A Brief visit to Belfast

After a short stay in Dublin, we took a tram to Connolly station to get the 2-hour train to Belfast. For some reason Google maps took us on a wild goose chase to get to the Smithfield tram stop. After days of tracking around Dublin and carrying 17 kilograms on our backs like pack mules, we really didn’t need the extra steps. We boarded the train and shared the ride with a rabble of American boomers and private school kids on an excursion. Thankfully they've invented noise-cancelling headphones.

We traipsed through Belfast to get to our accommodation, about a 1.5 kilometre walk. We checked into our hotel that overlooked Buoy Park. We both looked at the bed then looked at each other. How the hell are we going to fit in this bed! If we were the size of leprechauns it would be fine, but both being 6 feet + in the old imperial system, it was going to be a squeeze. We checked and we had reserved a queen bed. When we asked reception, they tried to convince us that this was a UK queen bed. I’d call it a king single at best, and hate to think how small a double bed would be. The other thing we’ve noticed in all of our accommodations is that British and Irish don’t believe in bed sheets. There's a bottom sheet and a doona but nothing else. Maybe it’s cost saving because no-one offers daily cleaning or anything, supposedly to save the environment – more like a way to save more money to pay the CEO wages. Damn capitalism!

Yet another episode of Jason’s Lost World started filming before we could thaw out from the cold. Jason was convinced his wallet had been stolen. Clothes were being thrown around the room like he was a stripper performing at a nightclub. Eventually he found his wallet buried deep in the abyss of his bag.

We had little time to waste so we set out to explore the city centre of Belfast. It wasn't long before we spotted some Derry girls, girls with fake tans and lashes that they'd stolen from dressage horses. The sellers of fake eye lashes and tanning salons must do a roaring trade in Belfast. As we stood in line at the supermarket, we spotted a woman with a-week-old-fake tan that looked like a patchwork quilt of oompa loompa and pasty white skin.

We also noticed that the uniform for men was not as strict as in Belfast compared to Dublin; not all men wore trackie dacks, but those that did still didn’t wear underwear. Maybe they spent too much on the tracksuit. There didn't seem to be as many people affected by drugs either. But maybe it was just the area we were staying in.

The following day, we took off on our march across Belfast as we traversed from the city centre through to the West and North then back home. Our first stop was the Solidarity wall, political murals about the civil conflict in Northern Ireland. Our next stop was one of the many supposed peace walls that still segregate Protestants and Catholics. The government was supposed to remove them all by 2023, but very few have been taken down.

As we entered West Belfast, there was a different atmosphere. It had a much more British feel with King Charles III coronation decorations still hanging from houses. The Troubles, a thirty-year conflict involving republican and loyalist paramilitaries and state forces, still seemed current rather than a thing of the past. And all this conflict in the name of religion; it seems crazy to this atheist how two very similar denominations of the same religion could create such hate, which seemingly goes against their religious tenets. Signs in the street claimed that as long as a single person in the area remained there would not be a united Ireland. They even seemed to avoid the term Irish and seemed to consider themselves British. Even the stew wasn't called Irish Stew but just a stew. Irish Gaelic was nowhere near as prevalent in Belfast compared to Dublin.

Moving along, we headed to the infamous Crumlin Road goal, the last Victorian era goal built between 1843 and 1845 at a cost of £60,000. The goal was originally built to house about 500 prisoners, but by the early 70s, during the period of the Trouble, there were nearly three times this amount when the International Red Cross inspected the premises. The cramped conditions meant that there were three people to each cell rather than one as originally intended. Many sad stories haunt the goal, including the suicide of a thirteen year old boy.

On our way home from the goal on day release, we overheard a group of Aussies (with their Northern Irish partners) commenting on the dog shit in the streets. But Belfast had nothing on the dog shit cess pool of Dublin. Maybe it's time to move on to greener pastures with less dog shit.

Next stop: Glasgow.Read more