Tag Archives: Northern Ireland

Day 134: Omagh

13 Monday Jan 2014

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A Cycle n the Celtic Fringe … Part 36

I never intended to go to Omagh. I thought the resonance of the place would be too strong for me. That I wouldn’t be able to do justice to the complexities of the historical and political situation that has become known as “The Troubles”. I thought a sensitive soul like me might find it all a bit too much to take. I don’t think horrible events should be part of the tourist trail. As a teacher I’m in favour of trips to the trenches of Northern France but, like the character Hector in Alan Bennett’s The History Boys, I am very uncomfortable with school trips to Auschwitz. I certainly don’t think we should find a visit to a scene of death something to do as a day out.

SDLP leader John Hume may have called the perpetrators of the bomb that made the name of Omagh resonate throughout the world, “undiluted fascists”, and what happened at Omagh was brutal, bloody and unforgivable. It shocked the world. It shocked the hardened citizens of Northern Ireland. If it was intended to disrupt the peace process that had reached a climax earlier that year with The Good Friday Agreement, then it failed completely. It had the opposite effect.

When the bomb exploded on Lower Market Street at ten past three on the 15th of August 1998 it killed 21 people outright. 8 more were to die either on the way to hospital or when they got there. The bombers had issued warnings but these had served to move people towards the explosion rather than away from it. For years it has been disputed whether this was the bombers’ intention.

For a conflict that had been continued along sectarian lines, the bomb was indiscriminate in its victims. Catholics, Protestants, A Mormon, teenagers, a woman pregnant with twins, children were all taken by the blast.

The carnage was so great that the Real IRA apologised for what they had done.

BBC correspondent Denis Murray said: “Most people in Northern Ireland and around the world will be saying you can’t just apologise for what happened on Saturday.”

“All of them were suffering together. I think all them were asking the question ‘Why?’, because so many of them had great expectations, great hopes for the future.” Martin Mc Guinness

“From the Church’s point of view, all I am concerned about are not political arguments, not political niceties. I am concerned about the torment of ordinary people who don’t deserve this.” Archbishop Robin Eames

An “appalling act of savagery and evil.” Tony Blair

“The injuries are horrific, from amputees, to severe head injuries to serious burns, and among them are women and children.” Paul McCormick: Northern Ireland Ambulance Service.

I’d arrived in Newtownstewart about nine in the morning hoping to find a bicycle shop. Bicycle shops used to be in every small town but have been disappearing almost as fast as Family Butchers’ and grocer’s shops. The reasons are the same. The big boys have muscled in. Tesco and Sainsbury’s have seen off the little food retailer and Halfords has almost single handedly seen off the small, skilled bicycle shop.

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Newtownstewart has lost its spokes man. Some lovely ladies in the post office said they thought there might be a little shop in Omagh, but there was definitely a Halfords. The only other choice was to head  north to Londonderry. There was a chance I could nurse my back wheel the 10 miles to Omagh. There was no way it would reach the Northern Coast.

Freewheeling downhill was possible once I’d removed the back brake blocks. I cannot pedal at all. The action drags the buckled wheel against the frame. The ten miles is covered by pushing and gliding. The good news is that there may be a choice of places to get me fixed and there is a quiet, back lane, alternative to the busy A road between the towns. On any other day I would have found the ride a real treat. The quaint inaccuracies of the road signs would have made me smile. The first says Omagh ten miles. After two miles the second says Newtownstewart 2 miles (so far so good) Omagh 10 miles. Those phantom two miles took half an hour. It took a good part of the morning to reach a town I’d been trying to avoid.

And it was lovely. The most delightful, charming, warm and friendly town I had encountered on my whole journey through three countries. The people went out of their way to help a badly dressed cyclist with an overladen wobbly bicycle.. they told me that the independent cycle shop had closed down some time ago but that Halfords was really just around the corner. Give or take a big, multi laned road, and they were right.

