The Innocence of Youth

 

                              Chapter 1

                        Was just about ready to get on my way
                        When I had some bad news that nearly made me stay
                        But picked myself up and got on the boat
                        And so for the start of this story I wrote  …….

                                                                        1

The breeze made the heat bearable. It was barely mid-morning but the temperature must have been over 90 degrees. Of course that was the scale in those days; Fahrenheit we called it. It seems somewhat useless nowadays. The breeze was due to the movement of the boat as it sped from Tangiers to Algeciras but we were tired as sleep had not come easy with three of us in a mini Morris; out of Belfast. I was the driver so I was stuck behind the steering wheel for most of the night before we embarked and my neck was feeling the pinch so to speak.

Spain looked hot and bleak; more of a yellowy tinge and not like the emerald green of Ireland that we were used to.

‘Come on,’ shouted my friend John. ‘It’s time to get the car,’ he stated in a lower voice as I got closer.

‘O.K.’ I mumbled. ‘Hold on to your knickers or whatever you call that grey piece of material that hides your balls.’
Well I am not at my best in the morning. I suppose you could call me a night owl though John never did. I think ‘nite shite’ was as close as he got.
‘You all set?’ I asked Eddie.

Eddie was a kinda cool guy or so John and I thought. He had a girlfriend which was a big plus in our eyes. He also carried around a book, “Lord of the Rings”, although neither John nor yours truly actually observed him reading it. We even asked each other that question. No, neither of us had. Not that it was such a big deal. To own any book, never mind such a thick one, was also a plus. Eddie had long, stringy, unkempt, light brown hair. It may have been a different colour but as it had not been washed for some time, it was difficult to tell. Eddie was English with pale coloured skin which never saw the sunlight. ‘I would burn up in ten minutes,’ he told us once. He never bathed in the sea but luckily he slept in a different tent. He told us he was from a town called Trowbridge. I had never heard of Trowbridge and assumed he had made it up after reading a Thomas Hardy novel.

We met him in Gibraltar. It was 1969 and Franco had decided to be over enthusiastic about getting the rock back on the Spanish side of things. He had ordered the gate between Gibraltar and La Linea closed and had even gone so far as to construct a sort of monolith in the sea to give air passengers and pilots heart attacks as the aeroplanes they were in tried to take off and land. The average for this little feat was six times.  Fun to watch; not fun to participate!

Eddie got into the back of the mini, John joined us in the passenger side and as it was my car, I got behind the wheel.
‘All set for Spain?’ I asked all and sundry.
There was no reply. Well we were all too tired to think of something clever. John was clever but not even he could think of any suitable repost.
   So I drove down the ramp feeling good as we had a full tank of very cheap petrol on board, courtesy of tax free Gibraltar.
A customs officer was at the bottom of the ramp and after a look at our number plate, he directed us to one side where two police men (later on I was to learn they were called Guardia Civil) began to search the car for items of interest. They seemed to know what they were looking for and after ten minutes, when they had just about given up, they found a small size packet on the dashboard near where Eddie had sat the previous day.  The guy who found it immediately blew his whistle and drew his revolver and motioned me to get out of the car.   Suddenly we were surrounded my five or more Spanish policemen; all with their guns drawn. Not a sight you want to see, even in your dreams. I was immediately handcuffed and manhandled into a van. John had the foresight to threw in a duffle bag which contained my toothbrush and a small notebook but little else.  I looked back from the back of the van and there they both were, looking very dejected but perhaps not as disconsolate as me. This was going to be an experience I had the feeling that I could well do without!

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                                                  2

