind wasn’t so bad. I recognised the shop and accompanying rode that I went down on my first, panicky night. I didn’t stop, though. Every thing looks so different in daylight and with calmer eyes.
I rode past the area with the nunnery, and the field that was supposed to belong to it.
Fergus had told me that there are still Famine walls around Ireland, and that one could be seen along the Muff - Derry road. A Famine wall is a stone wall about the height of a man. They were built during the Famine of the 1840s as a means to keep the hungry masses out of the estates of the landowners. Ironically, it was the (usually homeless) Catholics who built the walls, for a few scraps to eat. Massive work projects like the Famine walls and the Famine roads kept the masses barely alive during the four years that the crops failed.
I looked at every wall that I passed, but to my eyes, none was definitely a Famine wall. The wall surrounding the nunnery - which was quite a nice estate - was stone and quite tall, but it looked too new to be 150 yeas old.
The sun came out as I was entering the city area and reflected off the water on the road. Since the sun is basically south and that was the direction I was heading (down a long straight road) I couldn’t see more than two or three metres ahead of me. The last things I thought that I would need in Ireland during winter were sunglasses. Added to the general danger of not being able to see a thing, was that I was in a city for the first time in a while - and after so much countryside, it was difficult to get used to all the cars again. Also, I almost went through a couple of red lights; not only could I not see them due to the glare (I couldn’t look up), but I wasn’t really looking for them.
I made a big mistake on the road to Derry, just north of Muff, one which I won’t make again, no matter how hot I get; I took off the Kathmandu and rode with just shirt and raincoat. When I got to Derry, my shirt was absolutely soaked (much more that sweat would cause) and I got very cold, even after putting the Kathmandu back on.
The centre of Ireland is a lot colder - they are now getting frosts every night - so I won’t be so inclined to take off the Kathmandu in the future. Is this a good thing?
I got to Derry’s bus station at 2 pm and locked the bike (nervously) in the space allocated for bikes.
My feet were once again in agony. I tried to undo my laces, and it took me about ten minutes, as my hands were so cold that they wouldn’t work properly, and also it hurt every time they touched something. I took off the shoes and the two pairs of now very wet socks I was wearing and replaced them with two pairs of dry socks. Then I put the very wet shoes back on, so I don’t think it made any difference in the long run, it certainly didn’t give me instant comfort; my feet remained painfully cold.
I found out that the bus to Coleraine left at 3:30, so I left the bag and the bike seat in Left Luggage (50p). I was actually a bit surprised that they have facilities such as Left Luggage in places like Derry and Belfast. They sure as hell wouldn’t have such a thing in Israel, and (during the Troubles) there was a lot more terrorism - and fear of terrorism - here than there is in Israel. I remember that when I first got to Dublin and left the bag at Connolly station I was a little surprised, but then Dublin is safely ensconced in the Republic and has seen next to no terrorism during all the years of the Troubles. I think there was only one occasion that Dublin saw a Loyalist bomb. On another occasion, in the 1950s I think, the IRA blew up a statue in O’Connell St. I have a feeling it was a statue of Nelson, but I might be completely mistaken. I found the ticket office and bought the ticket for myself (£4.70) and the bike (£2.35).
Iris had told me that across the road from the bus station was a library, so I set off to find it. Unfortunately, when I crossed the road I turned right and wandered up a street past three of four bus shelters. All the people here look hard, and mistrustful. Probably my imagination once again, or maybe it is due to me being in a city after such warm hospitality in the country. But my imagination has the better of me, and I simply think that all the people up here are hard bastards. I got to the end of the street and turned a corner. Ahead of me was an arch, with the town walls stretching away to the right (the wall to the left was blocked by a building). I walked through the arch (Derry’s Walls!) and realised that this was no way to find the library. A street vendor pointed back the way I came, and I found it shortly after. It was straight across from the station after all, I should have turned left and I would have been at the door in thirty seconds.
What I wanted in the library was an Irish tourist book and a decent map. My plan was to make a note of all the towns between Dublin and Coleraine and find touristy or historical information about them.
All I found in the normal section were some tourist books for other countries. I looked up Let’s Go: Europe, but they covered Ireland in four pages, and Northern Ireland in half a page - most of which was a description of the current political climate (two years ago).
There were stairs, so I went up them and found a fairly extensive reference section. I wandered around. Once again, I couldn’t find anything on Ireland, but did manage to find a rack of maps. They had maps of most major cities in the world, and maps of the rest of the United Kingdom, but nothing in Ireland. More wandering. I came to a large section (around a corner that I previously hadn’t gone past) full of Irish things! Irish geography, history, meteorology, maps!
