(7/8/2010)
Belfast smells bad, worse yet are the British flags, and some boys called me a long haired fag and challenged me to a fight when I wasn’t looking, yet kept it moving when I turned around. The bus trip from Drogheda to here started out with bad luck, first my backpack fell over into the aisle, then my drink followed it. When I opened it to take a sip it blew up all over my shirt. So when I got there I found a hostel, which smelled of sewage. Then I decided to take a walk, and a rather long walk it was. The hills outside the city called out to me, so by the end of the day I learned one lesson: the hills always look closer than they feel. I made it to a park, then took a trail into a ravine which doubled as a garbage ditch. It was quite beautiful beneath the decades of trash. Carparts, tires, boxes, bottles, cans, it was practically a neighborhood landfill, and probably the same stream they got their drinking water from. So I bust a bunch of sweat before I climbed out of the mess, and ended up on a narrow road flanked by cow pastures and farms. I strolled on to the end of the road and slipped between the barbed wire fencing and up the hill I went. The cows got scared and ran- snitching on me with their moo’s. It was one hell of a walk, dodging cow patties all the way up, but I made it to the top. My reward was rainfall and chilly wind. And the second lesson of the day: Going down the hill may be much more difficult than going up. My dumb ass decided to take the shortcut, which was deceptively steep and condensed with the most prickly plants I ever met. At the bottom of that forsaken hill I was greeted by a dilapidated detention center, complete with 30 foot fences, guard towers, and an underground bunker.
Turns out Belfast was bad luck. While tumbling down that damneded hill my pocket let my lucky monkey free : (
So I took the next train out of Belfast, into Coleraine. Then caught the bus to the Giant’s Causeway on the North Coast, which is unwordably magnificent.
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