Londonderry, Paddy's Day Eve 2009

Londonderry, or Derry, seems one of those historically critical cities which somehow still manages to sit below a general coverage radar.  A solidly walled central city slashed in two parts by a lusty thick river which makes a stream of the Thames.  Its topography too is rich, providing many lofty platforms for numerous sentinel cannons.   Steep central streets exaggerated a sense of caution as I ascended the hill at twilight, a group of adolescents walking down.  It feels both protected and homely beneath the gradients and abrasively exposed by the epic River Foyle, another town relentlessly buffeted by the unforgiving Atlantic.

During my few hours pacing the city at an odd, in between time when the streets were mainly empty, I was stopped and asked for directions three times.  The first, a French couple of pedestrians for the best route to a restaurant; then a priest and his companion from a car: where a certain street was; then on my way back to my brick-mobile, another car abruptly halted and a pretty girl (as most seem) poked her head from the window.  We only exchanged greetings before I explained this was the third time I’d been stopped and, as my accent probably suggested, I still wasn’t local I’m afraid.  I would’ve liked to prolong the altercation if I was able – my phone has maps on it if.. –  geek.  Maybe there’s something about a lone, pacing chap, which indicates that he’s local.

My current host at this dowdy Motel a few miles out of Londonderry was the second person today to assume I was on business.  “Just put your company name” the man of apparently few words asked as I signed in.  I did so, not bothering to explain I wasn’t on business.  The young chap from the car hire place had initially done the same, making me think such a leisurely solo road trip isn’t the most usual use of leave.

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Earlier today I skirted the east coast of Northern Ireland, up and away from Belfast – after accidentally heading in the opposite direction.  It was an averagely pretty coastal ride to begin with, nicely rugged in parts, if constantly bleak and grey – consoled only by the dramatic violence of cloud formations.

I was surprised how quickly I became accustomed to my surroundings, the boring vehicle, the coastal path and greenery.  How soon it felt ordinary.  This could have been due to the boringness of my boxy, clunk-click drive.  It looks like a snubbed nose and handles like an untrustworthy go-kart.  You have to lean into tighter corners, as if driving a Lego brick.  It’s a new enough model, just a shit one.  I’ve approached it in car parks slightly nervous, faintly embarrassed of its dinky toy car appearance.



After a short walk I drove on, forcibly reminding myself that at least I wasn’t in a grey tower block in West London, getting frustrated and annoyed at my colleagues.

Approaching the much hyped Giant’s Causeway, I decided to turn in, then quickly baulked at the fiver entrance charge and did an immediate U-turn.  As I drove on I felt silly, that I had missed out on what most people who visit the area say is the jewel of the region.  Not sure how though.  I’ve seen plenty of grand coastlines in and around this region.  What’s particularly special about that bit?  Maybe I should’ve just paid a fiver rather than have it nag at me afterwards.

I stopped in Coleraine, another historic if roughly forgettable town, and mooched around there beneath the murk before taking a Tesco pitstop for supplies.  Since I’ve been here the sky has hung heavy with a stubbornly dull clouded gloom.  A gloom of the kind which would usually warn of an imminent downpour at home, but doesn’t necessarily here.  It lurks above, breaking now and again at the whim of the dictatorial Atlantic, which irresponsibly spits its bile at the first land it reaches.  You wonder if this perpetual gloom weighs heavily on the people beneath.  If it presses and unsettles and makes people bitter and resentful.  How much of a year does this weather take up?  Who’s to say scepticism, pessimism and bitterness aren’t discouraged by the consistently bleak press of gloom?  Could violence be one symptom of that?

This is my final night of pre-booked accommodation and I’m faintly nervous of panicking about the lack of well-placed B&Bs, multiple rejections possibly just for looking a bit sketchy, alone, male, youngish, not on business – and nobody giving much of a shit because tomorrow’s St Patrick’s Day and everyone’s on a mission to get shitfaced.  Around Derry, Paddy’s Day’s status became even more obvious: the decoration – high street bunting now decorates every small town – every pub looking that touch more Irish, like Irish pubs everywhere in the world, uber self-conscious and made up, the whole country a bride.  Paddy’s Eve events were being promoted around the town and pedestrian traffic on the streets was just beginning to pick up as I made my way back over the sloping cobbled streets to my car, apologising to lost people for not being local.

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The post, St Patrick's Day 2009 follows on almost directly from this, should you feel so inclined.