          It was a sunny spring day in Ireland for a change and I found myself playing with caterpillars. I was fascinated by their efficiency. They could devour most of a nasturtium leaf in a few hours. I used to catch them in an old basket but by morning they always seemed to have escaped. A jam jar proved to be better for observing purposes. I lived just outside a small village called Shrigley; a small Northern Irish village in County Down. It was famous (well not really famous) for its tannery. It had a large chimney in the factory although I never once observed smoke coming out of that funnel. It kind of reminded me of a picture I once saw of the Titanic, although the latter had four of these funnels of course. I was ten years old, and my father had died five months previously. My granny followed him into the same site two months later. My granny had brought me up as my parents both worked as teachers. I had been in their classes. Not a great experience for any of the three of us.  I had slept with my granny until three weeks before she departed for good.   I missed her at night especially when a year later I left home for boarding school. My first night there is still etched on some part of my brain; not to be recalled even here.  
     My mother and I had to leave that home shortly after and we moved into digs in the bigger town called Killyleagh.  The digs were quite close to the primary school I attended and of course where my mother taught also. Even though she was a brilliant mathematician, she obtained the job of teaching the four-year-olds; grade one or kindergarten it might be called nowadays. My first day there was quite an experience; sharing my mother with forty-two other kids was not that easy and I failed at it miserably, ending up with lots of tears.
    Six years later I was better equipped to deal with similar events; just.   My current teacher was much more to my liking; he played football with us after school. I took up sport when I was very young, more to drown out my misery for a few hours than to be a great athlete which I wasn’t.
          Grown-ups at that time had a way of teasing you although I suppose they did not mean it. For example, my mother mentioned to me that the staff had mentioned that I was very fond of a girl in the school.  Now there were two classes of children in that school. The majority were from working class parents and the others were middle class. The latter were more refined. I belonged to that group. There were two boys and three girls in my class that fitted that description. Jacqueline was slim but not that attractive neither in personality nor in looks.  She was quite aloof, and the thick glasses did not help the look on her face.  Elizabeth on the other hand was very sympathetic and kind. I found out later that most girls with the kind of shape that Elizabeth had were always easier to get on with and easier to relate to.
    Doris was the best looking of the bunch but not so easy to get to know. Which one was the staff teasing me about according to my mother? I assume it is obvious. Yes Elizabeth. She was easily the friendliest and it took me a while to realise what they found so humorous.  It was then I decided to get to know Doris a little better. Now how was a ten-year old boy going to go about that? As I mentioned before she was rather self-centred, and my first advances were met with derision.  The next day I still had little success. This was proving more difficult that I had expected.  After school that day I tried again. OK, I was not sure what I was doing. I think on reflection she was teasing me along and so I followed her towards her home but gave up halfway. I happened to meet one of my friends and we played marbles along the side of the road until we reached a spot where I could see the house at which my mother and I were residing.  To my horror I saw a car parked outside where no car should be. My sixth sense told me that it was not parked there to bring any good news. I did not know to whom it belonged but if I had to guess (I did not want to guess) it might, just might be the car belonging to Doris’ father.
     I certainly was not going to go in to confirm my suspicions. So, I took myself of for an unplanned walk hoping that the car would be gone when I returned some twenty minutes later. It was. But my mother had that look on her face when I slipped in the door, and I realised she was waiting for me.  The questions began.
“Where were you?”
“What were you doing?”
“Who were you with?”
“Do you know a girl called Doris?’
This was a stupid question really. Everyone in the school knew just about everyone else especially if they were in the same class. I suppose it was a long time since my mother had taught anyone in Year 7.
“Did you know that Doris’ father came to see you?”
I stupidly nearly answered that one.
“What were you thinking of?”
                   I never found out what her father had accused me of. Difficult to think it was sexual harassment at that age. Anyway, I was sent to bed to think about it. I did but needless to say I came up with no solution to a problem I didn’t know I had if you get my meaning.  Seemly being ten years old was no excuse.
     I never once talked to Doris after that.  We both passed the qualifying examination or the eleven plus as it was sometimes called. She went to Down High in Downpatrick; the local high school. I went to the Methodist College Belfast as a boarder.
    I met her during the initiation day at Queens University some seven years later. She had not changed, nose still in the air. I ignored her and we never met again.

 

 

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                                                            3

My uncle collected me from where my mother and I had lodged for nearly two months.  Mum had packed a very large trunk for me with all sorts of items I did not know what they were to be used for.  I was on my way to a boarding school and I had this strange feeling that life was never going to be the same again. It was not.

   Not that life at home was any way enjoyable. My father had been very strict as was the fashion in those days. ‘Little boys should be seen and not heard,’ was one of his favourite sayings and I was often sent to a corner when visitors arrived for speaking ‘out of turn.’ Thank God we did not have too many visitors.  As mentioned before, my father had died five months before and I had a guilty conscience about the event. He had this heart complaint you see which had been misdiagnosed. The valve in the aorta was weak which restricted him following his past times; sport and carpentry were his favourites. He became depressed with life and like a lot of Irishmen at the time, found another hobby, drink. He had had too many the night of his death and he became argumentative. My mother was patient with him but there is a limit. I felt completely helpless so I prayed to God that it would all end. It did. Ten minutes later he hit the floor and Mum told me to run down to the neighbours and ask Sean to cycle to Killyleagh to fetch the doctor. I learned later that he was probably completely gone before Mum had got to the word “run”. The doctor arrived about a half hour later.

  The day of the funeral was not a great deal of fun.
‘Go and say goodbye to your father,’ my Mum said just before they came to collect the coffin. Well to be honest, I was still frightened he would wake up and blame it all on me. I walked into the bedroom which had a smell I had never experienced before; polished oak wood I was to learn later.  I said a quick goodbye; silently.
A few hours later we set off on the twenty mile journey to the grave yard. In those days, in Ireland, women did not attend funerals but of course a ten year boy could. I went; fairly unwillingly I might add but no one asked me of course.
I went again two months later when my eighty-two year old grannie followed him. She was very close to me and indeed up to the time of her death I had slept in the same bed.
I was not a happy little boy to say the least, peering into the six feet hole dug slightly to one side of where my father lay.
            So let’s say I was a bit delicate about leaving home for the first time even though we had moved out of the rented family home and were lodging with some friends of Mum’s.   My uncle was shown to a long room (dormitory) and I followed closely behind where we emptied my trunk into a locker. The smell was getting to me. I suppose it was the polished wooden floor that did it.  A few of the inmates shed a few tears that night and I remember being very scared about the unknown future ahead. I eventually got to sleep.

A bell woke me up as it would do for the next seven years. I gingerly walked to the sink where I was promptly shoved out of the way, so I did not get to wash that morning. I could already tell I had a lot to learn. Getting dressed was quite an event; shirt, shorts, socks, shoes and of course a tie (which took me for ever to knot my windsor) and a blazer. Breakfast was pretty average and you had to be careful that no one ate your one slice of bread; the porridge? Well you couldn’t even give it away. Then we had to report to the main school where we were joined by over one thousand day students.
I felt like a pebble on a beach full of rocks.

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                                                  4

 

      Well I had five years of French at that school and I still could not speak much French. I had about five words in Spanish. Two of those were Bobbi Charltonne which I had picked up in a small bar in a small village somewhere near Jerez (pronounced Hereth) which we pronounced Jerres which of course confused the locals no end. Bobby Charlton of course was a world renowned soccer player.