The young men at Halfords were friendliness itself. They didn’t have the right wheel but could make adjustments to one they did have in stock and get it fitted and service up the bicycle and have me back on the road if I’d come back at three o’clock. I was thrilled to pieces. No price was mentioned. I hoped it wouldn’t cost too much. At one stage that morning I had seriously considered throwing the bicycle into the ditch and catching a bus to the nearest railway station and abandoning the whole journey. I was far too fond of the old bicycle to come home without it. Now it was being looked after by three jolly lads who couldn’t do enough for me. The gears had been concerning me enough to leave the North Antrim coast and cut through the mountains. As well as a new back wheel I was in for a new chain and some expert care to the cogs.

I’m leaving this post as it is for now. I don’t feel I can do justice to the weight of the town. The bare bone history of the bomb set against a little impression of a town at peace with itself. A town of good people going about their business in a friendly and courteous manner. And that is what made it so very sad as well as so happy. It had been such another August day with good people doing what good people do when darkness came. But good people ensured that what made it a special place survived.

Omagh lit a beacon of truth and hope that seemed finally to bring enough people to their senses. The beacon burns strongly today. The bomb stands for ill conceived plotting based on principles of hatred. Omagh stands for the opposite of this. Evil succeeds when good people do nothing. The good people of Omagh did something. They rallied and showed the world how to cope, how to solace, how to care and how to heal. The outside world looked on and learned. I don’t know if I could have made this journey fifteen years ago. I don’t know if I could have made the journey without the success of the peace process. I don’t know if the peace process would have succeeded without this final atrocity.

What I do know is the Omagh that has survived the bomb has grown back every bit as welcoming and friendly and well-proportioned and nicely laid out, as it was before, and a good deal stronger in love and spirit. I fell a little bit in love with the place. I ate fried chicken and chips and had a  mug of coffee. I sat for a long time at the top of the Street and looked down through the town.

The town was simply the model of what you want a small town to be. Some good shops, a decent café or two and a large number of the best people you’ll find in these islands. The real horror of the bomb was that it took place somewhere that was already a model of what hundreds of thousands of British and Irish had fought for earlier in the twentieth century; decency.

Day 127: Larne

06 Monday Jan 2014

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A Cycle on the Celtic Fringe … Part 32

 

(Note to self: Add in Amanda Ros: wiki isn’t bad but Robertson Davies (p221-225) is wonderful on her (unintentional)  contribution to humour.)

After worrying about being left  out on the street, the night in a comfortable room is a treat. I close my eyes around ten o’clock and open them again on the stroke of six. Apart from my bicycle, my two happiest travelling companions are my mug and The Old Wives’ Tale. The bicycle has been all over with me. It’s toured to the north of Scotland and around most of England. It’s been a multi thousand mile commuter, it’s been around most of Northern France. Altogether it has clocked up over 25,000 miles. It creaks and groans and shows its age but it has never seriously let me down and it has allowed me to see a bucketful of things I wouldn’t otherwise have seen. The mug holds a happy three quarters of a pint, has some poor slogan to the effect that , like old wine I get better and better. I have no liking for wine but I like the fact that the mug was made by Spode. I lived and worked in Stoke on Trent for a short time in the 1970s and had friends in quite a few of the pot banks. I always liked the colour of Spode ware and though this is earthenware rather than bone china, it is still a lovely blue and white.

The book took me a long time to penetrate but the two heroines have been good travelling companions. I’ve taken every opportunity to read a chapter, reading about their exploits in cafes and lay-bys, outside churches and while leaning on a bridge o’er a brook. That was me. They spent their time in Stoke and Paris.

Between six and eight I write my letter home and have the idea that staying another day here is not the stupidest I’ve ever had. The room is big and the bed is cosy. There’s a real town on my doorstep to explore. I can catch up with sleep and writing and I’ve only 150 pages of Arnold Bennett to go and I’m keen to find out what is going to happen. It took me along time to get to like Constance. I’ve been secretly in love with Sophia for days now. I love her despite her many faults. maybe, like the character Millament from the Way of the World, I love her because of her faults.

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Breakfast is my first real Ulster Fry, and the hotel does justice to the reputation of the dish. It’s basically another (yes another) full fried breakfast but with the addition of black pudding and a soda farl. I recognise a good number of my fellow passengers from the ferry. I continue to see them over the next 24 hours. The breakfast table is the only time I ever saw them without a pint in their hand and a good story to tell. They fed and drank like gannets yet never appeared drunk or less than friendly and courteous. Like me, they have all booked in for an extra night. They catch the ferry the following morning after huge leave takings. They had travelled miles and miles to the bar nearest the ferry port and spent 36 hours knocking it back.