I found a tourist book on Ireland and sat down with it, a pen and my loose leaf paper (ie. my journal). Unfortunately, it was 2:55 by this stage, and I wanted to get back to the bus station with plenty of time to unlock the bike, get my bag and board the bus.
I turned to the Derry section and read a few paragraphs, but left without taking any notes. I thought at the time that I could always go back to the library on the day that I decided I would come and visit Derry, which is going to be tomorrow, the 3rd).
The girls in Derry are quite pretty, and I saw more than one Raven Haired Celtic Beauty, which pleased me no end.
The accent here is so harsh, compared with just ten miles up the road.
I caught the bus, no worries. I was peckish by this stage so I ate the lunch provided for by Iris. There was a Kit Kat on top of the sandwiches, which I ate first. At the bottom, in a brown envelope I found £10 (sterling) from Iris and Billy! God bless them! I couldn’t believe it. I really felt strongly in the gut and had a lump in my throat. I want to repay them some how and I figure the best way to do this is to research Whitecastle to find its origins and owners pasts. I will do this both at home (care of the uni’s Internet or in Dublin if I have a day spare).
On the way out of Derry the bus passed one of those signs that shows the temperature and the time. It was 2°C. And I my clothes were still wet. I felt justified feeling as cold as I did.
I got to Coleraine at 5 ish and (as instructed) rang Mary, Alex’s mother. ‘Oh yes’, she said, ‘I shall be there in ten minutes or so. Could you possibly stand under the arches of the train station?’ She speaks so properly and with such an English accent, using phrases like ‘terribly good’ and ‘awfully bad weather, isn’t it?’ She speaks like the Queen, seriously. Mary even mentioned today that a lot of people told her that she spoke like her.
During the trip from the station to her house (about five minutes), she asked my interest in Ireland and, in particular, Inishowen. When I trotted out the usual Trinity bit, she replied in a very disapproving tone that she ‘...remembered the book but couldn’t say that she agreed with Mr Uris’ politics.’
‘OK’, I thought, ‘I know which side the bread is buttered here’. (Very, very Right).
Alex had told me that his father, Antony, was a university lecturer. Mrs Alcock proudly told me that this was true, but he was also one of the negotiators in the Good Friday Agreement!
The man is way up high in the UUP , a personal friend of David Trimble and has entertained the likes of John Hume in his dining room. And he is very, very staunchly Loyalist. Very. I have been dotting my ‘i’s and crossing my ‘t’s every time the subject of politics comes up. I dare not reveal any republican or socialist fleas I might have picked up over the years.
Antony is English, but moved here with Mary 25 years ago (which would have been at the height of the Troubles) to teach European history at the Coleraine Campus of the University of Ulster.
The mainstream British parties, such as Labour (these days, New Labour) and the Conservatives do not have branches here in Northern Ireland. The reason is quite simple; everything here is sectarian. Someone can be middle right, middle left or a raving red socialist, but they will be only be placed in one of two groups: Nationalist or Loyalist. The big parties in Great Britain don’t want to be stuck with such a label. It is all a bit of a mess however, as these parties tend to either have traditional alliances with the Northern Irish parties, or go so far as to recommend a party over here. Any traditional Labour supporter who rings up the Labour Party to ask how to vote in Northern Ireland will be directed to the SDLP . The Unionists, in particular the UUP, have always associated themselves with the Tories (whether the Tories like this or not).
Having no Tory party to join, Mr. Alcock became an active member in the Ulster Unionist Vanguard Party (a fringe, extremely Loyalist faction of the UUP). This party eventually ceased to exist, and merged fully with the UUP and a lot of its members went straight to the top of their new party (‘...anyone who is anyone in the UUP was with us in the Vanguard’).
He has worked with the UN, the OSCE and um ... other things. He has written a number of books, one of which I have been lent while I am here, Understanding Ulster. I have read a third, all of which has been a history of Ireland since pre-Celtic times. To say that he has put a Loyalist tilt on the history is somewhat of an understatement. It would be truer to say I have been enjoying a nice topical paradise over the last few weeks.
Of course, I didn’t mention this to him.
The coming chapters, which he has promised are the juiciest argues that ‘...since 1919 successive British governments have shown little commitment to the Union, deliberately pursuing a policy of Irish unification by consent.’
The house itself is so ... rich. And nice and oh so very upper middle class. Mary’s conversation is peppered with how she has been here and he, there. The place is full of old things and silver things and crystal things.
They are a very nice couple, but completely different to what I expected of Alex’s parents to be. His sister, Charlotte, is like him and talks like him so of course, I have picked up her accent like I always did his.