After I was arrested I was finding it hard going to follow the various commands given to me. We had stopped off at a small studio which I soon learned was to take my photograph and finger prints. After that, we proceeded to the ‘Franco Hotel’ in Algeciras. Not a place you would want to stay if given the choice. I wasn’t given the choice needless to say.
     I had to hand in my scout belt (a prize possession of mine), a small penknife and of course my passport, an old watch that sometimes told the correct time, a pen (old) plus a few minor items which happened to be in my pocket at the time.   Then I was told to strip which did not take long as all I had on was a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops which I have since heard are also known as thongs.   I was then stood in a shower area and like any caged animal I was given a shower with a high pressure hose. It probably would have gotten rid of any lice if any had been present.   If that proved unpleasant, the next part was even more so. Through yelling and various sign language gestures I got the idea I was to show him my posterior where he began to search for any items I might have hidden up my anus. Eventually he was convinced that there was nothing to worry about in that region and I was able to restore a little dignity when I got to put on my meagre amount of clothes again.
   I was marched to a line of cells. They opened up the bars and gestured for me to enter. The first cell seemed to be occupied by an inmate but I could not see him as he was hidden under a blanket.  The cell bars were closed with a bang and it was probably the first time I realised I had completely lost my freedom which after seven years in a boarding school, I appreciated and valued very much.

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                                                            5

    After breakfast, I somehow found out that I was to report to a large room in the middle of the school where about one hundred and eighty new boys were assembled.  About one hundred and forty names were read out before they got to me. I was to be in J1 E.  Apparently, although passing, I had not done so well in the qualifying exam and the school had access to the results.  By the time they discovered I was a lot brighter than my peers, it was too late.
‘Sorry son,’ they told me, you should be in the B set but they studied Latin for a term and we believe it would be too difficult to catch up.’  It wasn’t a question and my informant seemed to be quite upset that I answered even if it was only ‘Yes Sir!’
    I never did get around to telling my mother about this; not that it would have made any difference. She would have assumed the school was doing the right thing by me. Not always the case as may become apparent.
      The J1E group was sent to classroom C5 where we were given a diary which we had to fill in with various teacher names and different classrooms. I had already spotted that my History teacher had the same name as my boarding housemaster.  A big man he was but then when you are eleven years old, all of the men and most of the women seemed tall and foreboding. Of course it was the same person and he sent the shivers down my spine because of his very loud voice. I wondered had my father come back to get some sort of revenge.
    I had a difficult time at first. There were a lot of things I could not do. Ride a bicycle for example. I learned fast. Ability to swim was another. I learnt even faster as I was pushed into the deep end after wandering out of the changing room on my first visit to the school outdoor pool. I just about made it to the side and clambered out exhausted. I was really on a fast learning curve.  Now singing I could do a bit. When I was grabbed by a prefect and taken to their special room, I was ordered to stand on the table and sing. They were very kind. They gave me a choice. I could either sing or accept six of the slipper on the rear end. I sang.   Later on I would have accepted the second option as I was to receive the latter many times over the next three years that I became fairly immune to it. Still, not something you look forward to and needless to say it was not with an actual slipper but a rather large gym shoe!

After a week of mostly misery, I realised I would have to change drastically to survive in this place. My mother was not on the phone and I was not to see her for around four weeks, so I knew there would be no comfort in that direction. Over that first year, various boys in the dormitory (there were twelve of us) invited me to visit their parents on the weekends. I learned to fit in. Most of the boys came from rich families. Briggs was one of them. Yes we were all called by our surnames at that time. No Alan which was what I called him. Anyway, the Briggs family had a snooker table. I had never seen one much less played. No one showed you how to do things in those days. You either did it or you didn’t. I had a go but was useless. 
        Patton or Jonah as I knew him took me to the family farm. Show jumping horses were their thing.
‘Can you ride a horse?’ they asked me. I answered in the negative and that was the end of that. They also played tennis and bad something which I later learned was like squash although at the time, I did not know what squash was either.
      Hall’s (Rodger) father was in the R.A.F. He got me interested in building model aeroplanes.  Hall was like Axiotes (Nicholas) who came from a place I had never heard of; Bahrain. I suppose he had a bit of Greek in him. I had never met any foreigners before. They were a bit more advanced than the rest of us. They knew about girls and something they called sex.  In the end, it took me a year at university to learn how to pull a girl. Not for want of trying I might add.
     That first year was quite a nightmare. We were often slippered for being out of bed or just for having fun.  You dare not show you were happy or one of the prefects or teachers would make sure you were not happy for the next half hour at the very least.
I made quite a few mistakes at this time. I sought out a bit of sympathy when my peers asked what my father did. Sympathy was not on their list of behaviours. For the next few weeks they called me ‘Dusty’ as this made me unhappy and I struggled to hold back the tears.  Dusty was short for ‘Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust,’ to remind me of a certain day in my recent past. I eventually learnt not to show any reaction and they forgot the nickname.
     I wet the bed once at this time but luckily I got off without anyone noticing the after effects of that event. I was becoming expert at dealing with this kind of thing although I became paranoid of losing any article as I could never replace it!
   The toilets at the school were kind of different for me. Ever since I was three I had trouble with ‘moving my bowels’, as they called it.  A nurse would arrive regularly to shove enema up my anus. I used to look out the window and see her coming but it was useless to run away as I would be in for other things to hit my rear end after she had left.   Strangely my parents never once asked me why I did not visit the toilet when required. Well, if they had, I would have told them that I was absolutely terrified of the small shed which we used about thirty metres from the house. There was no light in it and it stank for obvious reasons. The object which I had to sit on was too high for me to reach in comfort when I was three and I was scared shitless, so to speak, of falling in and never getting out.   I never once sat on a seat at that school or anywhere else for that matter until I had my appendix out in the U.S. during my university career.

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Some Photographs from the FIDDLESTICKS FOLK CLUB       WOODVALE TAVERN PERTH

                                          In Madrid I met you one day
                                    Thinking things that I could not say

                                    Drinking wine in a tapas bar ……..

