Christmas in Portstewart

This journal has nothing to do with cycling. It is about friendship we share with and the hospitality we received from the family friends in Northern Ireland. Why Northern Ireland? A place torn by and infamous for sectarial violence. Well, there are people who have come into our life by their kindness shown to Zahir the time he went boarding in Choleraine, a small town in on the north coast of Northern Ireland. But again, why go to school in Northern Ireland?  Well, its a long story, to cut short it was encouraged by my former teacher in Sultan Ismail, an Irish man, and he being Irish I now come to realise he was biased towards his home country and thus did not hesitate to exaggerate its fine points  in boardings notwithstanding the political situation then and now.

It is now fifteen years since we were last in Northern Ireland. We expect changes but surprisingly there were few, the most talked about was the rise in house prices. Asides from that and asides from the children who had grown up and the adults who had aged, we had come back to a place that stayed the way it was, the same friendly hellos, the green country side and the incessant winter rain.

It was quieter back then. After dark, people stayed indoors to be safe from the bombs and we had the streets to ourselves. There were roadblocks manned by serious looking soldiers with machine guns and automatics hiding from behind sand bags. The police stations were triple wired and bomb proofed. When we crossed the border into Republic of Ireland, we had to stop our car at a designated spot and instructions were given by loudspeakers ordering us to stay put while remote cameras whirred and scanned our faces. A kind of remote controlled vehicle slowly moved under our car presumably searching for bombs. All the checking were done without meeting a single person.

Ironically through all the heavy security we felt safe. Being visitors we were outside the gun sights and we were assured from talking to the local people, the killings and the bombings were purely acts of vendetta and retribution between the opposing sides. It would be extremely lucky to get caught in the cross fires. Statistically speaking we were told a tourist was more likely to die crossing the streets in London than from a bomb blast in Belfast. If it gave you comfort, it is false as similar claims are now being made in Baghdad and Kabul.

Today Northern Ireland is not as dangerous as the past. Things are more calm although the suspicion still clings heavily against real peace. The Protestants and the Catholics still go to different schools, drink at different pubs and play different sports. If you tell somebody you are going to Derry instead of Londonderry, right away you show your true religious camp. There is less violence but I wouldn't bet against a new conflagration breaking out any time in the future.

Politics asides we had a meaningful time in Northern Ireland and wish its people the best of luck. We went visiting old friends on both sides of the divide and especially felt the experience of celebrating Christmas in the country as something unique and memorable.

Easy Jet over the Emerald Isle, the 40 shades of green of Ireland, the IEDs of the IRA, but now, the cold weather has everybody indoors unlike summer when parades by both opposing sides are flash points leading to escalation of  more violence. 

Touch down in Belfast after flying from Paris. This international airport is comparatively small, may be the size of  Kota Bharu airport. Temperature is around 5C, it is cold because there is nothing between Northern Ireland's north coast and Greenland. The chill from the wind is from the original Arctic freeze. From the hats worn it is more likely we are cowboys from the Prairie, and yes, our teeth are chattering from the cold.

We pay a visit to Margaret at Castlerock, our old friend and former landlord, and are shown around the house and the new bathroom. We are always impressed by the high standard of bathroom maintenance, this is an ordinary house with ordinary bathrooms and it beats the 5 star hotels in our country anytime.

Obligatory visit to and obligatory pose at Giant Causeway, a collection of volcanic rocks formed by ancient volcanic activity. It is a miraculous work of nature that shaped the rocks into identical hexagon form, it mirrors the work of man.  The local myth attributes the rocks to giants on two sides of the sea having a stone throwing fight.

Joan and Stanley are kind and gracious to treat us to a  dinner  meal at a fine restaurant. I  have duck cooked the Irish way. Stanley is the former headmaster of Choleraine Academical Institution, the boarding school Zahir went to in his student days. Zahir is not able to join as he has flown to Holland to see his girl friend for Christmas.

We walk along the Strand, a sandy beach 2 miles long, in the blustering wind.  We are wrapped up to protect against the cold. Walking boots are necessary to keep out the sand and water. After the long and exhausting walk we retire to the pub for a taste of Irish conviviality and strong brew.

We golf at Royal Portrush, a famous course which once hosted the British Open,  though we are restricted to the par 3 pitch and putt.

Nice shot of the sky line showing the low afternoon winter sun 

That's what it costs to play a round of 9 holes. The beauty is you can drop in any time of the day to play. It's not too hot and member of the public are welcomed. Golf is an egalitarian game in this country. You play because it is a sport, not that you are forced to to advance your business ties, and there are not many shoulders to rub on, on the course.

Our old friend, Hazel and her husband, Howard. They are farmers and their house sits atop a high hill near Downhill, an eponymous settlement with the road plunging down from the hill to the beach. 

Christmas morning we attend mass at a church. This is the priest. He gives a sermon which I do not understand a single word due to bad acoustic and  hard to follow Irish accent though I  laugh along with other attendees, pretending the jokes are funny. Somehow I feel a sense of deja vu as the the way Christmas morning is celebrated in the Church is eerily similar to Id prayers in our mosques. First we sing the hyms ( takbir ), then there is the sermon ( khutbah ) and finally lining up for sacraments ( handshakes and happy wishes ).

All ready to receive the Christmas guests

Boxing day on the way to Dublin airport, the temperature plunged to sub zero

Jack Frost came last night to visit and left his call card.

The freeze in Ireland

Christmas tree decoration in Dublin airport. We fly by British Airways from Dublin to Gatwick and the train fare to London costs more than the air fare from Dublin

The taxi that takes us from London Bridge to our rented apartment in Surrey Quay.