Since I joined Ancient Sites close to ten years ago, I have rarely - in all that time - made any comment that could have been interpreted as 'political.' This journal entry is an exception.
I am an Australian and for the past two and a half years I have been living in the North of Ireland.
This journal entry is especially dedicated to the uninformed dumb as dung plastic paddy Celt who told me that my negative attitude to Ireland was 'politically incorrect' and that I 'should refrain from posting in Celtia' because of my 'disdain for Ireland.' Here's why my attitude is 'negative'...

(Please enjoy the music but be aware these clips contain scenes that may be upsetting to some).

Belfast, 2004.

Belfast, 2005.

Dublin, 2006.

I make no distinction between Catholic and Protestant; I make no distinction between the North and South of Ireland. The only point I wish to make is that I live here, in the real Celtia... you don't.

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The above space is reserved for the 2007 riots. They have not happened as yet but mark me... they will.

NB: It's still raining.

The now familiar landmark of the fairy-tale like Belfast Castle, overlooks the city from a prominent site 400 feet above sea level on the slopes of Cave Hill. This magnificent sandstone building, recently restored by Belfast City Council's Parks Department, has close associations with the city's history and up until a month ago, Fenton had never visited it. 'Why not?' says I. Time to get the car out again Fenton!

The first 'Belfast Castle' was built by the Normans in the late 12th century. On the same site a stone and timber castle was erected in 1611. The home of Sir Arthur Chichester, baron of Belfast, was burned down in 1708, leaving only street names (eg Castle Place) to mark the site.

The Chichesters (later the Donegalls) lived in England as absentee landlords but came to live at Ormeau in Belfast at the beginning of the nineteenth century. After re-marrying in 1862, the 3rd Marquis of Donegall, decided to build a new residence within the deer park on the slopes of Cave Hill. He followed the Scottish Baronial style, popularised some years earlier by the reconstruction of Scotlands Balmoral Castle in 1853. The building was completed in 1870, having far exceeded the initial estimate cost of £11,000. The Donegall fortune had dwindled so drastically that the project was nearly left unfinished. The son-in-law of the Marquis, Lord Ashley, heir to the title, Earl of Shaftesbury, stepped in and paid for its completion.

An Italian style serpentine staircase connects the main castle reception rooms to the garden terrace and rather dead looking herb garden. There's a jazz quartet playing in the gardens, in the ever darkening skies but people lay about on the lawns or wooden benches enjoying their afternoon and in the midst of it all, Fenton and I have taken up the challange of finding the 13 gardens 'cats.' History tells us Belfast Castle has a long tradition of installing white cats in the castle and grounds and the gardens are now home to representations of these cats. Of the 13, we can only find four and I'm disappointed in myself. I love cats! There's two cat mosaics near the central fountain (which is chokkers with murky stagnant water and needs a bloody good scrub out!) and apart from that... two cat statues. I can't find the rest and apparently, it's easy. There's a dozen kids running about who've found them all, the little horrors. Perhaps I'm suffering from sunstroke... the sun did come out for an hour earlier! Or perhaps the jazz is getting to me. I'm not a jazz fan... two weeks in New Orleans more than a few years back put me off jazz and blues for life.

Presented to the people of Belfast in 1934 and until the 1970's the castle became a popular venue for wedding receptions, dances and afternoon teas. In 1978 Belfast City Council instituted a major refurbishment programme that was to continue over a period of ten years at a cost of over two million pounds. It now has several attractions for families and features adventure playground... full of screaming kids and wasps; the fine dining resturant is full of smartly dressed waiters and the surprising yet over powering smell of boiled cabbage and fish. They serve 'Glenarm Salmone with asparagus salad, pepper oil and choice of potatoe,' according to the menu and one would think for such a highly priced establishment they could learn how to spell salmon and potato. At least it's not smoked salmon... which is nasty stuff and has, according to a BBC recent foodie poll, been voted Britian's number one party food. Call me a snob, well... because I am... but smoked salmon is exactly the type of food which poor people serve to show off and they just never do it right. So there! They also serve the stock standard beef and Guinness pie which has become a favourite despite me not liking Guinness. I'm going to return one day and correct the spelling on their menu's... how's this one: 'Char griled 10 oz Serloin Steak with Peppered Sauce & Tobacco Onions and Choice of Potattoes £19.95.' Oh yeah 'tobacco onions'... that seems yummy!

Situated in the cellars of the castle in a Victorian atmosphere is Castle Antiques. Dickens may have felt at home in this 'ye olde curiosity shoppe' type place. The advertising tells me 'The Castle Shop offers a unique opportunity to browse amongst a wide selection of goods including: Porcelain and China: Clarice Cliff, Belleek, Doulton etc; Small items of furniture, jewellery, silver, pictures, toys and collectables, 'Aran' hand knitted jumpers etc and unframed and mounted coloured prints of the Glens of Antrim by the late Charlie McAuley.' But there's nothing absolutely 'unique' about it and although it's interesting to browse, it's like every other antique store in Northern Ireland - ultra expensive. Auction houses being far better value for antiques... because at auction, most people have no idea what they are selling. I purchased some 'antique'(?) postcards of Cairo circa 1920 and didn't want to argue the point that they should have been marked for display as 'vintage' and not 'antique.' The kid serving customers wouldn't have known the difference anyway and Fenton hates it when I get all snobby and correct.

Cave Hill where the castle sits is a familiar outline visible from many parts of the city, It has become ingrained into Belfast's social history and culture, and into the very lives of its people. Indeed the hill is one of the most celebrated landmarks of the city.

The castle tour broucher tells me the 'fascinating' story of Cave Hill... and it's a lie to describe it as fascinating. There's nothing fascinating about a hill with a few caves unless one is hooked on Neanderthals and rocks. The story of Belfast Castle and the Cave Hill Country Park is told in the newly refurbished Cave Hill Visitor Centre inside the castle and up a tricky winding oak stairwell. The displays, in four rooms, provide an insight into the past, and a flavour of the present according to the blurb I read. The Centre is divided into four separate rooms. One room tells the story of people on the hill, from Stone Age up to current times; another looks at the natural setting, views both of and from the hill, geology and wildlife, ie: wasps. A compact audio visual room shows an 8 minute presentation entitled 'Watching Over Belfast', the story of Belfast Castle and Cave Hill, while the fourth room has been set up as a 1920s style bedroom where a bride-to-be prepares for her wedding. A collection of photographs illustrates the changing fashions in weddings at the castle since 1940s to the present day. It all seems a bit naff and dull, especially as the video presentation didn't work and the stock standard rain obscured views which I knew to be lovely but couldn't see.

The castle site is so close to the city, yet retains a wild and remote quality. They offer learning tours for school children who are encouraged to learn about some of the plants (hawthorn, nettles, brambles, gorse and holly) and animals that live within differing areas of the hill - woodland, meadows, heath, the cliff face and two nature reserves (for wasps... well, mainly wasps). I believe the nature reserve are a bit of a joke... what wildlife there may have been now rests stuffed and behind glass in the visitors centre.

On the subject of snobbery, (a theme which Fenton believes me to be far too familiar)... Earlier that morning, I was replanting rose bushes and making a hash of it, knowing nothing of roses, not knowing even the 'type' (or is it breed? species?)... anyway I'm butchering roses and moving what's left to make more room for my herb garden. Anyway, the thing is... I'm wearing an Aussie Redback Black Valley beer t-shirt, with Rip Curl board shorts and, incongrously - pearls, plus my usual 10 or so 'trophy' gold rings. In short, I am mucky, casual, sweaty and bejewelled with the usual cigarette hanging from my lips and a cold Chablis close by. Fenton is having a laugh at my expense.
'Sweetheart,' he says, eyeing the jewells, 'It's so nice to see you maintaining standards.'

The pearls are a special favourite and demonstrate my adoption of a total lack of scruples when it comes to handing money over to a church. I wont do it! I'll not ever give money to an institution that glorifies money above values. Anyway, I have a bracelet of 25 perfect white pearls strung on fishing line with a cheap clasp that I found while having a rummage at 'white elephant' stall at a local fund raiser fete. The fete was held in the grounds of the local church and it's purpose was to raise enough dosh to stop the church stepple falling down. A recent audit for the public of the village established that the church had over £300 thousand in it's coffers regardless. I would have tackled the mold and damp in the church and let the stepple fall where it may.

But being a sucker for beads I was hunting through the junk jewellery for sale to find seed bead necklaces that I could rip apart, re-string and re-design and frankly, sell on... anyway I came across this smallish battered box with the pearls inside and I was going to chuck them back in the pile on offer when I noticed a little tag underneath the lid. It read 'Kuri Bay.'