   

    It was one of those hot days in Madrid and I trudged off to work in my suit and incongruous clogs which I had picked up surprisingly in England and not Holland as one might expect.  My hangover was quite dull for 7:30 in the morning and I arrived at school just about on time to give my 8 o’clock lesson.
         How did a young Irish man end up in Madrid when he had sworn (maybe not to God but to someone) never to visit that country again. Well that is another story for another day.
       “Good morning David”, Jenny said in a sort of inquiring tone. She was the co-ordinator of classes for the day and wanted me to reply to see in what sort of a mood I was in so that she could do her job and give me the kind of class I deserved for having such a good time last night.
     Jenny was really English, almost pretty but made up for a turning eye with a good figure and some excellent dress sense.  Is that what one calls it? I was never quite sure then and am still no wiser some thirty years later.
    “Bonjour” I replied to annoy her. As English teachers we were forbidden to speak Spanish, so I always liked to throw in a bit of French.  Not that I was good with languages. I was trained as a scientist but was far too romantic to mix chemistry and sex in one beaker.
“Big night then?” she asked.   “No, just the usual” I replied laconically hoping that she would not see through my eyes exactly how I felt.

Perhaps at this point I should digress to explain just what a night I had.

“Goodie” she said (how I hate that word) “I have a great day set up for you!”    What she meant was I have a favour to ask of you, but what the heck, it means the same thing.  “Penny has taken the day off to go to Toledo or Cuenca and I have entrusted you with her lunch time student.”
    Now Penny was one of the other co-ordinators; slightly plump with real rosy English cheeks. She had taken a liking to me early on. I presumed it was because she found out I played reasonable bridge and was therefore in the same mode (upper middle class) as herself.   She had a good BBC accent and was an extremely good teacher. Her behaviour in bed was well up to scratch.  Unfortunately, I like to have a chase instead of a presentation and I suggested she should try one of my friends. She did, but the foursome never really worked out for reasons obvious to everyone else.  
“Great”, I mumbled.
“You don’t look too enthused” she said making an attempt to sound cool with a bit of modern lingo.
“Oh sorry” I replied. “Who are the students?”
“I think I said student”, she stated, “A certain Señor Cortez, who is the managing director of RNE”. 
I was going to ask who or what was RNE when it was at home.  As my brain had not quite started to function, I passed that question knowing I could ask him later if it seemed important.
    Now the deal at this business school was that the girls got to take their male student out to lunch to further their grasp of the English language in a real life situation. We drones only got to do that when all the girls had already been assigned a student. So today I was going to score a good lunch, Spanish style which meant a good wine and some brandy for afters.

My first few lessons went quite smoothly; a beginner trying to get ahead in the banking division and an air hostess, who I became very friendly with at a later date. Señor Cortez arrived punctually at 10:55 and showed his obvious disappointment at not having his usual Señorita professora.

“Good morning” I started off with. (Well I could hardly say “how’s about you son” which would be a little too Northern Irish for him!)

“Penny not here?” he inquired dolefully.

“Sorry no, “I said. “She has gone to Segovia or Cuenca”.

“Ah yes” he immediately stated, “to see the ……  how do you say it in English; waterfell?”

“Close”, I replied, “Waterfalls”

“Ah yes of course. Waterfalls”, he stated dutifully as the student should always repeat the correct word.  Well that was probably the only mistake he made during the course of the next few hours. He read perfectly out of the Scientific American magazine. Now as I said, I studied science at uni and I thought I would have him in this regard. Not to be. I thought I would get him with the various meanings of “look”.  For example; “look up to someone”, “look through someone”, “look down at someone” etc.   He got me again.  “Da vid” he asked with the accent on the second syllable, “Can you put two of these together? “Can you look someone up and down”?

“Let’s go for lunch” I replied and off we went. Not to the fancy restaurant he would have taken Penny but to a local little Spanish one which was OK by me.

After a few red wines, we both relaxed and we talked about various things. I learned a little about the towns of Pinto and Valdemoro and he learned that I had lived in Andulucia some years earlier. Actually I had lived in a village called Torremolinos.

After lunch and a few cognacs he asked me if I would like to visit Malaga otra vez as he put it. “I am driving down to Granada for the weekend”, he said, “and we could speak English on the way”.  

“Porque no” I stated, just to show him I knew the odd word in Spanish. (I was not so confident in the restaurant and hid behind the notion that we were meant to speak English only!)

“Fantastic” he said without the Spanish o, “I will collect you at 3:30 at the school,” using his impeccable use of the future tense; not always easy for Spanish speaking people who have three ways of describing the future.

