Irish charm
WE are now well on our way down the Victoria Channel and will be preparing to disembark in ten minutes,” an audio announcement pipes over the ferry Tannoy. “Welcome to Belfast.” This is my first trip to Northern Ireland, with a fabulous ‘rail and sail’ ticket which, I’ve discovered, gets a foot passenger from central London to Belfast for a mere £54, and it’s rather exciting.
My friend Simon picks me up from the ferry terminal in a little hire car and, although it’s late, insists on a brief night-tour taking in Unionist areas and a police station. “They’re more British than we are,” he says. “In some areas, it’s impossible to find a lamp post without a Union Jack.” Quite a lot hangs on this, as Simon and I have a five-year bet on whether Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic will unify as a consequence of Brexit – a bet recklessly made before either of us had actually been here. His money is on unification, mine is not.
The quantity of flags flying in Unionist residential areas is impressive. There are Union Jacks, Orange Order flags and assorted others I don’t recognise, along with red, white and blue bunting sporadically stretched across streets. Such banner flying would give Iraq – with its indomitable penchant for flags – a run for its money.
In some areas beyond Belfast, lamp posts and pavement edgings are liveried in red, white and blue. And, in one small village, a stretch of actual road has been painted, very professionally, with flags and patriotic mottos including: ‘God Save Our Queen’ and ‘No Surrender 1690’.
“Now for the police station,” says Simon, slowing down outside a modern- day, windowless fortress decorated with security cameras, its entrance secured behind two separate car-bomb defence barriers.
Despite the intimidating police stations, in the daylight there’s only very minimal on-street police presence. And hardly any civilian Land Rovers. There’s the usual handful of expensive modern fleet members, but no Series vehicles or Defenders. Driving around Belfast, Simon and I wonder if it was viewed as an unwise civilian vehicle choice when so many were deployed militarily in the days of the Troubles.
The Land Rover Tangi – armoured police Land Rovers known locally as ‘meat wagons’ – used to be ubiquitous in images of Northern Ireland. But, after the 1998 Good Friday Agreement, over half the once 450-strong fleet were decommissioned, including one recently bought by a civilian planning to hire it out for weddings and birthday parties. The in-service remainder apparently only come out on special occasions.
There may be few on the streets but Land Rovers are present in the news. Last month someone was up in court for using a stolen Defender as a getaway vehicle with a cashpoint holding 60 grand which he’d removed with an excavator in Country Antrim while, in County Down, thieves used a ‘handheld device’ to unlock and steal a keyless Range Rover.
We motor out across Country Antrim to explore the stunning Northern Irish coastline and assorted tourist sites, including previously-ignored spots made famous by Game of Thrones. At a National Trust site featuring a rope ladder running 100 foot above a choppy sea, once used by fishermen to access salmon shoals, we finally see a lone Defender.
The next day, calls and messages to a company offering “Troubles Tours’ in Derry/londonderry mysteriously go unanswered, so we stick to more of the region’s non-political coastline highlights. The evening’s Ulster news clears up the mystery. Tomorrow marks 50 years since ‘the Battle of Bogside’ which saw the start of British army operations in Northern Ireland (the longest continuous campaign in British military history) and there’s unrest on the streets of Derry/londonderry.
“The police Land Rovers were back out on the streets today, as they always are when there is trouble,” the newsreader says, as footage shows a steadfast row of riot-proof armoured police Land Rovers.“we don’t yet know if they’ll be out again tomorrow.”
Turning back from the television, Simon says: “Well, that’s where all your Land Rovers are.”
We round off our three- day Northern Ireland jaunt with a fry-up near Belfast port. Through the rainsoaked cafe windows, a fine LWB Defender pulls into the car park and explores several parking options before settling on the easiest – a parking trope to which I can relate. I burst out into the rain-sodden morning to tell its two occupants this is the Land Rover moment I’ve been waiting for. “Are you serious?” asks the driver, incredulously. Singing the praises of Northern Ireland, which really is very beautiful, I say I had really expected to see more Land Rovers.
“Ah, you see, the army has a lot,” he says, in a thick Northern Irish accent. “But they’re out of service – temporarily,” explaining, like the Ulster TV newsreader, that the Land Rovers are ready to reappear whenever there’s trouble. Some 5000 British troops apparently remain stationed in Northern Ireland, so they probably have quite a fleet.
Their Defender has a very comely and cheerful paint-job in two-tone blue and turquoise, which the pair explain are the Belfast city council colours. “We’re working on a closed landfill site just across the way and we’ve three of these because we’ve so many acres to cover,” the driver says, warmly adding: “Oh aye, it’s a fine vehicle.” Fearing I may miss the ferry, I make my excuses and, with typical Irish hospitality the driver says: “We’d run you to the ferry but my friend here’s so hungry, he’d eat the fingers off your hand.”
“We have a five-year bet on whether Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic will unify as a consequence of Brexit ”
■ Thom Westcott is a British freelance journalist who has written for the Times and Guardian, and now mostly spends her time reporting from Libya.