Now, I thought... Kuri Bay sounds familiar! Why is it familiar? Why why why why? And then I realise... Because Kuri Bay is in north Western Australia near the township of Broome! Broome! Where the worlds most beautiful pearls come from! So, I take another close look at the pearls and I think they are real. Really real! Beautifully real!
Fenton says 'Oooo they're pretty. They almost look real. Where's Kuri Bay I wonder?'
'Um, in Australia up near the Kimberley, now shoosh,' I say in a whisper.
'What? Where?' he says.
'The Kimberley, now shut up!'
'What? But isn't that in Western Australia? Up north? Near um... what's the name of that town?'
'Broome. The town is called Broome. Now shutupshutupshutupshutup!'
'Broome? Isn't that where the worlds best pear'...
So, naturally I had to kick him and he shutup.
I called the elderly dear over to ask the price and she says... 'you can have that lot for 20 pence.' I'm just about to hand over the money - a whole 20 pence - when the other woman minding the stall says... 'wait a minute' and takes the pearls from me. Oh no! She takes a long look at them while my breathing stops and then she finally says... 'Oh I think we have a necklace to match these. You can have the necklace for a pound.' I breathe again. Fenton's grinning from ear to ear and paying for the purchase. £1.20!

Anyway, I take the pearls to a local jeweller to x-ray, essentially find out if they are in fact real and how much it would cost me to have them re-strung on the proper silk and am told...
'Oh lovely things pearls.' These are especially fine. Australian like you aren't they? Superb quality! Re-strung in silk with gold findings worth about £350 for the bracelet.' I could have done cartwheels round the store! YES! YES! YES! The necklace alas, turned out to be fake but I am well pleased regardless. I have re-strung the bracelet myself using silk and an old crystal and gold clasp from a necklace originally belonging to my grandmother. She always liked a bargain too!

Photo's courtesy of S. Williams.

Several weeks ago, Fenton took me off to visit the charming village of Killyleagh, some 30 ks' south of Belfast on Northern Irelands Strangford Lough. The Lough is a rather lovely part of the world and is a large (150km²) shallow sea lough situated on the east coast of the Kingdom of Down, Northern Ireland.

Our aim was to visit Sketrick Island, walk across the causeway from the village of Killinchy and photograph the ruins of a Norman tower house on the tiny island just a few metres offshore. Damaged in attacks in 1470 and again during the 16th century, it was deserted soon afterwards, fell to ruins and I'd wanted to visit since being told while still in Australia, that friends had a vacation home there, in the shadow of the castle remains and that Fenton and I would be welcome to stay there for weekends away.

Sadly, our visit wasn't to be as a fishing trawler had rammed the causeway during the night. Some urgent repairs were taking place as we drove up but we were turned back and told there'd be no access to the island. Down the narrowest winding roads with sharp turns (can no-one draw a straight road in Northern Ireland?) past stone walled fields of 100 different shades of green we made our way to Killyleagh.

It is said and repeated often how very beautiful Northern Ireland is... and yes, quite one of the loveliest place on the planet... but not viewed from a car. If one is interested in hedgerows and the masses of pink and red fuschia that grow along side roadways, then by all means, this is the place for you! But that's all you'll see unless you get out and walk to climb over the metre and a half stone walls to see the hidden views. It's all worth it, to get at the stunning countryside, but lemme tell you, after five minutes of breathing in 'slurry,' you'll be back in the car and grateful for the pine scented air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. Slurry is a form of manure composed mainly of liquids. It is collected and stored on the many farms of Northern Ireland, especially when large numbers of animals are kept in factory units. When slurry tanks are accidentally or deliberately breached, large amounts can spill into rivers, killing fish and causing eutrophication. This happened recently and made the news with the deaths of two unfortunate farm workers. I'm not being unkind when I write that Northern Ireland smells like s*** This whole country is a fertilizer wonderland!

Killyleagh Castle was described by Harold Nicholson over a century ago as "... pricking castellated ears above the smoke of of its own village and towering like some chateau of the Loire above the tides of Strangford Lough."

The village of Killyleagh grew up around a fortified tower, built in the 12th century by the Norman knight, John de Courcy, conqueror of Ulster. Today, it is the oldest inhabited castle in Ireland. Hans Sloan, 17th century founder of the British Museum and Kew Gardens was born in a house close by and received his early education in the castle. Over the centuries the castle has been extensively modified although much of the original fabric still remains. Most recent additions, made during the 1850s, have created a fairytale, gothic facade and really do resemble a French Loire valley chateau. It is a family home and not open to the public. 'Not open to the public' doesn't seem to stop the tourists marching up to the gates, through and into the grounds to take photo's. While wandering the laneway beside the castle gates, which houses dozens of beautiful oaks - one for each of the soldiers of the village who fought and died at the Somme in World War one - I was witness to a bus party who took great umbrage at not being permitted to visit the castle. One very indignant woman, huffing and going red in the face said 'What the hell do you mean we can't go inside the castle? Well, I don't know who they think they are living in a place like that! A castle indeed! Harry honey, like, where are my sunglasses? They are Gucci's you know!' Their tour bus had "Paddy Wagon" painted across it's sides. Can you guess which country the tourists were from? Perhaps the sign should read: 'Beware plastic paddy's aboard.'

Through the centuries, as castle and village grew and changed, Killyleagh played its part in Ireland's often turbulent history. The Plantation of Ulster would see the arrival of Scots and English migrants. It saw the displacement of the original Irish residents. The Industrial revolution would turn the sleepy fishing village - briefly - into booming mill town. In 1846 the Potato Famine would decimate the population.

Today, the village has an unhurried pace reflected perfectly by the character of the Dufferin Arms Coaching Inn. I say 'unhurried' as it took us over half an hour to get a waitresses attention then over an hour to recieve our order... still, our wine was chilled to perfection - a rarity in Northern Ireland, so a lovely indulgence of Australian chardonay while waiting for our meal. Beside the Castle, which dominates the 17th century streets with their rows of neat, slate roofed houses running down hill to the little harbour, little shops still sell home baked bread and fresh local vegetables. Every building is painted in various shades of pastel and all very charming, if a tad unimaginative - it's probably tradition or some ancient charter or something. A fabulous deli sit's opposite the castle and we pop in to purchase some much needed supplies (um... saffron threads and brandy snaps actually *lol) from the Australian's (from Melbourne!) who own and run the place. A solitary mill still spins the best quality Irish linen yarn and the clear, blue water of Strangford Lough laps on the rocky shore.

Strangford Lough is an area of great natural beauty, surprisingly unspoiled by the litter which dominates every other aspect of Northern Ireland, it's uncrowded - the perfect setting for a day in the country. I like it more than the North Antrim coast with it's much visited (by me) Giant's causeway. There is haunting landscape, wildlife, history and tradition. Here for the 1st time, I found found a genuine Irish welcome in Northern Ireland. There's a peaceful, unhurried pace: time and space to unwind and enjoy a country day in one of Ireland's loveliest corners. Apart from the smell that is.

Photo of Strangford Lough courtsey of M. Hartwell, others courtesy of C. Fitzgerald and S. Williams.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been living in this strange “grey around the edges - stodge in the middle” country for nearly one year now and am still far from used to it. The other day, Fenton and I were stuck in traffic on a drive into the city of Lisburn when three elephants walked past the car. I'm aware that that seems like the first line of a bad joke but it really happened. The last thing we expected to see in Northern Ireland was three elephants trundling down the middle of the road, but I have been saying all along, there are some things about this country that are really wyrrd! Here are a few more things I find strange, disturbing or just downright hilarious:

An Asian (looking) friend was told in a Belfast pub to leave because 'we don't serve your kind in here.' The prejudice and discrimination and negative manifestations of bias displayed in this are horrendous and although it does not matter where my friend is from... she's an Aussie, from Sydney.

An Aussie mate here, out with the girls for a few drinks after work was asked 'which side she batted for?' This question... asked anywhere else on the planet translates as... are you straight or gay? Not in Northern Ireland... here it means 'are you Protestant or Catholic?'

A drunken bloke in our local pub (which we now avoid) upon learning I was a visitor to Northern Ireland, told me...'the people you want to avoid in Northern Ireland are always named 'Sean, Patrick, Michael or Declan.' (ie: Catholics) I replied, 'Really? That's my Dad's name...' upon which, this bloke chokes on his pint and spits beer across the bar. Everyone laughs and tells him not to be an arsehole. 'Yer fookin joking about that,' he says to me... 'Yes, I am,' says I, 'just having a bit of a laugh mate.' (Aussies always being ready to take the piss out of anyone). He bought me a pint... which, after his nasty minded little comment, tasted like bile. His mates apologised for him but none of them were worth associating with either.