Now at this stage I should tell why I would want to go to Malaga for a weekend. It all happened about a week earlier. Penny had found two girls in the park who she thought needed a bit of help. Penny spoke reasonable Spanish and the two girls were somewhat lost. Christina was from Cleveland, Ohio in the States and Annie was from a property just outside Townsville, Queensland, Australia. Annie was quite street-wise but a little naïve. Christina was quite scatty and more than a little naïve. Needless to say they were both very blonde.
               Well Penny had put them right and got them a place to stay in some kind of cheap youth hostel. They had kept in touch with her and she had introduced me to them.
At this stage, I was glad to talk English. I had tried my luck with a few Spanish girls but I always seem to get a headache from trying to concentrate on communicating with them with my very poor Spanish. 
So while Christina and Annie were easy to talk with at the beginning, they seemed a bit shallow after an hour of drinking cheap wine.  They had met in London but decided on a cheap adventure in Europe using their Euro-rail pass. They had tried Amsterdam, Paris and were obviously now in Madrid. I suppose at some stage, I had boasted about my time in the Costa del Sol and they had decided to go there.
                 “What’s the best place to go David in this Costa del Sol?” Annie asked me.
“Well it really depends on how much dinero you have to spend.” I replied. 
“If you have lots of money, then Marbella is the place.  Fuengirola is a bit cheaper. Estepona is average and Malaga is the big city. If you are unsure where to go, then Torremolinos is the place.”
“Did you like living in Torremolinos?” Chris asked me.
It was Chris now that we had known each other for a few days. I felt I was making progress in that regard but I did not see much future.
“I suppose so,” I answered hoping that it did not appear as meaningless as it sounded. “It was really like living in two places.” I went on to explain.
“You see in the winter there were very few tourists.  Well maybe a few from Northern Scandinavia but they stuck to the hotels so you did not often meet them. So, Torremolinos was a great little pueblo where we all mixed in with the Spanish community very well.
“And what about the summer?” Annie asked impatiently. “What was it like in the summer?”
“Well for one thing, it was hot! AND it was overcrowded with tourists.  I personally blame James Michener.” I said.

“And who the hell is James Michener and what has he got to do with it?” Chris asked with an endearing smile I had not spotted before.
“He was, sorry is an American author.” I replied authoritatively, then realising it was not a good idea to come over too strong with these girls I continued:
“He wrote this book called “The Drifters” and he dedicated, well not so much dedicated but wrote a chapter about Torremolinos and sort of set up a culture that it would be cool to visit the place.”
      The girls caught the Talgo the next day; bound for Malaga and the camping site just outside Torremolinos.  That was Monday and this was Friday. They should be well settled in I hoped.

Felipe (yes maybe we were friends now after a liquid lunch) did not arrive at 3:30. He did not arrive at 4 o’clock and by 4:15, I had just about given up. He arrived just before 4:30.
“Lo siento hombre!” he greeted me with. “Sorry mate, I just couldn’t get away from the office.”  
We have three Australian girls teaching at the school, so I suppose he must have had one of them recently teaching him.  I just don’t like being called “mate” by someone I have just met.
Off we set out of Madrid towards the South.  He rambled on about tennis and would you believe Politics. Well it was 1976. Franco had died in November the previous year, so Spain was about to get a dose of democracy.
“It’s the first time in my life I have ever voted Dav id and I am thrilled and frightened. Well not exactly frighted, more apprehensive. That is for my country, not for myself. We have too many candidates and no clear leader as yet. Juan Carlos certainly does not want any part of it.”
“Do you like soccer?” I asked hopefully trying to steer the conversation to something less controversial.
“Well believe it or not, I am a bit of a rugby fanatic”, he claimed. “Si, I lived just outside London for a few years and played socially when I was there.   I quite often drive up to France to watch the five nations.”

Now that explains a lot. Firstly, I now understand how he had obtained such a good accent and where he picked up a lot of useful English phrases, secondly, why we seem to get on so well. Rugby comes with a certain culture. Play hard on the field but best friends afterwards.  

We had a bit of a silence for a while; Felipe was probably tired talking inglés and I was just fatigued. The way one gets after sitting in a car for four hours and trying to be polite to someone I did not know that well. Of course he was a client of our school, so I could not let them down AND he might well describe any faux pas to his normally teacher Penny when we returned.
“I think we will stop here for a copa Da vid”. 
“Where are we anyway I asked” in a slightly tired voice.
“This is Manzanares ,  a well little pueblo.  Sorry, a good little village”, he hurriedly replied before I could correct him. “Well we are just about half-way there and I need something to keep me awake!”

He parked his up market Seat (the Spanish version of the Italian Fiat) close to a typical Spanish café that sold most things from olives to cognac and everything in between. He ordered two bocadillos;  cheese for me and ham for himself (the Spanish always like their jamón), and of course two coffees with a little brandy on the side.  We chatted mainly about how poor the English fare was and we were back on the road within twenty minutes.
“David, can you explain to me please about the situation in your country, or is it two countries,” he asked me after we were out of the town lights and after it seemed we had exhausted our trivial topics of conversation.
Now, to be truthful here, I have tried to be apolitical since my venture into politics when I attended university and was getting somewhat bored with my beakers and test-tubes!  Oh what the hell, I will give it a go.
“Felipe,” I started, “I can summarise it in one word.”
“Una palabra, Da vid and what would this informative word be?”
“I am sure you have already guessed it Felipe…. history; maybe a bit like the Jews and Arab situation or even the Basques in Spain.”
“Ah,” he interjects, “I think I get the message. Can I say ‘get the message’, it’s ok in English?”
“Perfecto hombre,” I replied in Spanish for no real reason. I think I was getting tired of this conversation before it had really begun.
“The origins of the problem stretch centuries back to the Anglo-Norman intervention of Ireland in 1167, when England first took an interest in the area. Despite some intermingling of the English and Irish population, the two were never completely united. As a result, two disparate populations, with differing interests, found themselves living in a small island side by side. These differences became more marked during the reign of Henry VIII. His break from Rome placed him at loggerheads with Catholic Europe and introduced religion into Irish politics for the first time.”
“Didn’t he marry one of our own Spanish girls, Caterina,” he ventured to keep himself in the conversation.
“Ah yes,” I replied, “I think she was called Katherine of Aragon.” Of course I knew who it was but being a science major, I did not want to appear too arrogant.
“Can you continue Da vid?”
“Yeah, well it gets a bit difficult here,” I began, “and complicated. Around 1685 King James II, a Catholic, became the King of England following the death of his brother Charles II. The English wanted a Protestant king and were determined to get rid of King James II. They invited the Protestant prince William of Orange of the Netherlands to take the throne which he did.  How are you going Felipe? Are you with me?”
“I presume Da vid that you mean do I understand the story so far?”
“Exactly,” I responded. ”Most Irish people wanted to get the throne back for James and they fought a battle in 1690 just North of Dublin. It was called the battle of the Boyne. The Protestants in Northern Ireland still celebrate the victory to this day and of course this is not popular in the catholic community.”
“I think I saw something on television about that. Is it around the middle of the summer?”
“You are almost correct,” I replied. “We call it the ‘twelfth of July celebrations’. There are lots of parades and the marchers tend to wear these orange sashes.”
“Why orange?”
“Well William, believe it or not was from Holland. He was called William of Orange so I suppose he came from a place called Orange.”
“So why are they still fighting?” he asked me.
“Well, as I said before, it is almost like two different peoples; two different cultures. As well as this, the catholic church, or so I am lead to believe, did not approve of mixed marriages and so there was not much integration between the two sides.”
“Fascinating!” he exclaimed.
“Well hold on Filipe, there is a lot more but I will reserve it for another time.”

