Friday afternoon was a gorgeous, sunny time in Ballyvaughan. I walked home early to shower and prepare for the five plus hour journey to Belfast. It was bittersweet departing the Burren, as the sunshine did not follow us northward. I collected and handed out daisies to everyone on the bus.
We stopped once at a petrol station to load up on crisps and other necessities, then pressed on past Dublin to a rest stop where we indulged in Costa sandwiches and coffees. Another hour and change and we were officially in the North. All the signage changed. Speed limits were in miles per hour. The roads improved (a byproduct of N. Ireland experiencing the industrial revolution in a way the Republic did not). A heavy mist blew in and 80s night on the radio turned to static as we left the broadcast zone.
Before long things turned urban, and suddenly there was our hostel. Brian took us on a quick loop past city hall to get our bearings, and then it was back to check in. All of the girls were in one large dormitory. There was more than adequate space, and even a table with well-placed outlets nearby. The heating did not work, period. There was a draft coming in through both of the windows, which looked out on Donegall Road. The bathroom had three toilet stalls and three showers and three sinks and no soap. It was also very cold in there. Before we set off on our own for the duration of the stay, Brian informed us that our hostel was located in a loyalist area called Sandy Row. Once we were settled into our room (about 10 pm), I had a looked outside to confirm this and noted that indeed every streetlight, window, and prominence was practically wreathed in union colors.
The evening was already waning, so we departed the hostel in several groups, in search of pubs or chinese takeaway or just whatever. We ended up wandering until we found a Barclay's ATM and gleefully I made a fee-free withdrawal. Northern Irish sterling is printed differently than GBP, and is apparently no good for use elsewhere. Luckily the only remaining bits of change I have bear H.R.H's face, so any sojourn to the greater UK will not result in my being arrested as some sort of Belfast-based ex-pat dissident trying to pay for my Twiglets with foreign-but-not-really currency.
After the ATM run we wandered back and noshed a bit of Chinese takeaway. We were tired and had a full day planned, so it was off to bed.
Saturday morning breakfast at the hostel. Cereal, croissant, yogurt, tea. No going off-menu if you were a guest in the hostel, it was totally socialist. If I wanted eggs, I was going to have to pay for them. The croissants were very good though, freshly baked. No complaints.
At half nine we congregated outside for our black taxi tours of the city.
City hall.
Batman and friend.
Europa, the most bombed hotel in Europe. Called "Europe's most enduring hotel" in the guidebook.
Lebowski-themed art along Great Victoria street.
Some graffiti that reminded me of Banksy.
St. George's cross, right across from our hostel.
Union jacks all along Donegall Road.
Odd man-shaped thing hanging from a pole on our road.
Stevie McKeag mural.
Freedom 2000 mural.
Part of the peace wall.
The peace wall (Protestant side).
After the peace wall we passed through a gate and into the Catholic side of West Belfast.
Memorial garden on Cupar Way (Catholic side).
Plaque in the Cupar Way memorial garden.
Murals along the Falls road.
That evening, four of us sought out a spot for dinner on Saturday night. We walked a couple blocks and found the place unappealing, so on we went. After nearly 30 minutes without success, we decided to return to the first place, called The Bridge House. Perfectly decent fish and chips plus literally any alcoholic drink on the menu for an extra £1.50. One thing we learned from our time in Ulster is the booze is cheap. After dinner we just headed back. Our second night on the hostel was spent bundled under two duvets in the frigid room. I made a bad joke about blanket protests and we watched The Little Mermaid.
We left early the next morning and headed up to Antrim. There were bits of snow here and there, and the landscape was overall different, somehow more English than Irish. We passed through Bushmills (according to Conor, the most in-bred town in Europe, as of the 1980s), glimpsed the distillery, trundled on to the northern coast. We got our tickets and headed off on the trails along the Giant's Causeway. The most difficult paths were cordoned off due to weather conditions (tear-inducing winds and bitter cold), but I took the hardest one available to get the blood pumping and warm myself up. I will let the photographs speak for themselves.
Volcanic formations.
The coastline of the Giant's Causeway.
We all grabbed lunch and souvenirs in the gift shop before boarding the bus once more and heading southwest to Derry/Londonderry. The name of the city varies depending on who you ask. We stopped for about 40 minutes just to catch our breath and grab a snack. It snowed for two minutes and then suddenly there was blazing sunlight. No surprises there.
Snow-capped mountains. In Ireland?
Courtesy of Jill.
Boosh graffiti in Derry.
The route took us through Donegal and Sligo, past snow-capped mountains and W.B. Yeats' grave in Drumcliff.
The view of Benbulbin from Yeats' graveside.
And so, after the lion's share of Ulster culture and a chance to see the northwest with a glorious sunset backdrop, we dozed into the night as Brian drove us home to Ballyvaughan.