I have been put into the spare room with an absolutely wonderful bed (Victorian, of course). It is big and is the most comfortable bed I have ever been in. I have an en suite. Absolute luxury.
She had promised me on the phone from Malin Head that she would be happy to show me around the area, if I would like that. Absolutely. When I got here, she asked me how long I wanted to stay and I said three nights, as I wanted to explore Londonderry for one day (I didn’t dare say ‘Derry’).
We had a great meal (she is a great cook) and a relaxing evening of Trivial Pursuit, and Ally McBeal. I went to sleep at 1:30 after reading Understanding Ulster for two hours, in which I accomplished a big fifty pages. Either I was very tired, or there are lots of big words in the book.
Today is the day when self-government started here in the North. Also, the Irish Dail changed sections 2 and 3 of the Republic’s Constitution, so as to no longer claim the North as part of the Republic. It is a very historical day and I am glad to say that I was here for it. My personal opinion is that it will break down, but I hope it lasts for another week; I want to get out of Northern Ireland before the shooting starts again.
Mary told me that in South Armagh, there used to be signs reading ‘Beware, Snipers at Work’. Hmm.
After breakfast (cereal, toast and a croissant!) Mary and I drove to the Giant’s Causeway via the coastal towns and back roads. She is a great host and guide, driving slowly and pointing out sights and sounds that I otherwise might have missed. She told me bits and pieces about the area and pointed out towns. Donegal was a blue mass in the distance (on the rare occasion that it wasn’t covered by clouds). Scotland was the same, at one point only nine miles from the Irish Coast (it was from Scotland that the majority of the Protestant settlers came during the Plantation).
We drove through Portstewart (they live just outside it), Portrush and somewhere else. Portrush and the Giant’s Causeway (and most of the northeast of the province) is in Antrim, though Portstewart is in Co. (London)Derry. The area that we went through today (Western Armagh) today is the constituency of Ian Paisley (and is heavily Protestant).
Though in no way did she actually defend Paisley’s propaganda, she went so far as to say that he was a very good representative of his people, and even some Catholics voted for him. This may well be true, but it is a crying shame to think that people - on any side of the political divide - would be taken in by his messages of hate. I hold Paisley as one of the prime reasons the current round of Troubles (now thirty years old) started.
The Giant’s Causeway is an area of 40 000 pillars of basalt, the result of columnar jointing on a vast scale. The whole area around (called the Causeway Coast) is overlaid with basalt and, often showing at cliffs, a limestone base. My guess is that the basalt occurred when the continents of Europe and North America split, though surprisingly, the visitors centre didn’t mention when and how the basalt occurred; just that it did. They gave more emphasis to the traditional story behind its creation.
The traditional story is that Finn MacCool was a big friendly giant who lived in the area. He had an enemy in Scotland, so Finn, being a gracious host, built a causeway from here to Scotland on which his enemy could walk so the two could do battle. There is similar columnar jointing in Scotland to support this theory.
As his enemy approached, Finn realised that he was stuffed; the enemy was bigger, stronger and fiercer. Finn ran home and his wife dressed him up as a baby and put him in a crib. When the enemy saw Finn, he declared that he had no wish to see the father of such a child and ran back to Scotland, destroying the bulk of the Causeway as he went.
Finn MacCool did more than just build massive geological structures, though I have to admit I am not too sure of what he did. He was one of Conor’s heroes (in Trinity) and, more importantly, one of the two major political parties in the Republic, Fianna Fáil, is named after his band of warriors.
The weather was bitterly cold and the wind as strong as at Malin Head ... almost. The rain was intermittent. Mary, being truly British refused to take the 60p bus for the one kilometre road leading down to the Causeway from the Visitors’ Centre, so we set off on foot.
My jeans got very, very wet but the Kathmandu served (my body) very well. The hail stung my eyes, nose and cheeks but I lived. I couldn’t talk well because my mouth couldn’t open properly and it wouldn’t do what it was told. I hadn’t brought any gloves with me, so even though both hands were jammed into my jeans pocket, they hurt as much as they always do.
The Causeway itself was great to look at. The columns were magnificent, but I didn’t walk along the top of the Causeway, or the sea would have swept me in. It was pretty rough and apparently was covering half the rocks, even without the benefit of the waves, which came close to splashing us.
We went back to the centre and she bought me a coffee (I had paid £1 for the car park as she didn’t have the change, so I didn’t feel too guilty).