I can't believe he said that on national tv:
Just before the British general elections I was watching the BBC news and one of their reporters was out and about with a camera man asking the British public what they thought of the oppositions new immigration policy. One person the crew approached answered - 'I think it's bloody a disgrace to continue letting fookin' Paki's, darkies and those filthy chinks into this country. I'm so sick of it that I'm taking my family to live in Melbourne in Australia next year because at least Australia is still British.' (Funny... and I thought Australia was, well... Australian). The reporter kindly pointed out that Australia maintains a multi-cultural immigration policy and there were indeed, numerous Pakistani's, people of African heritage and Asian's in Australia. 'That's bollocks!' was the reply. Fenton shook his head and commented that the bloke and his family should be permitted to immigrate to Oz... but be dumped in the middle of Melbourne's China Town to be greeted by the (Australian/Chinese) Lord Mayor of Melbourne, Mr. John So...carrying a big sharp stick! My idea is more along the lines of - 'To the Australian Department of Immigration and Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs - Dear Sirs, I'm begging you... please don't let this arsehole into Australia.'

Doctors in Northern Ireland do not take on new patients, unless they are part of a family group. So... for me to see a doctor here, I must pretend that I am some long lost cousin from Australia. Appointments are made up to three weeks in advance and one cannot get a 'repeat perscription'... this means asking for another appointment the day one sees the doctor in the 1st place and continually booking appointments in advance of the time one runs out of medication. My new doctor didn't know how to treat my plantar fasciitis nor tarsal tunnel syndrome and refered me to a specialist. I hope to have an appointment in 6 months.

I went to the doctor here to have a blood test - essentially to test my inflamatory markers for arthritis. I'm called into the surgery by the nurse who tells me to take a seat. Meanwhile, the nurse types my details into the pc and, sneezing her red raw nose off, wipes her hand across the offending nose, then wipes her hands through her hair and down the front of her shirt. She then proceeds to (try) to take my blood. I object that she's not washed her hands, nor donned gloves and she stares at me as though I'm crazy. Not crazy, just cautious. And there was me thinking that washing ones hands and then putting surgical gloves to perform ANY medical proceedure was a stock standard medical practice world wide. Not in Northern Ireland apparently! The nurse calls the doctor in to hear my complaint... and, here's the thing... the doctor tells me that 'if they used surgical gloves for every patient, they'd be over budget.' When I insist on the nurse washing her hands and wearing gloves... the doctor rolls his eyes and tells the nurse to'just humour' me. Naturally when I called in to get my results (the suggested) three days later... my results are not back. Nor where they back a week and two weeks later. Finally I get a call that they are in some four weeks later and at reception the receptionist says...'oh yes, you are the Aussie glove fanatic come for your test results.' Oh, btw... my test results were good... must be all that Aussie shark cartilage extract I shove down my throat every day.

I am a big fan of potato chips, or crisps as they call them here. The two most popular brands are Tayto and Walkers... both rubbish. I truly believe Australia's are spoiled in their choice of potato chips. At least we are NOT forced to consume such thinly sliced bits of pure lard in such dire flavours as: prawn cocktail, Worchestershire sauce, lemon grass and beef, corriander and dill, or the Ulster fry. The Ulster fry crisp is based on what could be called Northern Irelands national dish... a artery clanging, cholesterol pumper upper breakfast of blood pudding, sausage, eggs, bacon, fried tomatoe and fried bread.

Everyone here has plastic buckets in their kitchen sinks to do the washing up in. Most rental houses/accommodation come fully equipped with their own plastic ‘sink buckets'. No-one 'rinses' their dishes off after washing them. A double sink is unheard of. Automatic dishwashers are unheard of. Garbage disposal units are unheard of.

A brief word on blinds, curtains and drapery, fly screens and security doors: Ireland, Northern Ireland and the rest of the UK should try to catch up with the rest of the planet on all of these but especially when it comes fly screens for the windows 'cause I'm sick to death of chasing wasps out of the house. One should have curtains AND drapery because at the moment, if I open a drape my life is exposed to the world. No house I have seen has front 'security doors,' no grills - and no window grills or simple fly screens. One would think they'd be the norm in such a security conscious country but apparently not.

Rental properties on the whole are furnished. If ones wants to live in an unfurnished rental property - there's an extra tax, plus council rates. Furnished rentals are exempt from council rates.

The hot water system in our home, the so called - Economy 7 - gives us approximately 5 minutes of hot water each day. To wash the dishes I must boil a kettle. To have greater access to hot water for bathing, showers etc,' I have the option of 'hitting the override' which costs approx' £5 per hour to run. The tap water is undrinkable, brown and must be filtered before making tea or coffee. Dinner preparations can be hazardous... unless I want lead poisoning, I must clean and cook all veggies, rice, pasta etc' in filtered water. I've taken to warning guests to take only 1 minute in the shower and not drink the tap water.

Well um, yeah it is...
Sitting with an Aussie mate, admiring her new gold ring (a gift from her hubby) an Irish friend said: 'Why do Australian's always wear so much gold? Bloody hell, anyone would think that gold was just lying round in the ground in Australia waiting to be dug up!'

It's very nice not to have to pay a water bill in Northern Ireland. It's also very nice not to have to do the washing up in 10 centimetres of water then syphon off the dish/shower/laundry water to be re-cycled for use in the garden. This is because, unlike Australia, there is no drought, hence, no water restrictions. Mind you... I still take 2 minute showers from sheer force of habit and because of the limited amount of water I get from the 'Economy 7.'

There is NO 'road rage' in Northern Ireland. None! Not at all! Not a sausage! Drivers are courteous, polite, careful and generous towards their fellow drivers ALL the time. I would hate to see the same people tackling Melbourne's Tullamarine freeway in peak hour traffic. They'd go mental trying to cope!

There is no such thing as a laundry or ultility room attached to any house. Washing machines and dryers are crammed into the tiny kitchens.

There is no outside tap or power point or lighting. If it stopped raining long enough for me to water my plants (big grin) I'd have to run a hose from the bathroom taps.

Zucchini’s are called courgettes and capsicums are peppers. ‘Checkout chicks’ (a.k.a Customer Service Representatives) give you weird looks should you call these (and other vegetables) by their “non-English” names and they endevour to correct you at every given opportunity. Asian veggies such as pak-choy, foo yip, cang cua, kinh gioi and bok-choy are unheard of... except in Belfast's only Asian supermarket, which has practically become my 2nd home for foodstuffs. The rest, we grow.

Try saying g'day to a customer service representative and asking how their day is shaping up and they automatically think you are leading up to a complaint about their service. Most times I feel like doing just that! They are the most dour people on the planet, unfriendly and unhelpful in every respect.

An example:
My 1st full day here I went walkabout round the village and entered a 'touristy' store to have a look. I was the only customer and after a good 15 minutes of wandering round and looking at all the Celtic goodies on offer, I approached the girl at the counter to ask a price. She had her head buried in a magazine up until that stage but looked up and said...
"Ya gettin?"
I said, "I beg your pardon?"
"Ya getting?"
"I'm sorry, I don't understand what that means."
"I said, ya getting! You stupid or what?"
I still didn't understand, and by this time the cow is tripping my trigger big time. Finally she sighs expansively, closes her magazine and says...
"Look, are you going to buy something or not?"
"Well no... not with that attitude." And I walk out.
Since then, not once has my presence been registered by any sales staff upon my entering a store. No hello, no 'can I help you?' no nothing. Fenton came home mightily impressed the other day saying he recieved excellent service in a local pet superstore. The staff were attentive, helpful, knowledgeable and courteous without being pushy. I was so amazed I insisted on visiting the store at once. *LOL*

Touring a local 17th cent' castle with a guide, Fenton and I are disgusted to see litter on the beautiful persian carpets of the great hall. I comment. The tour guide rounds on me and says accusingly...
"You are Australian, aren't you!" I confirm that I am.
"Well," she says, "We deported all you lousy convicts and now you think you can come back here and tell us how to run our tourist industry!"
I felt like slapping the bitch into the ground but had to be satisfied with getting my money for the tour back... oh and I made sure she picked up the litter!

Supermarket vegetables come in their very own pre-wrapped plastic packaging. At the checkout the above mentioned service representatives scan your pre-wrapped plastic packaged vegetables for you; you - as the customer must pack them into the pre-provided plastic bags, weigh and price them yourself.

Smile at people down the street and they automatically think you’re high as a kite.

Talk to people down the street and they automatically think you’re pissed.

Socks and knickers take six days to dry. You gotta wash 'em six days in advance.

A haircut here costs around £37. I can get my haircut in Australia for $20 or less. (Exchange rate: 1 UK pound buys on average 2.6 AUS dollars).

Dark Ages:
You need a name, rank, serial number, home address, previous address, national insurance number, old statement, passport, library card, drivers licence, a roll of toilet paper and pink knickers to apply for a bank account in Northern Ireland. But in order to acquire a name, rank, serial number, home address, previous address, national insurance number, old statement, passport, library card, drivers licence, a roll of toilet paper and a pair of pink knickers... you need a bank account. One cannot open a bank account over the counter in the bank... that requires an appointment with the bank manager who will probably have an hour available sometime in the next 6 weeks and will kindly phone to let you know when, if ever. NB: I have British (pounds) and the local (English) bank won’t take them.