And so we both fell silent. Me thinking of all the good times I spent in Belfast and him maybe thinking about what a crazy place Northern Ireland was at the time. Little did we both know that it would get a lot worse before it got better.

                                      ******************************

Rathlin Island and Soccer euro 2016

               I thought I had witnessed most parts of Ulster when I lived there but the travels of Simon Reeve (viewed on SBS a few weeks ago ) surprised me when he visited parts of the Province that I had not even contemplated. I wonder how many of you have been to Rathlin Island. Yes this was the unusual place where Simon Reeve went with his camera crew.

Of course it is not as well-known as say The Aran Islands off Galway and Doolin. To me it looks very like our own Rottnest but with a very different climate as you can imagine. Rathlin Island lies just 6 miles north of Ballycastle, eight miles long and less than a mile wide it has for many years been considered part of the Glens. Rathlin is the only inhabited offshore island of Northern Ireland, with a growing population of around 145 people, and is the most northerly inhabited island off the coast of Ireland. The reverse L-shaped Rathlin island is 4 miles (6 km) from east to west, and 2.5 miles (4 km) from north to south.
If you would like to visit the island (well why not) a ferry connects the main port of the island, Church Bay, with the mainland at Ballycastle, 10 km away. Two ferries operate on the route - a fast foot-passenger-only catamaran ferry called "Rathlin Express" and a larger ferry, owned by the Scottish Government, called "MV Canna" which carries both foot passengers and a small number of vehicles, weather permitting of course.

In 1306, Robert the Bruce sought refuge upon Rathlin, owned by the Irish Bissett family, staying in Rathlin Castle, originally belonging to their lordship the Glens of Antrim. The Bissetts were later dispossessed of Rathlin by the English, who were in control of the Earldom of Ulster, for welcoming Bruce. What were we meant to say. “Sorry Bruce, you ain’t welcome here!”

 

Simon Reeve’s documentary highlighted the non-sectarian life on the island due to integrated schools. He also showed how the locals had used their initiative to cultivate seaweed or more specifically kelp which is (apparently) a highly nutritious food.

Simon then visited the area in Antrim where they filmed the “Games of Thrones” and then on to Belfast. Unfortunately, he arrived on the 11^th July where he filmed the “goings on” around that time. Enough said. He then left the province for other pastures; Dublin and Wicklow to be exact.
It left me wondering about how many places he could have visited. What a great part of the world we left behind. Well, I am sure you would agree, it was only for some decent weather.
Let’s leave these ramblings for a while. Y E S. We have just beaten Ukraine. Euro soccer if you were doing a wee bit of wondering what I was on about! After a pretty pathetic display against Poland, and lots of criticism about our credentials of being in the competition, we answered with a fine 2-0 win.  Well done lads. By the time you read this we may have just won the event or not but who cares. We got there and had at least one fantastic win.

Now to finish off, if any of you out there have a favourite spot in the Province that you particularly like, write to the Irish Scene on face book and let me know.

I wrote a song (one verse and chorus below) after living in Australia for a few years. It is such a fabulous place but yet there were always a few regrets (which luckily did not last for long) as it is so far away from the other places I had lived in.

               I’m far away far away in Australia, No ties, blue skies in this land
               But still I miss, still I miss the friends I once loved

               I’m so far away in Australia.

               Land of the kangaroo where there’s plenty of sun
               It’s good to live here,  it’s always been fun
               But sometimes I miss the cold and the rain
               The warmth of good friends well you know what I mean.

 

    You can find the rest of the song using the web page listed below.                                   

http://maccdouble.com/Songs/Far%20away%20in%20Australia.htm                                                                                                                                                                                                                              David MacConnell

Bus tour in BELFAST

BUS TOUR IN BELFAST.

 When I roamed around the province (Ulster) in the sixties and seventies, I had no idea you could celebrate Christmas in the sun AND on the beach but for the last thirty years or so, I have managed to do just that.  I know some people return “home” at this time of year (from Australia) and from what I hear you all enjoy yourselves; even the colder weather.  I might try it sometime though not in this century.  Ah but I am reminiscing and that brings me back to my bus trip around Belfast; yeah the hap on hap off bus. Well I already told you all about the first half of the trip out to the Titanic Quarter, the Sydenham Road and Stormont. The second half of the trip proved to be much more daring.

We set off from Castle Place towards St. Anne’s Cathedral and the City Hall which like most buildings in Ulster has an interesting history. 

Plans for the City Hall began in 1888 when Belfast was awarded city status by Queen Victoria. This was in recognition of Belfast's rapid expansion and thriving linen, rope-making, shipbuilding and engineering industries. And where have they all disappeared to over the years you might well ask?