We drove along the coast, stopping for views at place to place, including Ballintoy, a tiny little harbour set into fairly steep cliffs. There is a church built in the 17th century that featured in the 1641 uprising. A local priest had sheltered some Protestant women and children from the general slaughter that was going on. He was killed for his efforts. It was an example of pieces of history that Mary would tell me, they only ever include the IRA or Nationalist murders. It was quite amusing.
Dunluce Castle was an amazing ruin built right on the cliffs a bit further on. The ruins seemed to be in really good condition and include two 13th Century towers and a secret escape tunnel that goes down to sea level and is accessible by boat. Although we didn’t get out of the car to explore the castle - it is quite difficult to access it - I get the impression that its condition is not as good as Montfort, the crusader castle near the kibbutz that I explored with my sister about nine months ago.
I didn’t take a single photo all day - I hadn’t brought my camera with me!
We stopped for lunch in a posh hotel in Ballycastle (The Marine Hotel) and she paid for a meal and a Guinness! I think it would have cost around £7 for what I ate and drank.
Ballycastle seems to be famous. Every one has heard of Ballycastle. The name rang a bell with me for years, and every one else I have mentioned it to. But why? It shouldn't be particularly famous. It is a favourite summer holiday destination for the people of Belfast and - before the Troubles - the people of Great Britain and the Republic. The only historical fact I know about Ballycastle is that the first official wireless communication took place from here, to Rathlin Island, a few miles off shore.
From Ballycastle we drove back to Bushmills and went on a guided tour of the ‘Old Bushmills’ Distillery. She paid for it (£3.50 each). It was very interesting and there was a tasting session at the end. I tasted a single malt with some trepidation (I don’t like Scotch) but was pleasantly surprised by how nice it was.
Of course, as I learnt on the tour, Scotch is not Irish Whiskey, and it seems a lot of people would be insulted if I called it such. There is even a distinction in the names! Scotch Whisky is spelt without an ‘e’. Apparently whiskey means ‘water of life’. The Bushmills mob have, since 1608, been taking water from a local river for their whiskey. When we walked out of the distillery, towards the carpark, we passed over a footbridge, spanning an awful looking creek swirling with muddy water. The ‘water of life’ indeed!
The village of Bushmills is staunchly Loyalist (‘of course it is, Brendon, it is east of the Bann’). There are flags up around the place, not only the Union Jack, but also the banner of the UDA . Some of the street curbs are painted red, white and blue. It was amazing to see something like that; I thought that the Troubles were over.
From Bushmills we came back to Portstewart. I had a fantastic day. I saw a lot of the country and coast, I heard a lot of history and saw some great attractions. I really am very grateful to Mary and her family. Over dinner I had a very good conversation with Antony about Northern Ireland and the current quest for peace.
After dinner, armed with two books about Ireland, lent to me by Mary, I wrote out three and a half pages of notes about the towns I will go through.
I have been told not to worry about past security issues in the south of Armagh, and since it is 20 km shorter to go that way, I almost decided to. However I noticed there seems to be less hills with the Monaghan route and besides, the Republic is cheaper and the less time I spend up here, the better.
My route will be Coleraine - Garvagh - Cookstown - Dungannon - Armagh - Monaghan - Carrickmacross - Slane (and Newgrange) and then on to Dublin.
I have realised it will be too cold to camp and have decided to simply knock on doors, offer to do work and if (when) they say no, to ask for a place to sleep for the evening. I figure I will find some friendly enough people each day (God willing!).
Tomorrow I am catching the 8:25 train to Derry.
Yesterday I spent £7.55 and today £1.
Iris, once again, packed me a lunch and sent me off with her family’s best wishes. Standing outside the back of the house in the rain, when I was struggling to get my backpack on and balanced, and then myself onto the bike, she had such a look of pity for me on her face that I almost laughed. It looked as though she thought someone was forcing me to do all this. She told me to wait and she ran inside, to come out shortly after with a camera. She took a photo of me, and told me to send her a card from Sweden. I thanked her for her kindness again and set off, down their steep driveway, and then turned right, up the hill towards Derry.
The weather was very cold and wet. The rain was, once again, never heavy, and it wasn’t constant, though there was never a break in the rain that lasted more than five minutes. When it was raining - the spells would last between five and ten minutes at a time - it was a horrible cold and drizzly rain. The kind of rain that trickles down the back of your neck (if your not wearing a hood) and makes you uncomfortable for the rest of the day.
The wind was the worst. It wasn’t constant either but when it was blowing, it was really blowing. The weather forecast predicted gale force winds across Scotland and Northern Ireland. Thankfully, the wind came from the west and not the south (although in hindsight, it would have been better to have come from the northwest!) Inishowen is, of course, north of Derry, and the road I was following headed due south, most of the time. However whenever the road turned slightly inland, I would struggle against the wind. It was slow going and it took me two hours to ride the 20 km to the Derry bus station (thankfully on the same side of the river, so I didn’t have to cross that bridge again).