Train tickets must be booked well in advance. Sit in someone else’s seat and you may just end up with chewing gum stuck to your bum plus much abuse from the person who "owns" the seat. Fenton says this has never happened to him... but then, he's 6'2 and built like a brick outhouse.

A salad roll consist of white bread, butter, a slab of cheese, cucumber and some tomato if you’re lucky. I was asked in one shop if I wanted fresh bread or two day old bread. There was no wholemeal option.

I can order the above mentioned “salad roll” from my local store (200 metres away) over the internet and have it delivered to my door step within five minutes for a grand total of £15. If I actually walk up the street and go into the very same store - I can buy a 4 pack of bread rolls, 10 slices of ham, 1/2 doz eggs, a whole lettuce, 4 tomato's, packet of cheese, beetroot, cucumber, tub of butter and mayonaise for a grand total of £9.50.

Everyone here has an Australian cousin, uncle, aunt, brother, sister or mate, or knows someone who does, but the majority of people think that New Zealand is part of Australia and think it strange that I can't actually just 'drive' there from Melbourne.

I stopped questioning these things so I could a) sleep at night & b) stop getting nonsensical replies from people who don't really know why! Unfortunately, when one is a stranger in a very strange land one needs to stop asking "why?" (at least stop saying it out loud). There are hundreds of things I've have left out but one of which has always stumped me - Why must the light switch be outside the bathroom or attached to a long cord? And if the answer is "because it's safer" then why hasn't any other country in the world picked up on this invaluable safety measure?! Bathrooms here have NO power point! And why is it ok to have an electrical shaver point, but nowhere for a hairdryer... could this just be a sexist thing? Safety switches are unheard of.

The light switch for our kitchen is next to the front door. Not that strange when one considers the kitchen in our house is also next to the front door.

The toothpaste I use when home in Australia is made in Ireland and imported into Australia. The toothpaste I use in Ireland is made in Australia and imported into Ireland. They are the same brand!

The rest of the world does not exist... at no time have I heard or seen a news story broardcast here that involves Australia, New Zealand nor any other Pacific island nation. Africa, South America and Canada are never mentioned; Europe as a whole seldom rates a news story unless it involves the European Economic Community of which Britian is a member. Asia only got a brief mention on the tv because of the tsunami and then only rated a few days coverage. News stories from the U.S.A. are only ever get mentioned if it involves a) politics and b) terrorism; the same goes for the Middle East. AND... Ireland is never ever mentioned. (Fenton says this is because nothing noteworthy ever happens in Ireland). And this is true!

Wish I could, you bastard:
Said to me in a Belfast pub: 'When are you f***** Aussie's going to get your bloody "stars" of OUR flag?"

Witnessed at the train station:
A young mother with her unsupervised toddler crawling towards the edge of the platform. The mother notices and screams: 'Watch out for the f***ing choo choo, ya wee shite!' Nice blend of obscenity and baby talk.

5 + 5 = ?
A couple of months ago, when in McDonalds in Bangor, Fenton and myself walked up to the counter to order our food. Happy at the 'Poundsaver Option,' 5 chicken nuggets for a pound, Fenton asked the girl at the counter for 10 chicken nuggets. She replied "Sorry, we only sell them in 5's." Two weeks later we watched the US documentary "Super Size Me," and have not eaten fast food, especially McDonalds, since and never will again.

A Protestant, who claimed to hate and despise all Catholics and after hearing about the death of the pope, asked a mate of mine, "Is there a pope for every country then?" What can one do but just walk away?

Ehhhhhh.........Waterford?
Overheard this one in a tourist shop in Belfast a few weeks back. The American at the sales counter in front of me asks: "Hey, I've got like, a question, where in Ireland is Waterford Crystal made?"

Fenton recounted this conversation with a colleague at his work...
Fenton: "Finally got to see the dvd Troy the other night, have you seen it yet?"
Colleague: "Yeah."
Fenton: "What did you think of it?"
Colleague: "Ar, it was oright, bit far fetched like, at the end with the soldiers getting out of the horse an' all!" (Not the sharpest tool in the shed).

Classic:
Catching the bus home after a night out in a Belfast pub with Fenton and mates, there were the usual Northern Irish 'chavs' on board all pissed as... and having a few spliffs when the bus driver announced over the intercom...
"I would like to remind people that smoking on a bus is illegal. This doesn't just apply to normal cigarettes. This also applies to hash, hashish, cannabis, cannabis resin, joints, spliffs, pot, weed etc etc so before we all get an attack of the munchies will you lot up the back seats there, put that bloody thing out."

Smartarse...
Overheard: Woman getting onto 27 bus in Lisburn.
Woman: "Are ya going to Carrickfergus?"
Driver: "Yeah."
Woman: "Well it says City Centre on your sign on the front."
Driver: "Yeah? Well it says Cornflakes on the back of the bus but it doesn't mean we sell them."

Written on the back of Boots (chemist) childrens' cough syrup:
'Do not drive a car or operate heavy machinery after taking this medication.'

On the bottom of Tesco's (supermarket) tiramisu dessert:
'Do not turn upsidedown.'

A story related to me...
The charitable mugger:
One day a mate here was waiting for a bus after work, and a few scumbags slithered by. One little bugger demanded £5.00 from him. My mate didn't want his head kicked in, so he gave it to him but told the scumbag he hadn't enough left for his busfare, to which the scumbag replied:
"Don't worry, I'll sort ye out."
Anyway, the bus came along, my mate got on and told the bus driver he hadn't enough for the fare and the driver told him he couldn't let him on. At this point, the scumbag sticks his head in the door and says,
"It's alright. I mugged him. That's why he hasn't enough."
The bus driver's jaw dropped and told my mate to get on the bus real quick. Sorted.

Politically Correct?:
In a coffee bar chatting to a friend about the Phil Lynott, lead singer of the Irish rock band Thin Lizzy...a girl at the next table quickly scorned me for calling him 'black.'
'Ok,' I said, "What should I call him?"
"African American," she said!

A Shed Full O' Laughs:
Fenton's mate was catching an early flight from Belfast City Airport to London and parked in the long term car park. The parking attendant warned him to remove all his personal items and valuables from the car...
" I'm only tellin' ya dis because I can't fit any'tin more into my shed at home."

Like Australia, Ireland has banned smoking from pubs and clubs and resturants; saw the following sign in a pub in Swords, just north of Dublin: 'If we see you smoking, we will assume you are on fire and take appropriate action.' Nice one!

Famine?!...
American Lady: "I thought that all Irish girls were skinny!"
My chubby mate (in embarassment): "Ah well sure, if there's a famine I'll survive the longest!"
American Lady: OH MY GOSH! U guys are gonna have another famine here? When?!?!

A time machine?:
Talking to American tourists in a Belfast pub they said... "We are going to visit England next and we want to see Nelson's Battle of Trafalgar. You wouldn't know how we get there would you?"

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm:
"I saw you the other day but I didn't know it was you cos when I caught up on you, you were gone... was it yourself then?"

On a packet of Sainsbury's (supermarket) peanuts:
'Warning - may contain nuts or trace elements of nuts.'

Weet-thicks!:
One morning, after staying in a Dublin hotel, a mate was eating breakfast and saw an American couple at the next table eating Weetbix with marmalade on it. Then he hears the couple say to a waitress...
"Your brown bread here is very dry. We've heard a lot about your brown bread in America and we didn't think it would be this bad."

Ok, if you insist...
Sign on the upstairs toilet door of a local pub:
'Toilet out of order. Please use floor below.'

One a Kiwi friend at university here related to me...
Getting an education:
On the morning of a history exam, my friends room mate was looking frantically through her history book. My mate asked her what was wrong. The girl said the teacher had mentioned Murphy's law in reference to the exam and that she couldn't find it in the book and didn't know what is was, she then said "But I think it has something to do with the 'home rule movement' in Northern Ireland."

On a Dundalk shop door:
'We can repair anything! Please knock - the bell doesn't work.'

One from a mate on a tour bus in Dublin:
"The day after Paddy's day I was sitting on the tour bus in town and there was these young American tourists (girls) sitting in front of me, they were quiet for a while then one of them turned to her friend and asked... "Why are there so many buildings with the words 'Irish' and or 'Ireland' on them?"

The Plight of the Homeless U2 Fans...
Overheard in Dublin:
Two old dears walking along outside some Ticketmaster outlets the night before the U2 concert tickets went on sale recently. On observing the large number of people in various sleeping bags queuing for the much sought after tickets, one lady said to the other : "Disgusting... And they say there is no homeless problem in this city."

