A weekend in Belfast

Just back from a short trip to Belfast.

I say Belfast colloquially. I stayed in Saintfield, 10 miles to the south of Belfast where my parents moved to nearly eight years ago. But I lived in Belfast for many more years than that so old habits die hard.

I did, however, spend a substantial amount of time in Belfast.

I landed on Thursday evening at George Best airport, a quick hop over the Irish Sea from Luton, for a two-day break to visit my parents and Granda. I was travelling light so I was outside in no time, greeted by the gripping wind and pouring rain and soon after, my Mum and Auntie. Dad sheltered in the car, the lucky begger.

We scuttled off through the dimly-lit streets of Belfast for a quick pint in a nice little bar on the Stranmillis Road called The House.

It had to be a local brew for me. Harp lager. It was nice for a change, and also just plain nice, and the four of us huddled in a darkened corner of the bar and had a jolly nice chat before setting off for home after much niceness.

We were treated to a DVD of my parents' recent cruise round the Carribean. I wasn't sure whether it should have been X-rated though.

A certain clip had somehow been caught on camera of my Dad in the nip. The said clip hadn't been deleted either. The said clip flashed before all our eyes too, and Dad had to jump up in front of the TV to hide the clip from everyone's view. Everyone apart from me that is. I saw the clip.

I then crawled off to bed at about 11.30pm.

That wasn't the only bad thing to happen to my parents while they were on their Carribean cruise. Their house flooded.

A water pipe had burst in the loft, buckling under the recent freeze-thaw cycle of Arctic weather that had gripped much of Europe for more than two weeks over the Christmas period. The water had poured through the upstairs roof, gushing down the stairs and leaving the entire downstairs under an inch or so of water.

Bad news for my parents and bad news for the insurance companies; good news for carpeters everywhere. They must love the freezing weather.

Next morning, Dad & I threw some bacon and toast down us before leaving (Mum was at work) at around 10.30am to look around Belfast. It was off to the Queens University sports centre first, where my Dad swims regularly.

Dad give me a meticulous tour of the facilities and I have to say, it was very impressive, all modern, clean, nice coffee house for the students with at least 5 plasma TVs on the wall and gorgeous 25-metre swimming pool and diving area.

We then sauntered up to the Ulster Museum, about 5 minutes walk away, where I'd not been in years.

Thanks to gamblers, it had recently been in receipt of nearly £15m or so of lottery funding, which had been put to good use refurbishing the inside and parts of the exterior. Bring on the super-casinos I say.

Walking through a new glass frontage, it felt for a moment a little like strolling into a grand hotel in Bournemouth, with spacious, leather-sofa'd reception area greeting you squarely and white paint and glass darting up and down every wall in sight.

The museum was packed full of interesting exhibits and artefacts that we didn't really have enough time to fully appreciate in any great depth, from ancient Egyptology to the recent 'Troubles'.

I liked the novel touch of consigning the Troubles to the "history" section.

I also liked, and was particularly taken by, the 'Mummy'.

To address her by name, Takabuti had been transported to Belfast way back in 1834.

A legal immigrant from Egpyt, she lay horizontal under a sheet of protective glass, half-entombed and teeth and hair still almost fully preserved. She was some sight. I had seen her before, but not for about 10 maybe 15 years.

I wondered how many of my own grandparents and great grandparents had made the same journey past her ancient sarcophagus, staring at the same teeth and face and making in all likelihood the same remarks that we were.

It was then off to see my Granda, who was in hospital after a recent illness. He was improving, but understandly tired bearing in mind all the medication he was taking. I stayed for about an hour and we had a nice chat.

That evening (Friday), my parents had reserved a table in my favourite Belfast eaterie - the Italian restaurant Scalini's (pictured below).

I ordered my usual - a piccante pizza - and we left for Ravenhill to watch the Ireland Wolfhounds play beat Scotland A at Ravenhill. The Irish won. Comfortably.

After the rugby, we adjourned to the Four Winds Inn for a drink before heading home. No sooner had we arrived when Dad and I grabbed the guitars and somehow, from somewhere, found the energy to begin a guitar/singing session that finished just shy of 2am.

Next morning (Saturday), we rose feeling predictably tired but a festival of sport on TV had the pulse racing. That evening, Mum laid up a lovely candle-lit dinner with homemade garlic bread and lasagne and it was then off to George Best Airport where I said my goodbyes to my parents and my hellos to my newly-found phobia of flying.

It had been a lovely weekend in Belfast.

As usual, my feet barely touched the ground but I wouldn't have it any other way.