I passed the spot where I had gone down to the beach and eaten a banana and bread breakfast in despair and panic two weeks ago. This time, however, I was a lot more confident. And the weather was slightly different. Yesterday the wind was stronger and the clouds were low. I couldn’t see the other side of the lough.
I passed through Muff, the roads still horrible. I guess it was only two weeks between my passing through the town the first time and now, but so much has happened to me, it feels as if others should have changed with me. I almost expected the potholes to be filled when I rode through the village, but they weren’t - and probably won’t be for a very long time, according to any one I speak to about the place.
There was no sign to announce that I was entering Co. Londonderry (and N. Ireland) however the roads became instantly better and I would have been able to tell with my eyes closed. And the signs were more organised. I suddenly knew exactly where I was going, my options for going elsewhere and how many miles it would take to get there. I even knew what type of roads I would be travelling along if I decided to go to those places. Ahhh ... Great Britain.
I rode quickly along the nice smooth rode. It was fairly sheltered by trees at this point, so the wind wasn’t so bad. I recognised the shop and accompanying rode that I went down on my first, panicky night. I didn’t stop, though. Every thing looks so different in daylight and with calmer eyes.
I rode past the area with the nunnery, and the field that was supposed to belong to it.
Fergus had told me that there are still Famine walls around Ireland, and that one could be seen along the Muff - Derry road. A Famine wall is a stone wall about the height of a man. They were built during the Famine of the 1840s as a means to keep the hungry masses out of the estates of the landowners. Ironically, it was the (usually homeless) Catholics who built the walls, for a few scraps to eat. Massive work projects like the Famine walls and the Famine roads kept the masses barely alive during the four years that the crops failed.
I looked at every wall that I passed, but to my eyes, none was definitely a Famine wall. The wall surrounding the nunnery - which was quite a nice estate - was stone and quite tall, but it looked too new to be 150 yeas old.
The sun came out as I was entering the city area and reflected off the water on the road. Since the sun is basically south and that was the direction I was heading (down a long straight road) I couldn’t see more than two or three metres ahead of me. The last things I thought that I would need in Ireland during winter were sunglasses. Added to the general danger of not being able to see a thing, was that I was in a city for the first time in a while - and after so much countryside, it was difficult to get used to all the cars again. Also, I almost went through a couple of red lights; not only could I not see them due to the glare (I couldn’t look up), but I wasn’t really looking for them.
I made a big mistake on the road to Derry, just north of Muff, one which I won’t make again, no matter how hot I get; I took off the Kathmandu and rode with just shirt and raincoat. When I got to Derry, my shirt was absolutely soaked (much more that sweat would cause) and I got very cold, even after putting the Kathmandu back on.
The centre of Ireland is a lot colder - they are now getting frosts every night - so I won’t be so inclined to take off the Kathmandu in the future. Is this a good thing?
I got to Derry’s bus station at 2 pm and locked the bike (nervously) in the space allocated for bikes.
My feet were once again in agony. I tried to undo my laces, and it took me about ten minutes, as my hands were so cold that they wouldn’t work properly, and also it hurt every time they touched something. I took off the shoes and the two pairs of now very wet socks I was wearing and replaced them with two pairs of dry socks. Then I put the very wet shoes back on, so I don’t think it made any difference in the long run, it certainly didn’t give me instant comfort; my feet remained painfully cold.
I found out that the bus to Coleraine left at 3:30, so I left the bag and the bike seat in Left Luggage (50p). I was actually a bit surprised that they have facilities such as Left Luggage in places like Derry and Belfast. They sure as hell wouldn’t have such a thing in Israel, and (during the Troubles) there was a lot more terrorism - and fear of terrorism - here than there is in Israel. I remember that when I first got to Dublin and left the bag at Connolly station I was a little surprised, but then Dublin is safely ensconced in the Republic and has seen next to no terrorism during all the years of the Troubles. I think there was only one occasion that Dublin saw a Loyalist bomb. On another occasion, in the 1950s I think, the IRA blew up a statue in O’Connell St. I have a feeling it was a statue of Nelson, but I might be completely mistaken. I found the ticket office and bought the ticket for myself (£4.70) and the bike (£2.35).
