| Amsterdam, NL | 17°C |
It's been a good stay in Belfast; mostly dry.
Tomorrow, we move on and head to the famous Giant's Causeway (Clochán na bhFómharach).
We'll overnight in the area and then move on to Derry (Doire) (a.k.a. Londonderry) for a couple of nights. We'll probably have no access to the Internet until at least after Derry.
The drive from Dublin to Belfast took most of the day, due to a long stop in Brú na Bóinne.
Brú na Bóinne is one of Europe's largest and most important megalithic sites, and contains 60% of all the neolithic art known to exist in Europe. As such, we just had to stop and take in the two sites that are open to the public, namely Knowth (Cnobha) and Newgrange (Dún Fhearghusa).
A small bus takes you back and forth from the visitor centre to each site. At Knowth, you get to go on top of the main mound, whilst at Newgrange, you actually get to go inside the main one. You can visit just one site, but I recommend going to both if you have the time.
You do need plenty of time, though. We didn't leave the visitor centre until about 18:00, which meant that it would be 20:00 before we reached Belfast (Béal Feirste) and the Ten Square Hotel. The road ahead was mostly dual carriageway, but also included fairly long sections in which it receded to single lane traffic.
A few kilometres outside of Belfast, we joined the M1 and that brought us speedily into the city. Given the lateness of the hour, we opted for dinner at the hotel's own restaurant, the extremely popular and loud Grill Room. In spite of the noise, I recommend the restaurant, as the food and service were very good. The atmosphere was really nice, too.
We knew we'd be arriving in Belfast in the evening, which is why we've booked three nights here in total. That effectively gives us two complete days in which to tour the city.
And so to Belfast, a city whose very name, as I was growing up on the British mainland -- a place that may as well have been a million miles away -- conjured up images in my mind of war-torn streets patrolled by British soldiers, burning cars, children killed by plastic bullets, dereliction and despair.
Not now, though. If you never left the city centre, you might never suspect what went on here until just a few years ago. You don't have to go far, though, to find the smouldering remains of a feud that is merely dormant, not dead.
We took one of the now famous black taxi cab tours of West Belfast this morning. Our taxi was actually white, but it didn't seem to have an impact on the quality of the tour.
The first thing that strikes you as an outsider is just how close the troubled Catholic and Protestant neighbourhoods actually are to the centre of the city. From the town hall, you could walk to them in half an hour; 45 minutes tops.
Even if you felt inclined to walk, however, or had your own vehicle like us, taking a taxi is definitely the better option. It may also be the most expensive option, with tours at around £25 - £35, but what you're paying for is not the view from the car window or the opportunity to get out and take photos. No, the unique selling point of the tour is that the background to the troubles is contextualised in a way that only a local could. You get the facts, the background and the perspective of someone who lived through the troubles on either the Catholic or Protestant side of the fence.
And I'm not talking about a figurative fence, either. As soon as you head west from the centre, the ominous and forbidding peace lines loom up as a backdrop to the houses. It's an utterly bizarre sight.
Then, just as you're thinking about what it means to live in segregation on one side of the wall, you realise you're on the Falls Road (Bóthar na bhFál), the main thoroughfare through the west of the city and the very heart of the republican Catholic community.
The taxi stops and you find yourself looking at republican murals. Many of them relate directly to the conflict, but many of them pledge solidarity with other groups seen to be similarly oppressed, such as the ETA and the Palestinians.
Further on up the road, a mural depicting the unmistakeable face of Bobby Sands looms up on the right. It quickly becomes apparent that the mural graces the side of Sinn Féin's headquarters. The Irish tricolour ripples in the breeze.
A right turn and just a few metres up the road lies one of the gates through the peace line. Through that opening lies the neighbourhood of the loyalist Protestant community.
The gates that allow passage across the peace lines are all closed after dark, which supposedly allows each community to sleep more soundly, knowing that the other is locked in for the night. It's a fragile sense of security, though, because the peace lines merely draw a line between the two communities. It's still possible to go around the walls where they end.
It's another world on the other side of that gate. Unions Jacks fill your field of vision: on bunting banners across the Shankill Road (Bóthar na Seanchille) and on flagpoles affixed to people's houses. The Ulster Banner and other such flags are also prominently flown.
The reason for all of the flags and the red, white and blue painted kerb stones is the recent 12th July celebrations. The decorations typically remain in place until the end of August.
Driving around the side streets off Shankill Road, the surreality deepens. Mural after mural appears before you, some mild and poignant, others quoting Oliver Cromwell's calls for the extermination of Catholicism; and a few glorifying the murderous careers of deceased (of course), prominent loyalist thugs.
