| BELFAST - PORTADOWN NORTHERN IRELAND 1998
Richie and Loretta had been frequent visitors to Ireland. They had lived and worked there for a period previously and Richie had relatives in the North as his father had been a first generation emigrant. Their marriage was quite a ironic counterbalance to the continuing “troubles” as the Irish of the north called their periodic descents into sectarian violence. Their union of Protestant and Catholic families being of limited consequence back in Oz where greater concern might have been placed on the prospects of any children being brought up Collingwood supporters rather than any particular flavour of Christianity.
The volcano that is Northern Ireland had been rumbling of late. The Good Friday peace accord may have seemingly diffused many of the core grievances relating to representation however there were still plenty of pissed off people on both sides spoiling for an excuse to spark it all back up again. The timing of our arrival was purely coincidental having been organised to coincide with my mid year university break rather than any desire to seek a front row seat at an event that was leading news reports on television around the globe. The headline “Stand Off at Drumcree” screamed from news stands. Where was that again? That’s right a mile or so down the road from where we were headed. Our internal squabbling appeared set to be overshadowed by a greater conflict.
For the trip from Stranraer we found ourselves once again on the Stenna line. This ferry was a tad older than the one which had borne us from Holland a few days earlier. There were plenty of empty seats and to the accompaniment of a crappy R&B band we sank pints for the duration.
Richie and Loretta were in Northern Ireland at this particular time for a significant family event. Richie’s Grandfather had played his was through the nervous nineties and on the 4th of July had flicked a single down to fine leg to bring up his ton. The birthday had been due cause for the Robinson clan to assemble en mass from the far points of the globe where they had been dispersed by time and circumstance, in true Irish vagabond fashion. The whole family were no doubt still nursing hangovers so we undertook to spend a night in a Belfast hotel from where Richie could pick us up the next day. Of course as had been our modus operandi for the journey thus far we had failed to book any accommodation.
The cab driver at the Belfast ferry terminal was the first to raise a quizzical eyebrow at the timing of our visit. He would not be the last. Upon hearing our accents everyone assumed that we were press journalists as surely no one else in their right mind would choose to roll up here in the middle of marching season. Our request for him to take us to a cheap and nice hotel seemed to stump him. At first I thought the reason for his delay in deciding upon an appropriate lodging was that in Northern Ireland the terms “cheap” and “nice” were mutually exclusive. The truth was that with the strict sectarian demarcations of Belfast he was trying to think of the area where we would be safest. Up until this moment we had laughed everything off as being a TV news beat up, now we started to worry for real. He eventually decided upon a hotel and as he dropped us off warned anew … “ Don’t go wandering more than a block from the hotel. I mean it.”
As the black cab disappeared into the distance I looked up at the street sign above us. We were in Cromwell Road. Even with my limited knowledge of Irish history I could appreciate the potential inflammatory nature of that name. We were low on cash so after checking into the hotel we went looking for a teller machine. We found one next to a pub and ended up having a nervous pint inside with our imaginations causing us to half expect an explosion at any time. We were not sure whether the cabbie was serious or merely winding us up but we quickly downed our drinks and headed back to the hotel.
Richie arrived late and apologised. It seems they had a little trouble locating our street in their Bel-way or whatever the Belfast street directory was called, and when they did they couldn’t believe the location.
“Do you realise how close you are to the Shankill Road?”
Apparently we were only a couple of blocks from the major religious fault line in Belfast. The Shankill Road being notorious for things and people going bump in the night, day or any old time. It seems that our nervousness of the previous night (Well my nervousness really as I am sure that L may have secretly being thinking of ways to position me as a human shield to take the force of any blast :-) ), had been partially justified. But surely that could not happen in this new, enlightened Ireland of the North?
We hugged our hellos and loaded ourselves into the back of Richie’s car all smiles and happiness. We had barely left the block when I blurted out the big news of our split. L looked at me with daggers. I regretted it instantly as it suddenly turned the mood. I guess I was looking for some vengeance for the shit I had been put through for the previous three weeks. Take that bitch! Be a pariah for a while and see how you feel. In the end it made both of us feel bad and Rich and Loretta feel incredibly awkward. For the next few days I tried to make light of it but it the elephant in the room had returned.
As we drove out of Belfast we did indeed skirt the top of the Shankill Road. The thing that struck me was how deserted it was for the time of day and the numerous vacant lots with piles of wooden forklift palettes and rubber tyres.
“They’ll set fire to them tonight”, Rich said matter-of-factly.
