Redheaded Runaway
 Raindrops on roses I awoke a bit into my bus ride to Belfast to see the rain coming down and nestling in my woolly jumper I turned to see a vivid full double rainbow at points verging into triple out the window. The plains of Ireland were perfect for such full arches as looking out across the great expanse you could see the point just where the rainbow touched the earth. Never before had I seen a rainbow touch down, but then again this is the land of rainbows, leprechauns and good fortune. So I took this as a sign for good things to come on my trip to the north. It was dark and rainy when I arrived and when a young gent’s mum insisted on driving me to my hostel, I had second thoughts as to what that rainbow might have meant. I was greeted by an illuminated mural adorned with red hands welcoming me to the heartland of the loyalists in South Belfast. Saying I didn’t shudder for a moment would be a lie. The rest of Belfast is to some degree very general and to some degree far too personal to be discussed here. As a point of comparison you could say this is in some way my Auschwitz or my Jerusalem. I walked along a wall that divides a people by choice and is referred to as a Peace Line by both sides and the general public. I walked through the gates that close every night to prevent people from crossing and starting trouble. And, to continue with the early analogy, I spent an afternoon throwing back pints with a survivor. While doing so the pub was graced by the presence of Ann Frank or Schindler or, to borrow from perhaps a better comparison, Nelson Mandela… Until I make some sense of it all that’s all I can say and all that will ever see print. You’ll just have to ask me if you want to know something more.
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Diary Photos
| 31st Jul 2006 | |
| Belfast's "Peace Line" | |
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