Thicko...
This is just stupid, but I was on the bus yesterday and two fairly posh girls were talking about the recent tsunami disaster. They talked for a while in a pretty ditsy manner before one of them said, "Do people in Thailand not know how to swim then?" (Stop the bus I want to get off!)

The hypocrisy of it all:
Coming home on the bus a few nights back there was this young and heavily pregnant girl smoking a joint and swilling cider the whole way home with her "fella." Coming up to the Lisburn city centre, the bus driver slams on the brakes suddenly and everyone is thrown forward a little. Next thing the girl shouts up "Here be careful driver, I'm bloody pregnant ya know!"

Asking for directions in Ireland:
"So it's the Dublin road you'll be wanting then. Well now, if I was going to Dublin, I wouldn't be starting from here."

Is there a badge that goes with the job?...
The sign on a door of the administration block of a local school reads:
'Assistant Administrative Assistant to the Assistant Principal's Administration Office.'

And another in a department store in Ballymena reads:
'Bargain basement upstairs.'

Round ANZAC Day - a quick history lesson for the locals... Talking to an 'Orish' mate at Sunday breakfast, he said:
'Jaysus, I didn't know there were Australian and New Zealand troops at Gallipoli! I thought it was only the Irish and English. You mean to tell me they were in Vietnam and Korea too? Now there's a thing!'

And lastly, my favourite...
On a local veterinarian's office door:
'BACK IN FIVE MINUTES. SIT! STAY!'

Belfast, Northern Ireland. Still raining!
I've just run downstairs to see why my cat Koshka is delightedly leaping about and purring so loud it sounds like someone revving a Harley and it turns out there's a spider in the bath. But... it's not just any spider either... it's BIG and hairy and ugly and my cat (whose nick name is 'the anti-christ') is cheerfully playing with it! Anyway, the reason for this part of my latest missive is... I've noticed a strange phenomena with my cat. Since we arrived in Northern Ireland... fluffy black wonder cat has decided he likes spiders. When at home in Australia, in his 14 years, Koshka would have NEVER gone near a spider. In Oz, the sight of a spider would send him running, howling and hissing in panic and he'd not be comforted for hours. He would have never approached one, certainly never played with one, torturing it happily, as he's doing now. I've tried to approach him to remove aforemention big hairy ugly nasty looking beast and the cat's not having it; in fact he's hissing at me to back off. So... this is what I want to know... how does he know the spiders in this country cannot hurt him? They look the same; they act the same; in appearance just as creepy as Aussie spiders, but they can't kill him as the deadly Australian spiders can... so how does he know?

Have just learned that the Irish army regiments always wear shamrocks in their jackets on St. Patricks Day and that incongrously, all the shamrocks are imported from Australia. HA! Now I know what St. Patrick did with all the snakes!

So... shopping the other day in Belfast, Fenton and I walked out of a crowded Castle Court shopping centre and into a carpet of pigeons. 'There's a lot of vermin in this city,' I remark disgustedly. 'Yes,' says Fenton, 'And there's a lot of pigeons too!' Sadly, in Belfast litter covers every footpath and gutter and I'm wondering if the city council employs street sweepers. Trash cans are few and far between... and I can understand the reasoning behind the fact that there are so few as, in the past, people put bombs in them... but now that's kinda over, bins have not been replaced. People think nothing of throwing their crisp packets, empty drink bottles and cans and cigarette butts straight onto the street or out the car window. Cigarette butts thrown out the car window! As an Australian, this horrifys me... do that in Oz and 100,000 hectares of pristine bush land and rain forrest burst into flames and go up in smoke! A South African mate the other day was telling me that she spoke to a kid in the street telling him to pick up his rubbish that he's just casually thrown into someone's garden while walking past... and she was right royally told to ***k off and threatened with a broken bottle. This type of behaviour is right across the board here with people of all ages showing little respect for their enviroment and none at all for those trying to protect it. Only 8% of people here re-cycle! It's not for nothing that Belfast has been voted "Europes Dirtiest City" for 5 years in a row. Lou Reed, should he ever visit, would be tempted to compose "An Even Dirtier Boulevard."

I gave Fenton a challange when he asked what I wanted for my last birthday... 'Something Australian,' I said with an evil grin. I thought it was virtually impossible to buy any Australian product in Belfast - whereas in Dublin and London they are fortunate enough to have Aussie stores catering to homesick Australians who want that little taste of home. Apart from the ubiquitous toy koalas and kangaroos, boomerangs, digeridoos and Vegimite these shops always stock - one can buy over the counter or online, Twisties (bloody ripper!) Samboy chips (bloody ripper!) Cherry Ripes (ok, so not so fond of them), or Caramello Koala's (bloody ripper!) Areoplane Jelly, Golden Circle Pineapple, confectionery, soft drinks and booze etc etc. So Fenton takes up the challange and tries to find me something Australian... in Belfast. Me thinks... nup, he's got Buckley's chance. But wow... I must say he completely out did himself and I was not just stunned and delighted, I was - as they say here - gobsmacked! The birthday gift was absolutely superb... a gold ring of three Australian fire opals from Lightning Ridge set in a line with two Western Australian diamonds. It is to die for and geeeeeeze... I would have been over the moon happy with a packet of Twisties! He also gave me a pair of Australian Ugg Boots. Ah ha! He's noticed that I turn blue if the temp drops below 20C (ie: all the time) and he's sick of me complaining of cold feet... so now I have deliciously warm and toastie feet and have taken to wearing the Ugg boots all the time even... (shock horror)... out of the house. No fashion conscious, self respecting Aussie would dream of wearing Ugg boots out of the house... but a strange thing happened a few years back. Some American half-wit poser actress/singer with no dress sense visited Oz, bought a pair and thought 'cool... I'll wear them to the next Grammy's.' Suddenly Australian Ugg boots are a fashion icon and the thing... but we Aussie's tend to think this is ultra strange in that we only wear them as slippers to lounge about in when we couldn't be bothered to get our arses off the couch.

Fenton became quite worried about me before Xmas. Homesickness reduced me to tears on several ocassions and I became a morbidly complaining horrible witch (ok, so not much of a change from my usual self, some would admit)... but at the time I was reducing all of Northern Ireland in my mind to a nuclear waste dump 20 times a day. Nothing it seemed, could cure my longing for home... a lot of my homesick blues centered on having to wear 5 layers of thermals to keep warm and being rained upon every day and missing the feel of the sun on my skin. Fenton decided then to try to find Australian 'things' to try to cheer me up... and although I'm not as homesick as I was, I still miss Oz to an enormous degree... but I am happier. The happiness stems, not from watching 'Neighbours' or 'Home and Away,' shown on British tv every day... and trust me... I could never be that desperate - but from Fenton going out of his way to find Aussie things for me to connect to. So far he has come up with... Vegimite - shark meat (sold here for a staggering £40 a kilo!) - kangaroo steaks (for the outrageous £22 a kilo - for what is essentially road kill) and I don't know any Aussie who eats it apart from my cat. Fentons Aussie product hunts have also been fruitful in finding Goulburn Valley peaches, SPC pears, Victorian cherries, Queensland macadamia nut oil, Rip Curl and Billabong t-shirts, Arnott's Pizza Shapes (but sadly not the BBQ or Savoury Shapes that are my favourites) Australian bush plum bbq marinades, Arnotts Tim Tams, ANZAC bikkies, pirri pirri sauce, and crocodile steaks. I'm not going to mention the price of the croc steaks because any Aussie reading this will just die of laughter. He's even found my favourite Australian wine... the magnificant merlot of "Ironstone" from Western Australia's wine growing region of Margaret River. He even found Australian rock salt... and hey, salt is salt but what the hell, he bought some anyway.

Anyway... quite a few weeks back, much encouraged by Fenton, I joined a web forum catering to Australians abroard and recieved an email from a lovely lady from Beaudesert - Queensland. Except (!) that she's not in Queensland but in the town of Holywood (the original 'Hollywood') just outside Belfast. We exhanged numbers and spent a long afternoon yabbering on and on about life in Northern Ireland. She and her husband and two children have been here for 3 years and mine was the 1st Australian accent she'd heard in over 2 years. We now have a close knit enclave of various Aussie's, Kiwi's and South African's... in a kinda Southern Hemisphere club, with get-togethers for breakfast every Sunday plus lunches, nights out and bbq's. We've set ourselves challanges to come up with suppliers of much missed goodies from home - my task this week was to find Savanna Cider and Castle beer from South Africa and the spice Aromat. The one and only Asian supermarket in Belfast was my only option and after much hunting I'll be able to (proudly) hand over the Aromat spice to the Saffas (South Africans) next Sunday. Savanna Cider I've found is going to be on the shelves next June in a local supermarket thanks to firing off an email to a SA company that has a division in England and who are constantly being hasseled by South Africans who live in the UK.

