Writing (and other things) on the walls

Oh, what the hell—as long as I’m talking about the Irish I’ll share my impressions of Ulster. Overall, let me just say, tough crowd.

I’m not going to go into the 800-year history of Anglo-Irish contention. I’ll just point out that Ireland was Britain’s first colony (courtesy of Henry II), and is her last remaining colony.

My visit occurred in 1994, only a few months after the Downing Street agreement between the governments of the UK and the Republic of Ireland, as well as the cessation of military operations by the Provisional IRA. The Provos didn’t lay down their arms, but it was a step forward. One of their main opposing groups, the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), reacted with the full force of their pent-up testosterone, as I noticed on various walls:

On the other hand, the UVF may have a bit of a planning/estimating problem when it comes to propaganda graffiti. Your message has more impact if you don’t make yourself look like someone who can’t even see the end of your canvas.

Well, knowing the history and walking into it are two different things. Belfast was quite the eye-opener. Basically, it felt to me like Beirut with bangers and colcannon.

I went to an indoor shopping center because I lusted after one of those Filofaxes. (Look, it was the 90s, okay?) I was looking for a stationer’s when I noticed a pair of Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) members patrolling the place in Kevlar vests and with automatic rifles at the ready. Not shouldered. At. The. Ready.

This is the only time I’ve ever seen that kind of thing in a First World country. Armed soldiers with the power to stop you for any reason was something I had to get used to in Korea. (Oh, also the nightly curfew, during which they could shoot you for any reason before they stopped you.) But frankly, it freaked me out to see it in Western Europe. And, I was the only person in the mall who even seemed to take notice of their presence.

They also had stop-and-search zones within the city. That’s where the guys with the Kevlar and assault rifles stop your car and give it a good shake-down, including running a bomb detector under the chassis. In the center of the city. In the center of a capital city.

(That didn’t happen to me while I was in Ulster, but back in the Republic I visited the Waterford factory, because you do, and I was stopped at the gate to the car park on the way in by an amiable old fellow—not armed, as far as I could tell—and he had a good root through the interior and the trunk, both of which by that point in the trip were pretty much tips. He did not have a bomb detector. I went through the factory, didn’t see anything there I couldn’t live without, and on my way out I stopped to ask the guard if he’d been searching for explosives. He weaseled just a bit, but finally allowed as to how he was.)

Then there were the police stations. Gotta say that I’ve not seen the like anywhere, not even South Central Los Angeles. Because what you’ve got here is not only not a place where you drop in to report a lost dog or slashed tires, I wasn’t even sure how the hell you’d get in at all.

Don’t know if you can see in this photo, but the fencing runs horizontally to the building, as well as vertically at the sidewalk, completely enclosing that forecourt area in steel mesh. It was as though the cops were caged. My understanding is that this is to prevent any Molotov cocktails that might be heaved at the station from hitting the ground and closing off the doorway. Or maybe from going into any of the windows.

There was another very literal symbol of the political/religious divide in Ulster: a DMZ between the Falls Road (inhabited by Republicans/Roman Catholics) and the Shankill Road (Unionists/Protestants). Here’s the wall on the Republican side:

But it’s not all spray paint and firebombing in Ulster. There are some real pockets of beauty, and the people—while not quite as sociable as their cousins in the 26 counties—could be congenial.

I spent one night at a pub-hotel near Bangor (close to the Giant’s Causeway). I’d had a substantial lunch so wasn’t interested in eating dinner, but I didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary in my poky little single room. (And here’s something for free: if you take a room above a pub, do not expect to get much sleep. You’re welcome.)

So I plunked myself down in the lounge near the restaurant and spent several hours with a bottle of mineral water, my journal and a turf fire. My one and only turf fire.

Periodically one of the waiters checked on me—not to push drinks but just to see that I was okay and to have a bit of a chat between his table runs. He told me that they’d had an American couple staying with them a few days before.

I asked, “Were they nice Americans? Because if not, I’m Canadian.”

But they apparently were, so I could retain my citizenship.

(I was having dinner the week before in Dublin in a restaurant where there was another American couple, from the Northeast, by the sound of them. They had, ah, expectations beyond their location, if you catch my drift. I recall that the female wanted artificial sweetener for her coffee, which the place did not have. Both the older and younger waiter working the room had time to chat with me throughout the night, but they could not be shut of that pair fast enough.)

I’ll close out today with the only Ulster-specific Irish song I know. Not something to sing your kids to sleep, but I've always kind of liked it. You’ll understand its political orientation from the line about cursing the pope. It’s worth it to stick to the end.