It's impossible for me to understand the maniacal hatred that leads anyone to glorify such figures.
Who is the oppressor and who is the oppressed? Are the IRA terrorists or freedom fighters? Is this terrorism, an ethnic conflict or a guerilla war? There seem to me to be few facts here, merely opinions.
Before you know it, you're back in the centre of Belfast, sanity has returned and all that lingers is a profound, saddening state of disbelief that ordinary men and women let it come to this.
The final balance: 3524 dead.
The rest of the day was spent walking around Belfast. It's a nice city, rejuvenated by large development projects that have regenerated large areas of the city; due in no small part to huge EU cash influxes. It seems they have spent the money wisely and it's all I can do to try to imagine how the city must have looked just ten or twenty years ago.
Tomorrow's our last day in Belfast before moving on. We haven't yet decided what to do tomorrow; nor, indeed, where we'll go when we leave Belfast.
One thing's for sure: this has been the highlight of the trip so far for me. What I saw and heard today brought to life a conflict that had always been very remote to me. I now feel affected by it, albeit it in a very small way compared to the people who actually lived through it.
After charming Dalkey, Dublin (Áth Cliath) was something of a disappointment. It's clearly a great place if you're looking for effervescent nightlife, but if you're there hoping to find breathtaking architecture on every corner or an abundance of pleasant walks through leafy scenery, well, then I hope you like nightlife, too.
Dublin is expensive; bafflingly so. I can see that the nightlife would be very appealing to some, but I see too little else to justify the stratospheric price of accommodation there. It really is extraordinarily expensive.
Incidentally, Ireland, in general, is very expensive; due in no small part to the high rate of VAT. About the only thing that is cheaper here than back home is petrol, priced at about €1.35 per litre.
We stayed at the Shelbourne, a luxury hotel in the heart of the city on St. Stephen's Green. The room, 370, was very comfortable, with a kingsize bed and enough room for a roll-away bed for Eloïse . The bathroom, too, was very nice.
If you fancy a splurge whilst in Dublin, I can highly recommend the Shelbourne. The staff are friendly, there are free cakes and lemonade at reception -- nice while you're checking in -- and the prices are reasonable, given the grandeur of the surroundings.
More or less my only complaint with the hotel -- and it's one that I have with a great many hotels these days -- is the extortionate price of WiFi. At €20 for 24 hours, they really are taking the piss. That's half a month of DSL in most countries.
Given that every major city now has many cafés that offer free Internet access, it's nothing more than a convenience to be able to access the Internet gratis from one's hotel room. In that regard, it's high time that hotels offered free access as a courtesy. Some do, of course, and ironically, it's usually the cheaper ones.
My one other complaint about the Shelbourne: it has a very stupid concierge. I'll spare you the details.
We spent most of our two days in Dublin just walking around the city, getting to know it.
Trinity College has some nice architecture, but we didn't fancy queueing or paying for a chance to file past the Book of Kells in lightning tempo. Therefore, we remained in the grounds outside.
The River Liffey is uninspiring, as are the buildings that line its banks. There's really very little one can say about it.
Dublin's architecture failed to capture my imagination. The aforementioned Trinity College is a notable exception, as is the Irish Bank, but even the Georgian buildings around St. Stephen's Green and the surrounding areas (such as Merrion Square) fail to impress; their flat, featureless brick walls failing to find redemption in the less austere and brightly coloured doorways.
One thing that's hard to fault about Dublin is the food. We atre very well throughout our stay. A notable plug goes to The Farm on Lower Dawson St. for its delicious organic food, although the desserts were surprisingly lacklustre. Not everyone agrees that the food is good.
A better bet for dessert is Busyfeet, whose sandwiches make them a good bet for lunch, too. To wash it all down, a cup of their cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso is heartily recommended.
For dinner, I recommend Odessa on Dame St., whose comfortable couches and dim lighting will have you completely relaxed by the time your food arrives.
It seems as if every building in Dublin now plays host to at least one person loitering outside, smoking. This has the effect of turning the city into one gigantic concrete ashtray. Every time you take a step in any direction, cigarette smoke fills your nostrils. It's as if the anti-smoking laws have turned the city inside out: you now have to enter a building to avoid the smoke. The streets and especially the café terraces are now the preserve of malodorous nicotine addicts.
It's good to see the capital city of any country, but it will come as no surprise to you to learn that I wouldn't want to live in Dublin. If only it were more visually attractive, I could forgive it most of what else is wrong. The truth is, though, that it's just too much of a concrete jungle. There is too little greenery and the busy, traffic-clogged streets are too reminiscent of London. Driving through Dublin can be hellish, as we discovered today when it came to leaving.