Fenton though (superior being that he is)... holds onto his title of Lord and Master of the Universe in his hunting down of what he calls 'foreign' products. His email to Bundaberg in Queensland produced a reply from the ever-so-nice people that make Bundy telling us where we could buy Bundaberg Rum in Belfast. Fenton's piece de resistance though was his glorious finding of the illustrious, much missed, much longed for and divine VB! Yes, Victoria Bitter! Loved and adored by all Australians. Our fridge is now full! He also found... completely overwhelming our Southern Hemisphere Club... the Aussie's beers of - Toohey's, Hahn, Crown Lager, Carlton Colds, Boags and Coopers, plus the South Africa beer of Castle and the New Zealand's Waikato Draught. We are all mightily impressed with him... and dubbed him an honourary Australian, South African and NZedder.

Last Sunday I thrilled one of the Aussies at brekkie by gifting her an Australian potato peeler. She held her gift proudly aloft showing everyone and to a person... they pounced. Suddenly the whole table was in an uproar - of WOWS! Holy crap Sem where did you score that? Where can I get one? Gods - I've longed for one of them! And here's the strange thing... everyone was dead serious! Having lived in London for a while - way back when - I frequently gave myself sore wrists trying to use one of the lousy excuses for potato peelers they use in the UK. I don't know what it is about them... but they are complete and utter rubbish and there's just something so unatural about the design. While waiting 6 weeks for my container of household goods to arrive in Northern Ireland, I was forced to use a British PP and I can't tell you the amount of times I hurled the offending piece of kitchen equipment across the room and stamped off in a huff. Fenton... upon using my Aussie PP after unpacking my kitchen goods, was pleased and suprised at the ease of using it and grudgingly had to admit... they are far superior. I now have strict orders to supply everyone with an Aussie PP. As I look at the design of the Australian PP, I think... there's nothing special about it - nor is there anything special about peeling potato's in general... but I'm all for any product that makes my time in the kitchen easier and the Aussie PP is tops in my book!

On the subject of potato's... you'd think that Ireland and Northern Ireland would have a decent selection of potato's given their main industry is agriculture. But no! Isn't that wyrrd! I mean, this is Ireland for gods sake! The potato in Ireland is a historical icon! In Oz I can buy 20 different types, depending where I shop... but here I can find only three different varieties in the major supermarkets and two of them are imported from Portugal and Cyprus! Importing potato's INTO Ireland? HUH? And the Irish variety is more expensive than the imported. HUH? So now I have seen everything... importing shamrocks and potatos into Ireland, Guinness of St. James Gate, Dublin is owned by the French company Pernod and all of this virtually means... there is nothing, simply nothing, in this world that is sacred anymore.

Must tell you of the wonderful visitors who graced our home during the Summer... My baby brother and his fabulous wife. I was so excited to have them here after long months of seperation from anything remotely Australian and I must say it was great to hear the much missed Aussie accent. Day one was a welcoming afternoon of exploring the village where Fenton and I have our home with dinner later at our fav local pub. Sister in law insists on paying for everything. Day two was a drive up to the North Antrim Coast and the Giants Causeway and sister in law insists on paying for everything. This is a trip I know I'll be repeating again and again for the rest of my stay here... Having been there nine times now - I'm given to warning potential visitors that I may not be the best company should they wish to visit the Giants Causeway. Thrilling tho' my 1st visit was, I now have a 'been there - done that' attitude which is engraved into my soul. Later that night Fenton's family had the 4 of us to dinner... a massive roast, plenty of drinks and a long getting to know everyone session. Just lovely!

Day three was great! We had a wander round the city centre, and a nice pub lunch with sister in law insisting she pay for everything. Belfast has been voted Europes' dirtiest city so I'm keen to see their impression. Belfast tourism operate tour buses on a daily basis from Castle Place, right in the heart of Belfast city centre, offering visitors the best way to see Belfast. The tours cost £8- for each person (Sister in law insisted on paying but was pipped at the post by Fenton) and the cost seems a lot just to be driven round a drab and grey city but what a great surprise...

The tours, from an open top red double decker bus cover: Belfast city centre, the Titanic Quarter (Harland and Wolfe Shipyards),the Cathedral Quarter, the political districts (Wall Murals/Shankill Road/Falls Road) the University district and the nightlife areas of pubs, clubs and restaurants. Each tour features a live commentary supplied by a lively and educated local guide, and is really good craic! Our tour guide, who introduces himself as "Billy" is informed, articulate and full of wit. It threatens to rain but not detered we clammer to the upper deck to get the best view.

The tour winds it's way round the Belfast city centre with Billy pointing out numerous historical buildings and our 1st stop is the site where the Titanic was built. The dry dock where the ship was constructed is now a paved over unused car park and covered in weeds, broken concrete and surrounded by derelict and decaying buildings. Billy touches on the history of it's maiden voyage, the tragic sinking but points out that "although the Titanic was built in Belfast...the Captain was English, the Chief Engineer was Scottish, the iceberg was Canadian... so it wasn't our fault!" During the construction, practically every home in the suburbs surrounding Harland and Wolfe benefited from the building of the Titanic... Original mouldings, stairways, doors, beautifully crafted bathroom fittings, light fixtures, kitchen wares, rugs and carpets and linens were secreted out by sneaky (theiving bastard) ship builders and used to enhance their home decor. Titanic 'bathrooms' exist to this day in Belfast. One chap at the time, suspected of stealing from his work place and was closely watched as he left work each night, pushing his personal tools home in a wheelbarrow. It took security months and months to figure out that what he was in fact stealing was... the wheelbarrows. I've brushed on the subject of the in a previous journal entry but with approx' 3,500,000 web sites dedicated to the ship, I figure anyone who wishes to know more can simply look it up for themselves.

The bus tour moves onto the Odyessy Arena, home to the Harp Larger Belfast Giants ice hockey team... in the spirit of reconncilliation and harmony, Protestant and Catholic Belfast city fathers (probably after way to much Guinness) decided that was the city needed was not better infrastructure, nor more cash for local government agencies and private sector organizations but... an ice hockey team. Incongruously, each and every member of the team is... Canadian.

We drive round the Albert memorial Clock tower in Victoria St built in 1865 by WJ Barre. Leaning to 1.25 metres (4 feet) off the vertical, the Clock’s unsteadiness is due to the fact that it was built on land reclaimed from the river. It looks ready to fall over, much like the leaning Tower of Pisa. The tower is 35 metres (113 feet) high and centres around Prince Albert, Victoria’s consort. Crowned lions holding shields and floral decoration surround the clock itself. We pass Bittels Bar in Victoria Sq. built in 1868 by Thomas Jackson & Son. It's Belfast’s only “flat-iron building," it is also notable for its polychrome brickwork. The lounge is decorated with portraits of Ireland’s literary heroes, including Wilde, Yeats, Joyce and Beckett. It was once a favourite haunt of theatre-folk, and was known as The Shakespeare.

The bus trundles pass Crown Liquor Salon, mentioned in a previous journal entry, which is in Great Victoria St. Drinkers of the city know well it and tend to avoid it and the masses of tourists that pack into it for lunch and drinks. It's opulent marble, brilliant Italian tilework, fine glass engraving, dark embossed ceiling and cosy booths are bedecked with gryphons and lions. Panels in the restaurant on the first floor were meant for Brittanic, Titanic’s sister ship but somehow found their way to this pub. Those sneaky theiving bastards again. Built in 1839-1840, the couple that owned it were of "a mixed marriage." Unique in the world... a "mixed marriage" in Northern Ireland does not mean people of different races/colours happily getting it together... but when a Protestant marries a Catholic - a situation which is generally frowned upon. The wife... being Protestant wanted to call the pub the Crown and the Catholic husband only agreed after deciding to place a mosaic of the British royal crown on ground at the front entrance to the bar... so everyone entering could wipe their feet on it.

We take in St. Malachy's church in Alfred St. 1840-1844. The castle-like exterior and studded Tudorstyle door of St Malachy’s opens onto an incredible interior with a ceiling like an insideout wedding cake. In 1868, the largest bell turret in Belfast was added to the church. It was taken away shortly afterwards, due to complaints that its deafening noise interfered with the maturing of the whiskey in Dunville’s distillery nearby. The Irish take their whiskey VERY seriously! Next we pass Belfasts Grand Opera House - 1894-1895 Matcham, it's designer was the leading theatre architect of his time. I notice the twin domes, Moorish lanterns and ornamental pediments. Restored in 1980 following bomb damage and years of dereliction, and bombed twice since. Now restored to glory, and hopefully free of more terrorist attacks, it's the centrepiece of Belfast’s `Golden Mile’. Further into the tour was pass City Hall, a fine example of the classical Renaissance style, it's an Edwardian masterpiece built in 1906 from Portland stone with it's ornate dome, grand staircase, oak furnished Council Chamber and John Luke murals. The City Hall interior is said to be close to the design of the Titanic interiors.

