Golden Birds of Hope

 

When we arrived in Enniskillen, the sun came out and shone throughout our visit. What a pretty place it was, surrounded by lakes and woods and hills, Celtic monasteries and Neolithic megalith tombs nearby, enticing to us holiday makers. 

It did not tally with what we'd heard of Enniskillen in the past - the 1987 Remembrance Day Massacre where a bomb killed eleven and injured sixty-three. However, as we began to explore the area by foot, car and boat, visiting local castles, we found that the long-enduring troubled past had been sprayed with the blood of previous devastating massacres on both sides. 

In the main street of the town itself, the Catholic Church squared up to the Protestant one, each vying to be more massive and taller.

Yet on the front of each, there was the same symbol - a golden silhouette of a swallow, pinned to the wall. And soon, I began to notice these golden birds in other places - war memorials, shops.  

I investigated.

Oscar Wilde, as a boy, had boarded at Enniskillen Grammar School. From his dormitory, he'd looked out on a statue of the first British governor there - Cole.  Like Nelson's Column, it dominated the town. Young Oscar began to imagine what it would be like if the statue would sacrifice his grandeur for the sake of the poor townspeople below. The resulting story was The Happy Prince.

Thus, the gold birds dotted about Enniskillen are a reference to the swallow in the story who acted as messenger for the statue of the prince and delivered his gold and jewels to the people below.

But perching as they do both on Protestant and Catholic walls, it's hard not to see the golden swallows also as emissaries of peace. Nowadays, perhaps instead of gold and jewels, they are bringing hope for the future.

The wrong Rough Fort

We were to drive from Carnlough to Derry/Londonderry. Was there anything we should see on the way?

Indeed there was. On the Limavady to Ballykelly road lay The Rough Fort - one of many donut-shaped earthworks built around a thousand years ago, and still dotting the landscape. Known as raths, they were defensive - farmers and cattle could retreat there when a raid was threatened.

The Limavady rath had been restored by the National Trust and we were eager to see it. The only drawback was that when I entered 'Rough Fort, Limavady' into Google maps, it gave us the route to a housing estate in Moira, many miles away. This happened repeatedly until Nigel grabbed the phone from me and took over.

'That's better,' he said. 

An hour later, we arrived.

Amidst new houses (which had not been visible in the NT publicity shot) nestled a large circular earthwork. We read the plaque, circled rhe earthwork, took a few snaps and got back in the car.

Then we set Google maps to Derry. But it told us that instead of being close to our destination, we were now eighty miles from it.

Despite our best efforts we had still been directed to the housing estate in Moira.

At least there had been a rath there.

But the most remarkable thing of all was that I managed not to say,

'I told you so!'

Until now, that is.

Orange Hair

In Dublin, I was keen to visit bustling Grafton Street because it has so often been mentioned by Irish authors. There we stood, listening to a busker giving an excellent rendition of 'Zombie'.

I became vaguely aware of a bunch of boys, aged maybe twelve to thirteen, and all wearing yellow tee shirts - probably a school trip. They seemed excited about something and were talking animatedly to each other in a foreign language which might have been Dutch. I didn't take much notice until I realised the thing they were excited about was me.

'Excuse me, excuse me.'

'Yes?'

'Our teachers gave us tasks.'

'Yes?'

'They said we must take five pictures of ourselves together with people with orange hair. And you have...'

I opened my mouth to say, 'But I don't have orange hair!'

Yet what was the point? An entire class of Dutch boys thought I did. 

At this point, Nigel stepped in and said, 'Keep looking!'  And ushered me on. 

I kinda regret now not helping the gawky little chaps on their awkward quest.

But even more, I regret not looking in the window of the nearby coffee shop. I would easily have been able to spot the boys' teachers. 

They would have been the ones laughing their socks off.

Beware the cunning of the RSPB

It is clear the RSPB will stop at nothing to gain members. 

But tinkering with the weather?!?

When we arrived at Rathlin Island, off the North East coast of Ulster, it was tee-shirt weather.

We had brought coats only because of the ferry trip. 

The RSPB reserve, with its spectacle of cliff-nesting birds, was 4.5 miles from the Rathlin ferry port but it was so sunny we eschewed the bus  and walked through the peaceful green fields of the island.

Nearing the reserve we stood in the warmth at the top of the cliffs to admire the spectacle. Great skuas patrolled and a pair of peregrines were sky dancing.  This was going to be great.

At the ticket desk, the custodian warned us of the long descent to the viewing platform.

She also said we could claim back our entrance fee if we joined the RSPB today, but we shook our heads. We weren't considering spending so much money today.

 

At the viewing platform however, it was suddenly like midwinter. A sort of wind tunnel was formed by the coast just there. We put on jumpers and coats, zipped them right up to our noses and pulled the toggles tight. 

Despite the icy gale I could not drag myself away from the sight of so many guillemots, puffins, razorbills, kittiwakes and fulmars nesting on the rock stack just in front of us. Nigel, however, retreated into the RSPB cabin.

By the time I was ready to leave, he had been persuaded to take out membership of the RSPB.

Then we returned to the top of the cliffs. Warm sunshine once more.

Is it possible the RSPB  somehow has control of the micro climate there in order to induce hypothermic punters to part with their cash?

I wouldn't put it past them.