Belfast

The road from Dublin to Belfast, runs fast and smooth, (EU funding) but on the comfortable bus asleep I missed as we slipped from Eire to Northern Ireland, however, the slight change in house styles, the signs to Newry, the English flag flying, the lack of dual language information,   made it clear I had crossed the border and arriving in Belfast I could have just turned up in some northern  English city.  Whilst Ireland felt like a different place, Belfast felt like parts of England, despite the odd IRA sign or signs that would be considered extremist nationalist.    Having only ever seen what looked like rather ugly streets  on TV during the troubles;  the bucolic countryside, with its  happy cows munching on masses of wild flowers, that comes right up to the edge of town, and the sun immediately shifted perceptions, but as I stepped down from the bus, thoughts emerged.   What is this place with its fragile peace, its strong and stern relationship with a parliament in London, with an English population like me only aware of media stereotypes and what is its relationship to the country down south.  All my Irish friends from north and south are lovely, regardless of the different cultures and histories of the two places and they share much culturally.  Down south there are numerous reminders to English visitors that Britain and Ireland share a brutal history of oppression, from which Ireland has emerged despite the terrible Colonial treatment the British handed out, but in Northern Ireland where large numbers of people have dual citizenship but equally large numbers of people are committed to staying in the UK, how was I to make sense of this place.

Being taken around the town, which reminded me a bit of Manchester with its red brick back to backs, I was shown the most bombed hotel in Europe,  the hen parties out on the razzle, the modern buildings that have replaced other bombed out, and examples of Victoriana and a memorial to the Titanic.  On first sight, it didn't strike me as a place I would want to call home.   Yet, it also felt like home. The pub we went to with a cage outside where people would have been searched was jolly and lively and colourful inside and served great cider, definitely a plus and culturally a bit different to what I am used to, but the meal at Pizza Express well I could have been anywhere.  But by the end of Sunday having taken in more of the culture of the town at the excellent Ulster museum and seen how lovely some of north Belfast is, only a few minutes walk away, I could see that there was more to the place than I had appreciated on first sight and this was confirmed on my last day by the visit to the sea side and a fabuous over the top in English style pub where I had the best soup ever.    Belfast is just over an hour away from Stansted..  It almost took longer to get from the airplane to the airport as no one came to provide steps, it took longer to get from Stansted home as on the mainland the trains were their usual chaos, and in some ways going to Belfast is a little like visiting Nottingham on a Saturday night, but in terms of history, potential, threat, challenge it is a fascinating place to visit and one I hope to return to soon.