Good craic was had (part two) ...
Ah yes, the good craic. I don't think it's possible to have bad craic, even in Northern Ireland, which forms part of the United Kingdom and is separate from Ireland. That's what the Irish Republican Army is all about.
After my night in the car, I fortunately heeded the words of the Lonely Planet (yet again) and took the coastal road from Belfast to Derry via the Giant's Causeway. It didn't disappoint and would be right up there with the Great Ocean Road as one of the world's most beautiful and awe inspiring drives. It was hard keeping my eyes on the road.
The rock formations at the Giant's Causeway - more than 40,000 of them - are unreal. Words might be able to describe them, it's just that I can't at the moment. Instead, here's a photo of me with some of them, although the picture hardly does the causeway (or yours truly) any justice at all.
Then it was off to a nice bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Derry. The thought of sleeping in the trusty Toyota had again crossed my mind, but my back and other people's noses applauded the decision to have a hot shower and somewhere comfortable to sleep.
The road signs actually refer to the city as Londonderry. The name is a subject to the long-running dispute between nationalists and unionists (read my IRA comments above).
True to form, I took heaps of pictures of the many murals in Derry providing reminders of the country's violent past, which was just as well, because on returning to Belfast later in the day, I consequently got lost and ran out of time to see the other murals there.
It was a costly side trip but one that I don't regret making. Now, I have to make the decision where to go next as from a month today, I'll be back on a plane to the United States of America. Pardon the pun, but time is flying.
After my night in the car, I fortunately heeded the words of the Lonely Planet (yet again) and took the coastal road from Belfast to Derry via the Giant's Causeway. It didn't disappoint and would be right up there with the Great Ocean Road as one of the world's most beautiful and awe inspiring drives. It was hard keeping my eyes on the road.
The rock formations at the Giant's Causeway - more than 40,000 of them - are unreal. Words might be able to describe them, it's just that I can't at the moment. Instead, here's a photo of me with some of them, although the picture hardly does the causeway (or yours truly) any justice at all.Then it was off to a nice bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Derry. The thought of sleeping in the trusty Toyota had again crossed my mind, but my back and other people's noses applauded the decision to have a hot shower and somewhere comfortable to sleep.
The road signs actually refer to the city as Londonderry. The name is a subject to the long-running dispute between nationalists and unionists (read my IRA comments above).True to form, I took heaps of pictures of the many murals in Derry providing reminders of the country's violent past, which was just as well, because on returning to Belfast later in the day, I consequently got lost and ran out of time to see the other murals there.
It was a costly side trip but one that I don't regret making. Now, I have to make the decision where to go next as from a month today, I'll be back on a plane to the United States of America. Pardon the pun, but time is flying.
posted by Jay Bee @ 1:36 AM
3 Comments:
At 2:04 PM,
Anonymous said…
The D'A (out of Chambers) with a word on the Irish.
For centuries now these pale, stirdy folk have softened the under-belly of humanity. Born to the lagging comic's last resort humour ("an Irishman and an..."), they have long been a skid mark on the underpants of humanity. Berty O'Herne never joined G-Dub and his gun-wielding possie at Rancho Relaxo to discuss Yassa. And saddly all too publicly we all empathasised with Ireland's first and only competitive world-class swimmer (whom my Associates report now drives for Guinness).
Your Honour I call my next witness: the cold hard facts.
The Irish brought us the corner pub and tapped black amber. Though the contemporary metro-third-world African lays claim to the humble spud, the Irish brought us the Potatoe Famine. Who else was so brazen to tell the world of a talking horse with a spere for a nose or little talking green men? Where else do grown men wield solid wooden clubs dangerously close to an opponent's and team mate's head in pursuit of an equally solid ball in a game so foreign to the free-world? Only in Ireland can men in Orange fight men in green... brown... black... any colour really so long as he's a Mick? In return, where else can a Mick charge a pub sky-high because it's Orange? Who else could convince the free-Christain world to take a public holiday to honour a man from Wales? Where but for Ireland is it considered as socially accepatable to utter 'tetar tetar tetar' to oneself as bending over backwards to kiss someones stone (as my Partner in Crime J to the B reports)? Members of the Jury charge your pints for Ireland... the 'other Mother Land.
The hearing continues.
At 2:05 PM,
Anonymous said…
The D'A (out of Chambers) with a word on the Irish.
For centuries now these pale, stirdy folk have softened the under-belly of humanity. Born to the lagging comic's last resort humour ("an Irishman and an..."), they have long been a skid mark on the underpants of world affairs. Berty O'Herne never joined G-Dub and his gun-wielding possie at Rancho Relaxo to discuss Yassa. And saddly all too publicly we all empathasised with Ireland's first and only competitive world-class swimmer (whom my Associates report now drives for Guinness).
Your Honour I call my next witness: the cold hard facts.
The Irish brought us the corner pub and tapped black amber. Though the contemporary metro-third-world African lays claim to the humble spud, the Irish brought us the Potatoe Famine. Who else was so brazen to tell the world of a talking horse with a spere for a nose or little talking green men? Where else do grown men wield solid wooden clubs dangerously close to an opponent's and team mate's head in pursuit of an equally solid ball in a game so foreign to the free-world? Only in Ireland can men in Orange fight men in green... brown... black... any colour really so long as he's a Mick? In return, where else can a Mick charge a pub sky-high because it's Orange? Who else could convince the free-Christain world to take a public holiday to honour a man from Wales? Where but for Ireland is it considered as socially accepatable to utter 'tetar tetar tetar' to oneself as bending over backwards to kiss someones stone (as my Partner in Crime J to the B reports)? Members of the Jury charge your pints for Ireland... the 'other Mother Land.
The hearing continues.
At 6:08 PM,
Anonymous said…
Dude,
Enjoying yor blog entries...
now, email me!
Cheers
Murf
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