Apart from a few pedestrianised areas, the streets are also very unfriendly to pedestrians. Many busy junctions have no pedestrian crossings, and many others are burdened by traffic lights that require the patience of a saint. Almost everyone crosses on red, because waiting for green means needing a haircut by the time you get to the other side.
On the way out today, we drove along Merrion Road, through the well-heeled area of Ballsbridge. I had seen a few multi-million euro homes in an estate agent's window and was curious what that kind of money buys you in Dublin. The answer: not enough.
Again, it's hard to understand the appeal of Dublin, which must be huge to justify such monumental housing prices. I don't see it myself, but perhaps I just need to spend more time in the city, perhaps in the company of locals, who can show me a side of the city I'll never know as a tourist.
I wouldn't rule out a return visit, but it won't be high on my list.
I meant to mention this.
I spotted this on the side of a firm's van, while we were driving from Penryn to Cardiff.
Hyperbolic advertising has long since departed from the realm of the reasonable claim, but this tops everything, don't you think?
"Passionate about your laundry"? When? Before cleaning it? Whilst cleaning it? When sniffing it? After it has been cleaned?
Even one's own missus or mother is not passionate about our laundry, so how can some group of hired hands claim to be, just because they've been given the thankless task of getting the skiddies off our grundies for financial gain?
'Passionate': It's one of those once precious, yet now awful words that have been hijacked by the business world and redefined to mean 'someone who actually gives a shit about the job he's doing and takes pride in delivering a high quality product'.
Admirable, but it's hardly passion, is it?
I really don't like the idea of someone being passionate about my laundry. It makes me fear that my smalls may come back more in need of a wash than when I entrusted them to the other party's care.
Ugh.
Today, we went back to where it all began for me: Dún Laoghaire and St Michael's Hospital, the place where I was born.
From there, we drove to Sorrento Road in Dalkey (Deilginis), the site of the family home at the time I was born; and therefore the first house I ever lived in.
This is the very house that my father, Tony, came back to 41 years ago, expecting to find my mother and me still living there, as we had been doing. Only, the family had recently left the house without trace and it would be another 41 years before Tony finally managed to track me down again. Bizarre.
Tony was with us and it was quite an emotional moment for him to stand side by side with me outside that house.
Tony directed us around an area known locally as Paddywood, a play on Hollywood and the home of Ireland's rich and famous, including Bono, The Edge, Enya and Van Morrison.
The sun shone pretty much all day, which was perfect for enjoying the views across the sea from Dalkey.
Later in the day, we visited the Church of the Assumption, which is the church where I was christened.
We're heading off for two days in Dublin next, after a fantastic stay with the new family here. We probably won't have any access to e-mail whilst in Dublin.
The last couple of days have brought better weather.
We went to the beautiful historic site of Glendalough (Gleann Dá Loch) yesterday, which was basking in glorious sunshine. Glendalough is the site of a glacial valley, but there are also monastic ruins, lakes and other interesting features.
Parking took a while, as the site is incredibly popular with locals and tourists alike. Eventually, though, we did manage to park and then went to visit the ruins. Afterwards, we walked to the upper lake, which was flanked by beautiful, tree-studded hills.
Today was overcast, but very warm. We went to the village of Avoca (Abhóca), which rose to fame as the setting for the old BBC drama series, Ballykissangel.
The village itself isn't terribly interesting, but it's also the site of the oldest working woollen mill in Ireland, owned and run by the Avoca company, a.k.a. Avoca Handweavers. We had a good lunch at the mill's café and bought a couple of lamb's wool throws at the shop.
After the scenic drive back, we took Eloïse to Greystones beach, which she had been patiently asking for all day. A quick trip to the playground finished off the day and we returned home to a lovely dinner, prepared by Oma Bernie.
Our trips out and about have only spanned a few hours each day, leaving the larger part of the day for chatting and getting to know my half-brothers. Eloïse , too, has revelled in getting to know her uncles. She has warmed to them very quickly and loves to kick a football around the lawn with them.
Tomorrow will be our last day here for the foreseeable future. On Wednesday, we'll make a short hop northwards to the Irish capital, Dublin, and continue our journey there.
Penryn to Cardiff was an unpleasant drive in torrential rain. It literally didn't stop for a single moment. There was an accident on the M5, too, which slowed us down somewhat, but we arrived in Cardiff (Caerdydd in Welsh) in good time anyway, at about 14:15. Lucas slept the entire way.
Once at out hotel, we checked in and then went out again, to see what we could of the city. It continued to rain all afternoon, I'm sorry to say.