From there it's past St Anne’s Cathedral, designed in a Hiberno-Romanesque’ style, which took 77 years to complete. It is also known as Belfast Cathedral and the most visited attraction in Belfast. This Anglican (Episcopal) Cathedral was built using Irish marbles, mosaics and stained glass. The pipe organ is the largest in Northern Ireland. The building has the largest Celtic cross in Ireland. The founder of the original parish church which stood on the site before the construction of the cathedral, was built by the Marquis of Donegall, who decided to name it after his first wife, (née Lady Anne Hamilton) by way of a memorial to her. It is for this reason therefore that the Church is dedicated to St Anne, the "Mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary." St Anne is most well known as a saint in Brittany. There is no evidence to suggest that Belfast Cathedral ever kept the Feast Day of St Anne - 26 July - as its patronal festival (as is the tradition of the Anglican Church). More emphasis seems to have been placed on the 'Anniversary of the Consecration of the Nave.' This idiosyncrasy continues to the present day.

The Queen's University of Belfast is a major university catering for most disciplines of study. It plays an important role in the educational as well as industrial and cultural activities of the province. The university hosts the annual Belfast Arts Festival. The main building, with cloisters and an entrance tower, was designed by Lanyon in 1849 and has a similar architecture to that of Magdalen College, Oxford AND Australia's Melbourne University on Royal Parade.

As we drive into West Belfast, our tour guide tells us "we are entering the Catholic enclave of the Falls Road and my name is now Liam. If anything ticking is thrown into the bus, you are on your own." As a relative newcomer to Belfast, the whole Shankhill / Falls Road thing is still an alien concept. From the past news coverage, any visitor would be forgiven for thinking that there is constant trouble with defenceless pedestrians dodging wayward bullets. In the case of the Falls Road, the truth is that it has become a bit of a tourist hot-spot, with sightseeing buses trundling through on the hour every hour. Nowadays the arrival of the out-of-towners, heads at their windows, clicking away with cameras, searching for the excitement, is the main attraction of the street. One knows when one is on the Falls Road in West Belfast when the street names are in Gaelic. Belfast is in need of a cultural injection so why not start with the street names? Yeah right... As one progress down the road, I begin to feel a little cheated. It's actually really dull! The most exciting thing likely to happen is the massive crush from the awful traffic of sight-seeing tours. We drive past the HQ of Sinn Fein, the political wing of the Provisional IRA and it's a drab and ugly office block of brick and stucco circa 1950's, with metal grills covering every window and door. The murals on the Falls are excellent with their painstaking detail, and add a much needed burst of colour along with the Irish tri-colour flags that adorn the lamp posts. There is no denying that the road is overtly political and the Garden of Remembrance and Milltown Cemetery serve as a constant reminder of Northern Ireland's chequered history.

Liam changes his name back to Billy when we enter the Protestant Shankhill area. He asks that "anyone who feels the need to make the sign of the cross or genuflect, could you kindly refrain from doing so until we leave the area." One of the first things that you notice about the Shankhill Road, is its size. It's not very big. It's about half the size of the Falls and seems a lot shorter. The second is that Belfast Council seems to be very fond of traffic lights, as every two steps you are guaranteed to have at least two sets!

The striking thing about the Shankhill is the name of the shops. There's the usual Shankhill Hardware and Shankhill Furnishings. But the strange thing is that everybody seems to want to have his or her name above the shop door. There's Len's Kebabs and Violet's Fruit Shop and Clarke's Fuels. Maybe it builds a sense of community, as you are guaranteed to come across two-dozen names as you drive along. The best thing is the KFC. It's not just called the 'KFC Drive Thru', no, its called the 'Shankhill KFC Drive Thru' with handy posters and signs in case you ever lose you way and forget where you are. Don't ever let it be said that these multi-national corporations lack an imagination.

The murals on the Shankhill are often curiously different. On one side you have the usual gun-totting, military and balaclava look with men dressed in black and trying hard to look menacing. But then there are the ones of the Queen Elizabeth and the Queen Mother. What is it about the Queens face in that whatever she appears on, she seems to have had a facelift that makes her look about twenty years younger? Whether it is on a fifty pence piece or on the side of a gable wall she always looks amazingly youthful. Of course, it's probably better that she looks younger than older, as the murals purpose is not for scaring small children. The one of the Queen Mother is the best. Her eyes have been painted in a way that makes them look as if they are following you around the road - or maybe that is the idea. Red white and blue flags crisscross the entire length of the street with every building sporting the Union Jack and yet more bunting. Curb stones are painted in the same red, white and blue... a New Zealander at the front of the bus asks why and is told that Belfast is the twin city of Paris... yeah right... no! It's to show the solidarity of the people with British rule in Northern Ireland. Billy takes the time to tease the New Zealanders warning everyone to always avoid NZedders as "if you take one home with you, you'll be tripping over back-packs for weeks and weeks."

Our final night together was spent at home in the company of a few dvd's, much laughter and a few drinks. An early start sees my brother and his wife off to the Belfast City Airport and onto France. I beleive it was about then my homesickness for Australia kicked in and I spent the next few months ignoring everyone and everything including Ancient Worlds.

I cannot think of a more expressive way other than writing the word 'SHITE' to adequately sum up my last visit to Scotland. I have been sea sick once before in my life despite actually 'living' at sea for four years and travelling the world aboard cargo ships, facing hurricanes aboard oil tankers, living through cylcones aboard gas carriers and putting up with tourists aboard cruise liners... yet the one and only time I was sea-sick before this trip to Scotland was on the same stretch of water I'm faced with now and way back then it was on a ferry crossing from Holyhead in Wales to Dun Laoghaire, the port city of Dublin. The memory of that crossing some 20 years ago remained vivid and horrifying to memory as Fenton and I joined friends in Belfast and made our way on board the Sea Cat that was to take us out over Belfast Lough, the Irish Sea and to the port of Troon in Scotland. 'Shite' is such a clarifying word and completely sums the whole experience and I must say... that unless Scottish weather improves, and someone concretes the entire Irish Sea so I can drive across without getting my feet wet, I'll not be going back.

Let me just add that, although their weather may be horrible, the Scottish themselves appear to be warm and inviting... a great pity though that I didn't actually get to meet to talk to and appreciate any Scot's while in Scotland, I met numerous English, tons of Poles, a few Hungarians, Italians, Bavarians and many Irish, including the contingent I was with but no actual Scots apart from one bar manager who was so horrified at how cold I was... handed over an entire bottle of Drambuie (free) and said 'ach drink up ye poor wee thing noo,' before soundly mouthing off at Fenton for bringing me to Scotland!

From Troon it's a two hour drive from the ferry landing, skirting Glasgow to a cold and considerably wet field near Stirling and the site of the Battle of Bannockburn. My coveting eyes glaze over the 3 star King Robert Hotel as we (inexplicably) drive past it and on to the camping ground. Let me say right off... I'm not into camping. I'm more the 5 star kinda gal (but will put up with 3 star) who likes to have all mod cons, including spas and room service. I am showing willing though (through gritted teeth I'm smiling and trying to get into the spirit of the thing) while all the time listening to Fenton saying 'this is going to be great fun!' I'm pretty convinced through my own bias, that he is lying. Dear sweet man... he's been looking forward to this event for a year and aren't I being a drag! The tent is up and seems dry enough... I have an air bed with a huge chunky down filled quilt, 4 blankets and two pillows... all water proof, so I'm told. Yeah right!

The camp gradually fills up, the traders set up their stalls, cars pilled high with Medieval battle equipment disgorge re-enactors in their hundreds and Fenton raises my huge Australian flag outside our tent. Our un-merry team of re-enactors have decided to (in solidarity) pretend to be Australian all weekend and walk about saying 'it's bloody cold enough to bloody freeze the bloody balls of a bloody dingo mate!' STRUTH!

We find a supermarket in the town of Bannockburn... and heap tons of munchies and alcohol into the trolley. One of our team buys warm bottles of the ultra wyrrd Goblin's Old Peculiar (which was) and back at the camp we have a hurried camp fire meal of bacon and egg rolls. By the time the weekend is over... I can no longer eat bacon, bread or eggs and refuse drink from any bottle with the word 'peculiar' written on it.

In June, 690 years ago, the English were roundly defeated by the Scots in a battle that remains a defining moment in Scottish history. The forces of Edward II of England and Robert the Bruce of Scotland met on the flat land south of Stirling in the parish of St. Ninians. Edward had accepted the challange to relieve the forces of Stirling Castle, one of the few castles in Scotland still under English control. The Scottish forces, although smaller, used superior tactics and position to win an herioc victory and soundly thrash the larger English cavalry force from the field and importantly... from Scotland. The battle marked the end to English pretensions to control the north. History lesson over... and back to me!