Iris had told me that across the road from the bus station was a library, so I set off to find it. Unfortunately, when I crossed the road I turned right and wandered up a street past three of four bus shelters. All the people here look hard, and mistrustful. Probably my imagination once again, or maybe it is due to me being in a city after such warm hospitality in the country. But my imagination has the better of me, and I simply think that all the people up here are hard bastards. I got to the end of the street and turned a corner. Ahead of me was an arch, with the town walls stretching away to the right (the wall to the left was blocked by a building). I walked through the arch (Derry’s Walls!) and realised that this was no way to find the library. A street vendor pointed back the way I came, and I found it shortly after. It was straight across from the station after all, I should have turned left and I would have been at the door in thirty seconds.
What I wanted in the library was an Irish tourist book and a decent map. My plan was to make a note of all the towns between Dublin and Coleraine and find touristy or historical information about them.
All I found in the normal section were some tourist books for other countries. I looked up Let’s Go: Europe, but they covered Ireland in four pages, and Northern Ireland in half a page - most of which was a description of the current political climate (two years ago).
There were stairs, so I went up them and found a fairly extensive reference section. I wandered around. Once again, I couldn’t find anything on Ireland, but did manage to find a rack of maps. They had maps of most major cities in the world, and maps of the rest of the United Kingdom, but nothing in Ireland. More wandering. I came to a large section (around a corner that I previously hadn’t gone past) full of Irish things! Irish geography, history, meteorology, maps!
I found a tourist book on Ireland and sat down with it, a pen and my loose leaf paper (ie. my journal). Unfortunately, it was 2:55 by this stage, and I wanted to get back to the bus station with plenty of time to unlock the bike, get my bag and board the bus.
I turned to the Derry section and read a few paragraphs, but left without taking any notes. I thought at the time that I could always go back to the library on the day that I decided I would come and visit Derry, which is going to be tomorrow, the 3rd).
The girls in Derry are quite pretty, and I saw more than one Raven Haired Celtic Beauty, which pleased me no end.
The accent here is so harsh, compared with just ten miles up the road.
I caught the bus, no worries. I was peckish by this stage so I ate the lunch provided for by Iris. There was a Kit Kat on top of the sandwiches, which I ate first. At the bottom, in a brown envelope I found £10 (sterling) from Iris and Billy! God bless them! I couldn’t believe it. I really felt strongly in the gut and had a lump in my throat. I want to repay them some how and I figure the best way to do this is to research Whitecastle to find its origins and owners pasts. I will do this both at home (care of the uni’s Internet or in Dublin if I have a day spare).
On the way out of Derry the bus passed one of those signs that shows the temperature and the time. It was 2°C. And I my clothes were still wet. I felt justified feeling as cold as I did.
I got to Coleraine at 5 ish and (as instructed) rang Mary, Alex’s mother. ‘Oh yes’, she said, ‘I shall be there in ten minutes or so. Could you possibly stand under the arches of the train station?’ She speaks so properly and with such an English accent, using phrases like ‘terribly good’ and ‘awfully bad weather, isn’t it?’ She speaks like the Queen, seriously. Mary even mentioned today that a lot of people told her that she spoke like her.
During the trip from the station to her house (about five minutes), she asked my interest in Ireland and, in particular, Inishowen. When I trotted out the usual Trinity bit, she replied in a very disapproving tone that she ‘...remembered the book but couldn’t say that she agreed with Mr Uris’ politics.’
‘OK’, I thought, ‘I know which side the bread is buttered here’. (Very, very Right).
Alex had told me that his father, Antony, was a university lecturer. Mrs Alcock proudly told me that this was true, but he was also one of the negotiators in the Good Friday Agreement!
The man is way up high in the UUP , a personal friend of David Trimble and has entertained the likes of John Hume in his dining room. And he is very, very staunchly Loyalist. Very. I have been dotting my ‘i’s and crossing my ‘t’s every time the subject of politics comes up. I dare not reveal any republican or socialist fleas I might have picked up over the years.
Antony is English, but moved here with Mary 25 years ago (which would have been at the height of the Troubles) to teach European history at the Coleraine Campus of the University of Ulster.
The mainstream British parties, such as Labour (these days, New Labour) and the Conservatives do not have branches here in Northern Ireland. The reason is quite simple; everything here is sectarian. Someone can be middle right, middle left or a raving red socialist, but they will be only be placed in one of two groups: Nationalist or Loyalist. The big parties in Great Britain don’t want to be stuck with such a label. It is all a bit of a mess however, as these parties tend to either have traditional alliances with the Northern Irish parties, or go so far as to recommend a party over here. Any traditional Labour supporter who rings up the Labour Party to ask how to vote in Northern Ireland will be directed to the SDLP . The Unionists, in particular the UUP, have always associated themselves with the Tories (whether the Tories like this or not).