During this period Belfast briefly overtook Dublin as the most populous city on the island of Ireland. Interesting enough, (for all my South African readers) the city hall in Durban, South Africa is almost an exact replica of Belfast's City Hall. It was built some 20 years later in 1910 and designed by Stanley G. Hudson, who was inspired by the Belfast design. The Port of Liverpool Building, designed by Arnold Thornley and completed in 1913, is another very close relative. I am not sure this will help you all on quiz nights but you never know.

Our next stop was the Ulster Hall. Built in 1859 and opened in 1862. The hall's purpose was to provide the expanding city of Belfast with a multi-purpose venue of sufficient size to accommodate most acts.  It was designed by William J. Barre for the Ulster Hall Company and was opened on 12^th May 1862.  Obviously many famous artists entertained the Ulster public there but for me Bob Dylan was one of my favourites, followed closely by The Dubliners and The Clancey Brothers (not forgetting Tommy Makem of course).   

We then continued on to Shaftesbury Avenue and Queen’s University. We passed the Crown Bar Saloon where I remember having a decent pint before boarding the train for Dublin; once upon a time.  Eventually we headed up Divis Street towards the Internal Peace Wall with its 50 cultural murals.

And so onwards to the peace line situated between the Falls and the Shankill Roads.



As our well informed guide told us sarcastically; “All is well here in Belfast. It is one of the safest corners in the world. The peace treaty was signed some 15 years ago. Yet the peace wall was constructed 4 years ago!”  Well maybe they were trying to make up for the infamous Berlin Wall.

We then travelled down the Shankill Road complete with more murals.  Hey we really have some fine artists in the province.

 

And so back to the centre and the famous Albert clock. Belfast's most prominent timepiece was built from 1865-1870 in memory of Queen Victoria's husband, Prince Albert, who died in 1862. Apologies are due here as I had actually forgotten who Albert was. The 43m-high landmark is famous as Belfast's very own leaning tower. Like many structures in the city, it was built on reclaimed land on the River Farset's somewhat marshy foundations and the clock tower currently leans 1.25m to the left or the right if you look at it from the other side! A two-year £multi-million restoration project saw craftsmen working 'round the clock' to spruce up its sandstone, polish its two tonne bell and add gold leaf to its four faces. I always thought that two-faced was bad enough.

It certainly was a whirlwind tour and I am sure if you had ever lived in Belfast and you took this tour, it would bring back many memories. I do hope most of them would be good ones.  And so to my sad end. The guide was genuinly humourous and entertaining but was also somewhat pessimistic. “We are just one bullet away from it all starting up again” he smilingly informed us.  I am so glad to report that so far he has been wrong.  

By the way, I only haped off once and no points for guessing where that was.  My favourite picture I took at the end of the trip in a friendly shop window opposite the famous Europa Hotel; the most bombed hotel in Europe.  Must be the only country in the world you can get a free guinness when you buy a loaf of bread.







Belfast

Back to Belfast after 40 years.

 

I remember reading George Orwell’s “1984” in 1965 and thinking would I ever see the year 1984. Well I did and that was thirty years ago. It seems we are all getting a little older. We can only reflect on how lucky we have been. So many of us have left the olde sod for a better life and we were not disappointed.I did a gig last week to celebrate the birthday of a beautiful Irish lass who had just become an octogenarian. She was the life of the party and along with her husband had many stories to tell. Thanks S. and M. for the invitation.   They invoked many memories of happy times I spent “back home!”

One of them occurred quite recently.  Well it was a lovely autumn day (for Ulster) 15 degrees and a little sun. The wife and myself were on our last day in the province before heading down to Dublin and Dubai. We had had a memorable flight from Barcelona to Belfast!
“Why don’t you go on the Belfast bus ride” my wife said to me. I had just left the rented car back to the airport so we were sort of stranded for the remainder of the day.  “I don’t think so” I said. “Remember I lived here for all of my youth.”   “Go on” she insisted, “I went on it yesterday and you might even enjoy it!”   Well in the end I went and I did; enjoy it that is.

It consisted of two parts. So to keep you in suspense, I will describe the first part here and the second in the next blog.       The bus was some minutes away so I chatted to the guide for some minutes in my still-Ulster accent. He looked at me doubtfully when I tried to explain to him I was an Australian.   “Oh yeah?” he said. “And what would yew be doing back here in this neck of the woods?”  I couldn’t think of a suitable reply so I asked him how things were in this neck of the woods.  “Not so good” he remarks.  “Sure we are just one bullet away from it all starting up again.” 

The bus arrived at this time so I happed on.   Well it was described aptly in the brochure as a hap on hap off bus! (Apologies for the accent here) I proceeded to a good seat and was gratified to find that they now have traffic wardens in Belfast. See photograph above. In my day you did not leave your car anywhere near the city centre. Why not I hear you ask?  Well it would probably have been blown up just in case it was a car bomb!  
  And a few minutes later we set off down Castle Place towards the Albert clock, over the Queens Bridge, towards the docks, Harland and Wolff  and the Titanic Quarter which I have already mentioned in detail in previous articles.  Then a long trip towards Holywood and then to Stormont.
Our guide was in full swing by now and even the Japanese and Greek couples (despite their economy) on board were laughing at his sense of humour.  It was not easy to distinguish truth from fiction.   “Belfast has recently been voted the safest city in the world” He boomed through his microphone. “And why is that?” he proceeded.   “Because the criminals of yesteryear are now all in government!” was his rhetorical answer.  Great laughter from the passengers until we realised he was probably not joking.  