We continued south to Portadown. I knew enough about Irish history to know that this particular town was another historical flash point for “The Troubles”. Portadown was home to the Drumcree Church, a Protestant chapel that had for generations been the starting point for a colourful parade of Orangeness, the unifying colour of the loyalists, who liked to march up and down selected streets waving their flags and with red white and blue ribbons pinned to proudly puffed out chests. This would have all been well and good except for the fact of changing urban demographics. The traditionally chosen route for this celebratory (or inflammatory depending upon your viewpoint) parade was the Carvaghie Road that in the space of a generation had become a majority Catholic neighbourhood.
Loretta had to get something or other in town so we parked and made our way inside a local pub. On the way Richie pointed out a few buildings where if you looked really hard you could see the odd bit of blast damage that couldn’t be effectively painted over and prettied up. I many ways we were at ground zero of “The Troubles”. We entered the pub which was decked out in the clichéd Irish way that is familiar to anyone who has frequented an Irish themed bar anywhere. Black wooded features and fittings around a long bar surrounded by little ante rooms known as snugs. The barman looked at us suspiciously until we opened our mouths and revealed our accents. He smiled.
“What the fook are you doing here? Are you journalists?”
We shook our heads and laughed taking our pints of Guinness back to one of the snugs. Each of the small rooms had a swing door that could be closed for privacy and it did not take much to imagine what plots might have been discussed within the cramped confines of the smokey vestibule. Richie again tried to put us at ease.
“It’s all a media beat up.”
As a punctuation mark a Blackhawk helicopter screamed over head towards Drumcree.
The countryside of County Armagh is like a picture postcard. Laneways meander in between hedgerows that separate the fields into subtle shades of green. Every hundred metres or so was a house or store of some kind which sort of blurred the distinction between country and village. The Robinson Farm sat on a T intersection across the road from a neighbour and a short 50 metre walk (or stagger) to the local pub. The house was still a hive of activity and after introductions and handshakes we toasted Richies granddads health into the evening until he retired for a snooze and we ducked away to the local for a “few quiet ones.”
It was quite incredible to meet someone who had been on the planet for a century. Old enough to remember an Ireland before it was partitioned into North and South. Old enough to recall happier times when the summer marching season brought people out of their houses to clap the colourful processions as they passed regardless of their flavour of Christianity. We sat in the nearly deserted hotel chatting to the owner whom Richie had become mates with from previous spells in the Emerald Isle. He talked freely and openly and told some hair raising stories of The Troubles. Of road blocks and night time visitations by ghosts in balaclavas. Mind what you say and who you say it too was his subtext. Just because it is all ridiculous and stupid does not make it any less dangerous. Pig headed faith can hide a lot of evil.
The television set on the wall flashed to a news flash and a plump face, flushed with anger filled the screen. Draped in bright orange sashes with badges and pins like a prize bull at the show he was punctuating his statements with menacing finger pointing and seemingly enough spittle to drown any unsuspecting boom mike operators silly enough to get too close. He was a local big wig in the Orangemen who I remembered having also seen on the front page of the newspaper that morning at breakfast. Richie nodded at the screen and grinned, cocking an eyebrow at the same time.
“Check out my cousin on the tellie.”
We were not quite sure whether Richie was taking the piss until a short time later when the pub suddenly filled with an orange sea of Loyalists. A few minutes later who should walk through the door but the man himself still decked out like he had been on screen earlier in the day. We telepathically agreed to avoid politics and religion for the rest of the evening as a conversation topic.
The barman called last drinks and the crowd began to thin. We made to move and the he winked at us. Richie grabbed my arm and said “What’s the rush?” The “lock in” is a bit of an Irish tradition where the shutters come down, the lights dim and all non locals are ushered to the door. Then with only the regulars remaining the lights go back up and the beer flows anew. We had been granted honorary local status and felt chuffed by the privilege.
L wanted to call it a night so I said I would walk her back to the farm. The barman said he’d let me back in if I did a special secret knock on the door. He went through an elaborate demonstration before he shut the door behind us. The time was nearly eleven o’clock and yet the sun had just set its glow still visible on the horizon, it would return soon enough to illuminate our walk home later. On my return to the pub after my escort duties were completed I rapped the “secret knock” and the barman had some fun asking for passwords and variations in knock cadence before letting me back in. Already bloated by a long session on the Guinness we finished off the evening sampling some Tulamore Dew, a particularly fine Irish whiskey. For as the locals put it, “There is always room for a wee small one.”
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