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I book an extra night at reception and go off to walk around Larne. I see my first Orange Hall and walk along main streets bedecked in red white and blue. Where the British flag doesn’t fly, the flag of Glasgow Rangers Football Club flaps proudly in the breeze. Larne has long and strong links with the Scottish mainland and events in the town in 1918, which became known as the Larne Gun Running helped to create the right to Ulster Unionist Self Determination. This in turn was significant in the eventual division of the island and the establishment of Northern Ireland as a country.

In the post office I try to buy two maps; one of the North and one of the Republic. I hand them over and the woman seems reluctant to serve me. She’s studying the maps very closely indeed and I’m fearful that I have accidentally upset some etiquette. In fact, she has decided that I don’t need both of the maps and is only allowing me to buy the one that covers the whole island. I feel nicely looked after.

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I have two sources of knowledge of Northern Ireland. The first is being brought up with constant BBC news stories of the troubles where everything spells danger and discord. The second is knowing a stream of people from the province and finding them the polar opposite. One of the gentlest and wisest men I know comes from Omagh, the best guitar player I’ve ever played with came from the County Down, the funniest man I met  when working in Yorkshire came from Coleraine and the kindest woman in Manchester was from Port Stewart. My first day on Ulster soil bears out the story told by the people I know, rather than the stories told by news reporters.

There’s an Asda and a cinema across the road from the hotel. I get in some simple supplies and plan on seeing The Guard in the afternoon.

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Back in my room I wash out socks and pants and shirts. I think it’ll take me minutes but it takes over an hour to wash and rinse and wring and hang. I give thanks for living in the era of the washing machine. It wears me out and I sleep contentedly through the afternoon and into the early evening. I may have missed the film but I see it later with T in England… it is a very good film to see with someone else. Brendan Gleeson is a comic genius as well as being a brilliant actor.

Larne was where emigration to America began in earnest. There is a statue marking the first sailing. Boston was founded by people who sailed from Larne and owes much of its Irishness to this small town at the head of a loch.

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As I fall asleep on my second night there I wonder if I wouldn’t be better spending yet another day here and resting up fully before venturing inland. I’m very taken with the place. Cycling is addictive; so is not cycling.

Day 124: Have You Ever Been Across the Sea to Ireland?

03 Friday Jan 2014

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A Cycle on the Celtic fringe … Part 31

I cycle into Ferry Ports often enough to know that there is nothing to worry about in taking a bicycle across the sea, but not often enough to stop me worrying. I’ve actually got a host of emotions. The first is simple relief that I’m there, the second is also relief, but this time because I don’t have to contend with any more lorries for a while. The third feeling is one of immense regret that I’m leaving Scotland behind. I’m soaked and seeped in Scottish culture and beauty and friendliness, and I haven’t seen a single kilt or heard the swirl of a single bagpipe. The fourth feeling is a bagful of worries;  will there be a place on the sailing? Will it arrive in daylight? Will there be anywhere to stay in Larne? Will I go to the right place to get on the boat? Will I be able to afford it?

Cairnryan is a small town on the eastern shore of Loch Ryan. It’s had a significant role to play in British maritime history and played a key role in the second world war. Much of the current port owes its structure and existence to military operations from that time, and though the three piers of the forties have been reduced to one redundant and fenced off pier, the terminal is largely as it was. Mulberry harbours for the D Day landings were built here and the German U boat fleet was brought into the loch before being towed out and scuttled at sea. Much of the surplus ammunition from the war was also taken from the port for sea burial. The ecological case for this means of disposal is now seen to be much weaker. Those who scoff at health and safety issues may wish to contemplate the many who died in disposing of the ordnance. An entire pier was destroyed in one unintended explosion.

Today it is a simple and efficient port. It’s the quickest of the sea routes to Ireland and is popular with lorries and cars alike. There are even enough of us foot passengers to almost fill the minibus that drove us right onto the ferry. The ticket man sold me a ticket for £30 and told me to wait for the bus. The security man asked me to wait on the side. A second security man then waved me through and the bus driver helped me to strap the bicycle to the rack provided for bicycles and the next thing I know, the ferry is making good headway up the loch towards the open sea.