The buildings at Stormont (photo above) he went into in great detail especially about the effect the pigeons were having on the roof and of course the statue of Edward Carson.  “The funeral of George Best was here” our good guide informed us. “Tens of thousands lined the road right down as far as you can see.”  And off we set again returning to the city centre via the Newtownards road.  We passed over the Lagan once again where I noticed a weird sculpture. (Almost as weird as the communist’s statues I mentioned in my last article) It was designed (apparently) to represent the latest progress in peace.   I quote our good guide once again.

“Coming up on the left side of the bus you can see the latest in Ulster art. It was designed to represent the peace process but in usual Ulster humour   - she is known as many things: The Thing with the Ring; The Nuala with the Hula (Nuala a common Irish girl's name); or simply The Doll on the Ball.” Of course he failed to tell us what the real name was.
Above you can see my picture on this fine autumn day of the “Doll on the Ball” from the bus. Back then to the city centre where our guided reminded us that this was just the first half. The second half was much more exciting as we would be travelling to the Shankill and Falls and would be able to see the peace wall and the many murals.  Well it’s back down to earth for me after remembering the cool time (in both senses) I had on the bus. Of course I will reveal all in the next article. 

Forty five years ago I picked up Leon Uris’ book “Trinity”. I read the first few pages and scanned a few more. I did not like the idea of an American writing about Ireland. Last month I ordered it from the library and was informed it had been sent to the archives but they did manage to obtain an old copy for me. What a history we had and I am truly disappointed to say that it is on-going.  OK so it is not all factual but it is a reasonable story.   

I have lived a long time out of Ulster but for a bit of devilment, I booked an appointment with my Irish doctor on the 12^th July. He is from Ulster, so he knows a bit about a thing or two.  “Happy Twelfth” I greeted him but of course he had completed forgotten or more likely blocked it out of his mind. “I would love if both sides could celebrate together on the same day” he mused.  Some wish that I thought to myself. He really has been out here too long!   And sure enough, they were at it again as I am sure you have heard and I certainly do not want to write about it here.

Now I apologise as I am going to be a little bit of a school teacher here. Yeah, I am going to remind you of my last three articles in case you are in need of a reminder of what Ulster is like now compared with what it was like when you left it. Or what you can look forward to when you next visit it!

Apparently, Lonely Planet, (sorry which planet?) the world’s largest travel guide publisher, (believe it or not)  has placed Northern Ireland in its Top 10 European travel destinations for 2013. (I would love to know how they arrived at that conclusion!)

 “Scenic, historic and on the rise: Northern Ireland is ripe for exploration in 2013”, says editor Andy Murdock, whose piece also recommends the UK City of Culture, Derry~Londonderry, the new Titanic Belfast experience, as well as famous attractions such as the iconic Giant's Causeway and Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge.    (Well, if you read this column regulary, you would know all about these famous places!)

    

“The UK City of Culture for 2013, Derry~Londonderry  (Can’t we just call it Donder, 3 letters from both names or some such thing for short!) is undergoing a renaissance, with a year full of cultural events and a new 235m pedestrian Peace Bridge over the River Foyle designed to resemble a handshake between the traditionally Protestant and Catholic sides of the city. (No comment here but it sure sounds good!)  Derry~Londonderry is the only surviving walled city in Ireland and a walk around the walls is a must for any visitor,” the piece goes on to say. (Just do not fall off and duck if you here any suspicious noise.)

  

It adds: “Northern Ireland’s charms extend well beyond the cities (which, coincidentally, fans of Game of Thrones (oops, never heard of it. Is it like Robin Hood?) will know from the lush scenery used throughout the show). The Giant’s Causeway with its picturesque rambling hexagonal columns of basalt spilling into the sea, is connected by an unforgettable 16 km coastal walk along the Causeway Coast to the swaying Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge (20 m long, only 1 m wide, bouncing 30 m above rocks and water) with cliffs, islands, beaches, ruins and seabirds along the way.”

 

The listing caps an incredible couple of years for Northern Ireland, which has received accolades and recommendations for its tourism offering in the travel and mainstream press around the world. (OK, will take your word for it!)

In June the picturesque lakelands of County Fermanagh hosted the ‘most peaceful and friendly ever’ G8 Summit placing the world spotlight on Northern Ireland once again. (Well I ask you, who was going to go to Enniskillen to protest anything!)

And this August the country is braced to welcome over 7,000 competitors and their friends and family to the World Police and Fire Games, as it stages the third largest multisport event in the world. (If you lived there you would know about police and fire …. well wouldn’t you?)

This year over 60 cruise ships – once an unthinkable proposition in Northern Ireland – will dock in Belfast harbour next to Titanic Belfast, which stands at the head of the slipways where the ship was launched and last year welcomed over 800,000 visitors (including yours truly) from 111 countries.  (Maybe Tony could send his boats there…….sorry I won’t joke about that.)

As the first ever UK City of Culture, Derry~Londonderry, the third largest city in Ireland, has also been labelled one of the hottest destinations of 2013 – number four in the world according to a separate top 10 Lonely Planet listing of top cities in the world to visit, and ahead of the likes of Beijing (over crowded) and Montreal (too cold).       (Now I am not sure with what reference HOTTEST means here but the word itself gives us plenty of scope. All I know it was NOT referring to the weather.)

The Editors Footnote was as follows:

 

In June Australian’s outshone European markets to become the third highest ranking international visitors to the Titanic Experience – after UK and USA!

 

I wonder how they derived that piece of info.    Maybe it was my accent but they never asked me where I came from!  
“Sure we know where you come from we lad.”   I quietly sneaked my Aussie passport back into my pocket where it belonged.

David MacConnell