Been there, not done that

‘‘Well, for 30 years all we’ve heard about Belfast is when a bomb goes off,’’ he said. ‘‘I wouldn’t go there.’’

Coming from a tough bloke like him, that didn’t say much for Northern Ireland’s tourist reputation. But over the past four years, bloodshed and bullets have taken a back seat since the Sinn Fein negotiated peace with the British government. And Belfast is taking the opportunity to make up for lost time. Besides, EasyJet doesn’t do refunds.

So I went across the Irish Sea with three friends. For the record, Leigh, you don’t know what you’re missing.

The Irish may be the subject of uncomplimentary English jokes, but these are the folks who gave the world Guinness. Even a teetotaller would reconsider his principles when faced with the happy prospect of a mug of rich, dark stout in the 176-year-old Crown Victoria Saloon. An incredibly ornate, Wild-West-styled pub with swing doors and private booths, it’s owned by the National Trust and dotted with story-telling pensioners. This was the starting point of our three-night run of 13 pubs and clubs—from folk bands at McHugh’s to salsa at the Empire. And, with a hic of certainty, we’ll swear that Belfasht rocksh!

My English companions had a nasty moment when a steely ex-IRA type at an adjacent table started muttering hostilities, but he turned to me and said, ‘‘At least we have something in common.’’Of course, during World War II, Ireland was on the same side as Britain and her allies, and the Home Front war museum is a fascinating reminder of that epochal era.

Filled with wartime memorabilia, it recounts the roles of both the Irish soldier and civilian. As I was taking in a picture of Hitler saluting a battalion of marching German soldiers, the curator, a veteran easily over 85, said quietly, ‘‘Everybody makes mistakes, eh?’’

Chatting with him, I found out he had spent time in Bombay during the war. The old soldier smiled, recalling how he and his men once drove the city’s trams when regular crews went on strike. However, his memory missed a step when we asked for directions to a nearby pub.

A more current dose of fighting history—or the ‘Troubles’—can be seen on the walls of Falls and Shankill roads, in the Catholic and Protestant areas of west Belfast respectively. They were, until recently, the scene of much violence. Large murals proclaim loyalty to Ireland or Britain, the former as calls for freedom, and the latter as proclamations of armed resistance. Today, with politicians hoping that a final solution is around the corner, the Irish tricolour—also saffron, white and green—flutters proudly at a memorial to those killed in the struggle. Like them, Belfast now rests in peace.

North Wales
Lland of plenty

‘Press the tip of the tongue behind the front teeth’, said the helpful postcard, and ‘blow out’. This, apparently, was how one pronounced the Welsh double ‘l’. A useful tip considering there are no less than 290 towns in Wales that begin with this spitty syllable. You know, as in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwymdrobwyllllandtysiliogogogoch?

Oral challenges apart, the little country of Wales also offers magnificent scenery and some of the best biking roads in the UK. So with a spare weekend and my new ’79 Kawasaki 400, it was a done deal. Cupped in a peninsula, Llandudno’s seafront is a sprawling, Victorian-style crescent of elegant hotels and buildings overlooking the calm blue waters of the Irish Sea. Though it’s North Wales’ top holiday resort, it is still permeated by an aura of tranquility. Put a blanket down on the sand and soak up some sun, ride a century-old tram car up the limestone cliffs of the Great Orme and keep the fulmars company, or take a peep down ancient copper mines…

To top off the weekend, there’s the magnificent road towards and through the rocky peaks of Snowdonia National Park, the highest mountains south of Scotland. If you like driving while on holiday, you can’t go wrong in North Wales. Better, though, to avoid asking for directions.

Whitby
Fish-n-kips

Oop north, the stereotype goes, the good folk of Yorkshire are tough, earthy, working-class men and women who talk like Geoffrey Boycott, fondly remember the miners’ strike, and wear beer goggles and tattoos instead of gold-rimmed glasses and business suits. Much of the county is made up of cookie-cutter suburbs, and the rambling purple-brown moors of North York. So what’s a pretty town like Whitby doing in a place like this?

And considering it was the peak of summer and yet raining, what was I doing there? Driving through an unrepentant downpour in my flatmate’s Fiesta at about 10 in the morning, I thought visiting the town that had inspired a scene in Bram Stoker’s Dracula would leave me pale and bloodthirsty too. Gladly, I can testify that even the wet and cold weather could not lessen the rustic beauty of Whitby, perched delicately on the North Sea coast.

Captain Cook must have been a strong soul to leave Whitby behind for the long ocean voyage that eventually took him to Australia. As the rain finally faded to a reluctant drizzle, we walked down to the windy pier and forked up the best cod-’n’-chips in Blighty, while a cloud of gourmand seagulls clamoured for the leftovers. Grizzled old men cast their lines into the river Esk, landing no bites but plenty of amiable waves from the passing trawlers. We headed past colourful casinos and candy stores to a jumble of steep cobbled streets, packed with curio shops and cosy cafes. We then climbed up the West Cliff to the Church of St Mary and its sprawling old graveyard.

At sundown, gazing at the choppy grey sea crashing against the beaches, with the craggy ruins of St Hilda’s Abbey spiking up behind us, I was hit by a sudden urge to buy a cottage and die peacefully in this Mediterranean-looking fishing village. The setting sun, meanwhile, seemed to be doing just that. Lucky sod.