The next day, the weather was better, so, after a hearty breakfast, we went to the very well preserved Cardiff Castle. We managed to see all of that before the rain returned, leaving the afternoon free for ducking in and out of Cardiff's many Victorian arcades, which add quite a bit of character to an otherwise pleasant, but not terribly striking city.
Friday was the next big travel day, this time from Cardiff to Kilquade in Ireland, via the Fishguard to Rosslare (Ros Láir) ferry.
The drive to Fishguard was nice, passing through rolling Welsh hills and valleys. The occasional tractor formed the only annoyance. Again, Lucas was asleep for the entire journey.
The 3.5 hour ferry crossing was very pleasant, with surprisingly good food (albeit served slowly), activities for the children and -- most importantly of all -- calm waters.
On the Irish side, Lucas immediately became fussy and so we had to stop a number of times to sooth him.
We finally pulled into the driveway of Opa Tony and Oma Bernie's house at around 20:45. There was much excitement, so both Eloïse and Lucas ended up going to bed much too late, as, indeed, did their parents.
Meeting my three half-brothers was, of course, a unique experience. Eloïse is already warming to her three new uncles and enjoying the antics of Opa Tony.
The weather here isn't any better than in England and Wales, but, undeterred, we went for a long walk today around the neighbouring town of Greystones (or Na Clocha Liatha, as it's known in Irish) and its south beach.
Greystones is a pleasant little town, about 27 km from Dublin and in possession of most if not all of the things that our travelling party needs to survive: a good coffee shop, tasty baked goods and organic food. It's a good place to start the Irish leg of our tour.
We'll hang out here with the family for a few days before moving on. Nothing is planned for either the stay here or the days following it; we're still playing everything by ear.
Q: Where can you buy curry powder, a bass guitar, a carpet and a pair of rubber wellies, all under one roof?
A: Trago Mills.
Trago's has been around since I was a kid. Nothing has quite the same longevity or timeless appeal as discounted old tat.
Whereas many of the shops along Falmouth's main street have succumbed to the forces of time, Trago's is still going, and going stronger than ever, it would appear.
The weather has kept us from doing any major sightseeing over the last few days, so we've more or less shuttled between Falmouth and Truro, with excursions as far afield as Ponsanooth., Helston and even lovely little Helford.
Tim took us onto Culdrose helicopter base last Friday for an hour on the Merlin simulator. That was a lot of fun.
I managed to land the thing on an aircraft-carrier, but unfortunately only by crashing into its deck. Sarah crashed, too, so we won't be put in charge of one of these things any time soon.
Today is our last day in Cornwall. Tomorrow, we drive back along the route we came in on, to get to the Welsh capital of Cardiff. Strange as it may seem, I've never been to Wales before, so this will actually notch up another country.
After two nights in Cardiff, we'll drive to Fishguard, take the ferry to Rosslare in Ireland and then head north to Kilquade in County Wicklow.
Our time in Cornwall has been great, in spite of the weather. If we'd been here merely as tourists, it wouldn't have been much fun, but we came mainly to see Fenella and the family, so it hasn't really mattered how bad the weather got (and it's been pretty bad).
It's always thought-provoking to visit this county, the place where I grew up. It's at once familiar, yet now so far removed from my life as to be essentially a strange, new place to visit.
And that's how it feels to be here: strange; genuinely foreign. There's no sense of having come home; just a peculiar feeling of powerful déjà vu; as if I'm looking at buildings and scenes from a vividly recalled dream. None of it feels very real to me; it's just a strange apparition of a life lived long ago.
We've driven past two houses in Falmouth that I used to live in, plus one in Penryn, one in Flushing and one in Truro. We could have gone to another in Redruth, but didn't. There are yet more of my former homes, in Portreath, Threemilestone, Goran Haven and Mevagissey, but I have no idea of the addresses. Eloïse has been very interested in her papa's old homes, bless her.
My family certainly did move around a lot.
The traffic is horrendous these days, especially in Truro. Parking has become difficult, with demand far outstripping supply; and very expensive, too. On top of that, the ticket machines don't accept credit cards and many car parks are of the pay-and-display variety, which means that you almost always end up paying for more time than you actually use. £4.80, I had to pay yesterday for a couple of hours in a multi-storey in Truro. Times have changed.
Most of all, it's odd to retread cobblestones and pavement that I once trod underfoot whilst holding my grandmother's hand, or whilst accompanying my grandfather on an errand. One almost expects them to emerge at any moment from one of the shops, frozen in time, looking just the way they did in the late seventies or early eighties.
Yes, being here really prickles the senses in ways that are not quite predictable or communicable. It'll obviously always be part of me, even though I long since ceased to be part of it.