What a cold, ungrateful bitch I'm proving to be. I'm getting wet and I don't like it. The steady patter of rain drums on the tent, adding to my woe. Outside, bedragled groups of wet, woollen clad die-hards huddle defiantly around a miserable fire that chokes, splutters and fans a cloying wealth of smoke with very little flame or actual warmth. They talk of past shows, of better weather and catch up with friends whom they have not seen for a year or more. I'm mouthing off at Fenton (poor thing) for bringing me to such a drenched, wretched and misberable place ... Day Two, and after a restless night listening to the wind howl and the rain pour down, I'm so annoyed I could kill. Two totally drunken blokes in the next tent are arguing over the South African battle of Rourkes Drift in which they are saying that the Zulu forces were inadequate to the task of fighting against the wrath of British Colonial Imperialism. Well... the Zulu's won Isambwana, the guys in the next tent are not only inconsiderate to those of us trying to sleep but are also dead wrong in their conclusions and I wish at 5am they'd shut the $%£& up! SCUNNERS, the lot of them! Incidently... there's a great pub called Rourke's Drift in Chapel Street, South Yarra - Melbourne, Victoria, Australia... and they do great beef jerky. There's one in Darwin too, decorated the same... with Zulu paraphinalia and surprisingly not one photo of Michael Caine. Quote: 'Not a lot of people know that.' Unquote. 6am and some other arsehole (Scotland at this point in time seems to be full of them) is playing Scotland The Brave on the bagpipes. They guys in the opposite encampment have decided to strip him naked and shove his pipes up his kilt then burn his tent to the ground. They needn't have bothered... during the night 8 tents, including the one belonging to the lone piper have blown away in the gale taking the occupants with them.

The Scottish National Heritage records that visitors to the re-enactment of the Battle of Bannockburn prove to be in access of 14,000. The events kick off each day with Fenton and his mates getting dressed for battle. There are so many weapons here! I want to take the biggest claymore I can find and ram it down the throat of the next person who says,' bit wet isn't it.' I tell you... Had Fenton allowed me the use of his claymore... I would have taken the heads off each and every bastard who told me to 'cheer up' that weekend. Fenton decides early on to hide all sharp objects from me... as soon as it began raining I couldn't even find my nail file but everyone here is armed to the teeth and I'm thinking how easy it could be to lay my hands on something pointy, spikey and Medieval. 'Please pass me my gambeson,' says Fenton. I look at the equipment a little dumbfounded by the mass of it all. Which bit is which? And a gambeson is what exactly? Coif? Hose? Helm? Arming cap? Lobster gauntlets? Ah... Chain mail... I recognise that bit by it's sheer weight and the fact that it weighs the car down so much so the rear axel scrapes the road... and am once again amazed by the weight of it all. Undeterred by the constant rain (sleet by this time) and the fact that chain mail rusts, the re-enactors march round the arena much to the joy of the 1000's of people who have flocked to the site to see the spectacle. It rains copious amounts and I'm thinking that any moment now, someone is going to have to build an Ark. But it's a case of bum's on seats, and the show must go on.

There's an archery display in the afternoon... and although both Fenton and I are members of the Northern Irish based archery group in attendance, I decline to join in. I can't get my hands to work. I've gone way beyond cold and am now simply numb and the meer thought of drawing a simple 28lb long bow cramps my fingers. STRUTH! The main event begins at 3pm following a muster of troops which is announced by a full pipe band marching up to the the Bannockburn monument and around the statue of Robert the Bruce. And there sits the effigy of King Robert... looking all masculine, regal and in charge "atop 'is big white horsey wi' the curtains aboot it."

Some 400 re-enactors take the field to re-stage the the battle. I'm sitting at the side of the field watching and ready to take photo's when the huge Scottish bloke next to me with an even bigger Scottish flag screams abuse at the English and encourges his fellow countrymen to do likewise. And so they do. The English are roundly sneered at, booed, hissed at and yelled into loosing the re-enectment of a battle they lost for real over 600 years ago. It's all in good fun, but one can truly imagine the depth of feeling generated by Scottish pride to see the English forces sound roundly beaten. The formidable Scottish troops are pulling into siltrons against the English advance. These tightly formed units are bristling with pole arms that prove to be awesome. They raise deafening cheers from the watching crowds much as Angus Og MacDonalds men must have done in 1314. The crowd goes wild for the battle of words between Edward and King Robert... even though this didn't happen during the real battle... Later at the bar I get talking to both re-enactors that played the principle characters and discover that the chappie playing the part of Robert the Bruce was born in England and the re-enactor playing the English Edward II was born in Scotland. Fenton and his mates are fighting on the English side, despite being Irish and compatriots of the Scots they follow the age old tradition of NOT being fans of Robert the Bruce (nb: read the Irish history of Ulster to find out why)... and although I try to keep my eye on him, there are so many on the field I loose sight at every turn. There's a Canadian friend from Belfast wacking at some poor Scot with her sword; his shield is down, he's on the ground and I'm thinking 'yeah, go girl!' The voluable Scot next to me in the crowd cries foul play and the call is taken up by hundred's. Just as Miss Canada puts the boot in and I'm snapping a photo... my erstwhile neighbours flag wraps itself about my face and the camera. There'll be no record of this for the English to gloat over. Hail starts to drive into me. Scottish resilence amazes me... they turn out in their thousands in wretched weather to celebrate their culture and watch the English get kicked in the face. A kid complains to his father that the seat is wet, he's cold and he wants to go home. He's told to shut the %$^& up, sit down, stop complaining and watch the English take a beating. The kid is more than gratified when the battle re-enactment winds it way to it's conclusion with the re-enactors rushing the huge crowd with a blood-thristy cry that would have chilled my bones... were I not already suffering from hypothermia. I'm knee deep in mud. EVERYTHING is knee deep in mud. A bloke offers me £100 for the Wellington's and water-proof clothing I'm wearing... I'm considering that if he ups the offer to a fully paid for - two week vacation for two in Singapore (with drink, meal vouchers and £5000 spending money), he's got a deal. The beer tent is open and all the re-enactors head for the bar. Fenton and his mates decided to stay in their battle gear as it's warm; they're straight from the battle field and sweating like pigs in a sauna. The beer taste proves to be much the same. I'm amusing myself by watching the re-enactors walking into the tent and getting their boots stuck in mud before they even make it to the bar... Yet more re-enactors head for the traders tents to purchase authentic medieval fabrics from Bernie the Bolt, mead from the monks of Iona, patterned leather tankards, Medieval replicated coins minted on the spot, period costumes, pottery and wooden swords for the kids; 'toys for the boys' style traders do a huge business selling chain mail, helms and shields and I make my way to the overly disgusting porta-loos to stand in line and wait to spend a penny. Not much need to point this out but... I'm having a really crappy time.

I make the mistake of eating a bread roll chockers to the brim with Angus beef and gravy and spend the rest of the night crawling from our tent, donning the water-proofs and struggling into the afore-mentioned and yet even MORE disgusting than ever porta-loos. Fenton has booked us into the King Robert Hotel for our last night. I love this man... though I wish he would not keep saying, 'Only 18 hours to go Sem, before we are in the hotel and we can have a shower.' My mind drifts to Qantas who, in 18 hours could fly me to Sentosa beach in Singapore. My teeth are still grinding but my mood is lightened by Fenton's gift of a gargoyle statue. It's green... and has an ugly, frightful look on it's little screwed up face. I promptly name it "Bannockburn" in memory of an insufferably wet, cold and miserable weekend.

The hours drift by... I'm too tired and way too cold to take down our tent and with Fenton's approval, leave a sign on it that reads 'free to a good home.' I find out later that it's ended up in Donegal. Possibly the wind simply picked it up and dumped it there. Now I'm standing in the shower in our hotel room and I've been standing, luxuriating under the steam, the warmth and the glow of the hot water for close to two hours. Only an invitation to the bar and a decent dinner could coax me out. The invitation is forethcoming and we make our way to the bar. Drenched fellow archers and re-enactors from Belfast (who have still to spend a night camping), sit huddled round the open fire and I gladly hand over our room key to any of the group who liked to partake of a hot shower. All present made a grab for the key then after, join us in the bar for drinks. Fenton and his mates are eating the haggis with a whiskey sauce... I'm having the fish, drinks are bountiful, the company pleasant and yet I want my bed. I wish to sleep the sleep of the dead and wake up back in Australia where I know the sun is out; it is hot and I'm getting a tan as opposed to a freezing windburn.

Next morning...Back to Troon... the forecast tells us that gale force winds are due for our crossing. I despise the Irish Sea! We manage to make the last car ferry; all others are cancelled due to bad weather. No surprises there. The road via Glasgow is cut due to flooding