Having no Tory party to join, Mr. Alcock became an active member in the Ulster Unionist Vanguard Party (a fringe, extremely Loyalist faction of the UUP). This party eventually ceased to exist, and merged fully with the UUP and a lot of its members went straight to the top of their new party (‘...anyone who is anyone in the UUP was with us in the Vanguard’).
He has worked with the UN, the OSCE and um ... other things. He has written a number of books, one of which I have been lent while I am here, Understanding Ulster. I have read a third, all of which has been a history of Ireland since pre-Celtic times. To say that he has put a Loyalist tilt on the history is somewhat of an understatement. It would be truer to say I have been enjoying a nice topical paradise over the last few weeks.
Of course, I didn’t mention this to him.
The coming chapters, which he has promised are the juiciest argues that ‘...since 1919 successive British governments have shown little commitment to the Union, deliberately pursuing a policy of Irish unification by consent.’
The house itself is so ... rich. And nice and oh so very upper middle class. Mary’s conversation is peppered with how she has been here and he, there. The place is full of old things and silver things and crystal things.
They are a very nice couple, but completely different to what I expected of Alex’s parents to be. His sister, Charlotte, is like him and talks like him so of course, I have picked up her accent like I always did his.
I have been put into the spare room with an absolutely wonderful bed (Victorian, of course). It is big and is the most comfortable bed I have ever been in. I have an en suite. Absolute luxury.
She had promised me on the phone from Malin Head that she would be happy to show me around the area, if I would like that. Absolutely. When I got here, she asked me how long I wanted to stay and I said three nights, as I wanted to explore Londonderry for one day (I didn’t dare say ‘Derry’).
We had a great meal (she is a great cook) and a relaxing evening of Trivial Pursuit, and Ally McBeal. I went to sleep at 1:30 after reading Understanding Ulster for two hours, in which I accomplished a big fifty pages. Either I was very tired, or there are lots of big words in the book.
Today is the day when self-government started here in the North. Also, the Irish Dail changed sections 2 and 3 of the Republic’s Constitution, so as to no longer claim the North as part of the Republic. It is a very historical day and I am glad to say that I was here for it. My personal opinion is that it will break down, but I hope it lasts for another week; I want to get out of Northern Ireland before the shooting starts again.
Mary told me that in South Armagh, there used to be signs reading ‘Beware, Snipers at Work’. Hmm.
After breakfast (cereal, toast and a croissant!) Mary and I drove to the Giant’s Causeway via the coastal towns and back roads. She is a great host and guide, driving slowly and pointing out sights and sounds that I otherwise might have missed. She told me bits and pieces about the area and pointed out towns. Donegal was a blue mass in the distance (on the rare occasion that it wasn’t covered by clouds). Scotland was the same, at one point only nine miles from the Irish Coast (it was from Scotland that the majority of the Protestant settlers came during the Plantation).
We drove through Portstewart (they live just outside it), Portrush and somewhere else. Portrush and the Giant’s Causeway (and most of the northeast of the province) is in Antrim, though Portstewart is in Co. (London)Derry. The area that we went through today (Western Armagh) today is the constituency of Ian Paisley (and is heavily Protestant).
Though in no way did she actually defend Paisley’s propaganda, she went so far as to say that he was a very good representative of his people, and even some Catholics voted for him. This may well be true, but it is a crying shame to think that people - on any side of the political divide - would be taken in by his messages of hate. I hold Paisley as one of the prime reasons the current round of Troubles (now thirty years old) started.
The Giant’s Causeway is an area of 40 000 pillars of basalt, the result of columnar jointing on a vast scale. The whole area around (called the Causeway Coast) is overlaid with basalt and, often showing at cliffs, a limestone base. My guess is that the basalt occurred when the continents of Europe and North America split, though surprisingly, the visitors centre didn’t mention when and how the basalt occurred; just that it did. They gave more emphasis to the traditional story behind its creation.
The traditional story is that Finn MacCool was a big friendly giant who lived in the area. He had an enemy in Scotland, so Finn, being a gracious host, built a causeway from here to Scotland on which his enemy could walk so the two could do battle. There is similar columnar jointing in Scotland to support this theory.
As his enemy approached, Finn realised that he was stuffed; the enemy was bigger, stronger and fiercer. Finn ran home and his wife dressed him up as a baby and put him in a crib. When the enemy saw Finn, he declared that he had no wish to see the father of such a child and ran back to Scotland, destroying the bulk of the Causeway as he went.
Finn MacCool did more than just build massive geological structures, though I have to admit I am not too sure of what he did. He was one of Conor’s heroes (in Trinity) and, more importantly, one of the two major political parties in the Republic, Fianna Fáil, is named after his band of warriors.