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I always look forward to travelling on ferries but rarely find the journey enjoyable. Those who travel regularly have lost the joy and magic of a sea crossing between two countries and spread themselves and their boots across five seats of the lounge. The bar is crowded with coach travellers knocking back industrial quantities of beer and cider. Women gather round the tables while men stand in clusters, and usually in the way, and hold forth in that way men do in bars. Not a great deal of listening going on but an awful lot of posing and joining in with the bursts of over-loud laughter and jokes that don’t deserve it. There are also easy pickings for anyone entering a spot the Van Morrison lookalike competition.

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Neglected and out of place children get up to things you might expect neglected and out of place children to get up to and then get loudly rebuked by careless and increasingly drunken parents.

I go out on deck to watch Scotland fade and Ireland take it’s place. The views are stunning. The decks have their share of pint holding pontificators and a whole band of smokers. There is almost as much cigarette smoke trailing the ship as engine smoke. I cannot quite get my bearings but know that various lumps may by Ailsa Craig, the Mull of Galloway, the distant Isle of Arran and various parts of the Antrim coast. At one point I notice a pod of marine mammals but am not expert enough to know if they were porpoise, dolphin or whales. I do know it was quite a thing to see.

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Within two hours we are all being called to our vehicles. A big power station marks the start of Larne Lough and the sun is beginning to head westwards as the ferry docks. Getting off the boat is as easy as getting off a bus. I’m on the island of Ireland again, tired, hungry and wanting somewhere to spend the night. I make the mistake of satisfying the hunger first.

There was nothing wrong with the fish and chips I bought in the town. I was as sober as three of the other people in the queue. The fourth had been to a funeral and was more drunk than you’d expect a mourner to be. He was drunker than he had any right to be. It transpired that he barely knew the deceased but had been locked out of the house by his wife. I ate up the supper by my bicycle feeling increasingly out of place as the Friday night crowd began to take over the streets. I headed in a vaguely northerly direction.

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The woman at the B&B was very helpful. She was full, “But, if you’ll take a seat, I’ll see if I can find you somewhere.”

I was glad of the assistance. I’d already wasted most of the remaining daylight finding this guest house. I sat for a while and studied a very colourful map of Canada. I could hear her in the background. “Oh, hello Julie. We’re full tonight. I was wondering if you are full as well… oh, you are. That’s fine. No. Yes. We’re full tonight and we’re full tomorrow night, and Sunday night as well. No. Don’t worry. I’m pleased you’re full as well… Young fella… he’s on a bicycle … well I would but I’ve had some very bad reports from there. Oh, I have. Really quite shocking. I wouldn’t like to send anyone there… and it’s up such a big hill and himself on a bicycle.”

I’m really grateful for the effort she is making on my behalf though I couldn’t help thinking she was using it as an opportunity to let people know her little hotel was doing very nicely and there are others who are no better than they should be. My concern is that she is taking an awful long time over it and night is falling outside. She makes five calls and the loud clock in the residents lounge ticks. She has one last suggestion. It’s a B&B by the harbour called The Manor. She can’t get through on the phone “She’s not after answering. She’ll be having a gas so she will”.

I’m relieved to be riding again but I’m getting seriously worried what I’ll do if this guest house is full. I don’t have lights on the bike and have no idea how far it is to the next town. I contemplate asking at the police station and even consider bunking down at the ferry terminal. This does’t exactly appeal and it being Friday night makes it appeal even less.

I try to follow the lady’s instructions but soon become hopelessly lost. Larne isn’t large so getting lost was quite an achievement. I’m heading straight back towards the ferry when a mirage looms up in front of me. A warm, welcoming hotel called The Curran Court. Why hadn’t she mentioned this?

“Rooms from £55” blazons at me. The car park is busy but not full. The girl at the desk is welcoming and patient. Of course they have a room. There is no worry about the bicycle. “You can leave it at the bottom of the stairs.” The room is big and smells of new carpet and clean linen. The bathroom is bigger than any bedroom I’d stayed in so far on the trip. I double check the price. Yes £55. It’s luxury. It’s more than welcome. After contemplating a night on a bench it is the bargain of the month.