The weather was bitterly cold and the wind as strong as at Malin Head ... almost. The rain was intermittent. Mary, being truly British refused to take the 60p bus for the one kilometre road leading down to the Causeway from the Visitors’ Centre, so we set off on foot.
My jeans got very, very wet but the Kathmandu served (my body) very well. The hail stung my eyes, nose and cheeks but I lived. I couldn’t talk well because my mouth couldn’t open properly and it wouldn’t do what it was told. I hadn’t brought any gloves with me, so even though both hands were jammed into my jeans pocket, they hurt as much as they always do.
The Causeway itself was great to look at. The columns were magnificent, but I didn’t walk along the top of the Causeway, or the sea would have swept me in. It was pretty rough and apparently was covering half the rocks, even without the benefit of the waves, which came close to splashing us.
We went back to the centre and she bought me a coffee (I had paid £1 for the car park as she didn’t have the change, so I didn’t feel too guilty).
We drove along the coast, stopping for views at place to place, including Ballintoy, a tiny little harbour set into fairly steep cliffs. There is a church built in the 17th century that featured in the 1641 uprising. A local priest had sheltered some Protestant women and children from the general slaughter that was going on. He was killed for his efforts. It was an example of pieces of history that Mary would tell me, they only ever include the IRA or Nationalist murders. It was quite amusing.
Dunluce Castle was an amazing ruin built right on the cliffs a bit further on. The ruins seemed to be in really good condition and include two 13th Century towers and a secret escape tunnel that goes down to sea level and is accessible by boat. Although we didn’t get out of the car to explore the castle - it is quite difficult to access it - I get the impression that its condition is not as good as Montfort, the crusader castle near the kibbutz that I explored with my sister about nine months ago.
I didn’t take a single photo all day - I hadn’t brought my camera with me!
We stopped for lunch in a posh hotel in Ballycastle (The Marine Hotel) and she paid for a meal and a Guinness! I think it would have cost around £7 for what I ate and drank.
Ballycastle seems to be famous. Every one has heard of Ballycastle. The name rang a bell with me for years, and every one else I have mentioned it to. But why? It shouldn't be particularly famous. It is a favourite summer holiday destination for the people of Belfast and - before the Troubles - the people of Great Britain and the Republic. The only historical fact I know about Ballycastle is that the first official wireless communication took place from here, to Rathlin Island, a few miles off shore.
From Ballycastle we drove back to Bushmills and went on a guided tour of the ‘Old Bushmills’ Distillery. She paid for it (£3.50 each). It was very interesting and there was a tasting session at the end. I tasted a single malt with some trepidation (I don’t like Scotch) but was pleasantly surprised by how nice it was.
Of course, as I learnt on the tour, Scotch is not Irish Whiskey, and it seems a lot of people would be insulted if I called it such. There is even a distinction in the names! Scotch Whisky is spelt without an ‘e’. Apparently whiskey means ‘water of life’. The Bushmills mob have, since 1608, been taking water from a local river for their whiskey. When we walked out of the distillery, towards the carpark, we passed over a footbridge, spanning an awful looking creek swirling with muddy water. The ‘water of life’ indeed!
The village of Bushmills is staunchly Loyalist (‘of course it is, Brendon, it is east of the Bann’). There are flags up around the place, not only the Union Jack, but also the banner of the UDA . Some of the street curbs are painted red, white and blue. It was amazing to see something like that; I thought that the Troubles were over.
From Bushmills we came back to Portstewart. I had a fantastic day. I saw a lot of the country and coast, I heard a lot of history and saw some great attractions. I really am very grateful to Mary and her family. Over dinner I had a very good conversation with Antony about Northern Ireland and the current quest for peace.
After dinner, armed with two books about Ireland, lent to me by Mary, I wrote out three and a half pages of notes about the towns I will go through.
I have been told not to worry about past security issues in the south of Armagh, and since it is 20 km shorter to go that way, I almost decided to. However I noticed there seems to be less hills with the Monaghan route and besides, the Republic is cheaper and the less time I spend up here, the better.
My route will be Coleraine - Garvagh - Cookstown - Dungannon - Armagh - Monaghan - Carrickmacross - Slane (and Newgrange) and then on to Dublin.
I have realised it will be too cold to camp and have decided to simply knock on doors, offer to do work and if (when) they say no, to ask for a place to sleep for the evening. I figure I will find some friendly enough people each day (God willing!).
Tomorrow I am catching the 8:25 train to Derry.
Yesterday I spent £7.55 and today £1.
posted by Bren Carlill @ 6:49 AM
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