Belfast
The city of many lives. Where strangers are met with open arms and bared teeth, where aeroplanes leave scars on the asphalt through sea-level mist.
The mouth of the Irish Sea yawns wide as the double-decker bus dawdles from the airport to the city. A sheep carcass, stripped clean of wool and flesh, leaves ivory bones stark against the lush green fields of nature’s graveyard.
It’s raining.
The giant yellow Harland and Wolff gantry cranes, so synonymous with the Belfast docks, loom large against an ominous grey sky. Heavy clouds, filled with a sense of foreboding, stubbornly refuse to let the tops of the mountains breathe.
In the shadow of Windsor Park, cars rest bumper to bumper; alleyways stretch into the distance with pleasing symmetry, guarded by wheelie bin sentries lined up like soldiers awaiting command. Linfield vanquish Crusaders under watchful eyes that see nothing and everything, and accents that bounce off the roof of the stadium and ricochet off the brick walls of terraced houses.
Taxis crawl through puddles gathered in the gutters, boys bounce their bravado off each other, and the girls dress for the stars. The night is not a time for the faint of heart.
Bangor
Morning breaks, and still the rain comes down. Raindrops gather on umbrella skin, a fleeting, temporary pause before falling to the cracked pavements shaped by a million footsteps. A day’s work done, a train along the coast to Bangor.
The streets here are much quieter, quiet enough to hear the wind whistling off the Irish Sea and through the holes in the fences that have stood the test of time. A tin can rattles in the wind as TV screens glow warmly behind net curtains.
Hardy souls at Clandeboye Park are wrapped tightly in winter clothes, eager to keep out the biting cold that is so desperately seeking any hint of skin. Bangor and Glentoran share the points, and it’s the visitors from Belfast who leave more disappointed.
Saturday comes, and the smell of the sea is brought in on the cold wind.
Leave the city centre on foot towards north Belfast, where department stores and cosy pubs give way to terraced houses and barbed wire, where tourist traps and nautical history cede to bookies, pawnbrokers, and a memorial garden.
Lamp posts adorned with Union Jacks that whisper in the breeze, remembering the past, confronting the future. Smashed-up phone boxes stand mournfully by rusty shutters covered in graffiti. Bottoms are spanked, and curfews are broken.
The Rain Stops
Seaview is welcoming; the tea is hot, the backdrop spectacular, and the in-ground mini-museum offers an unexpected dose of nostalgia.
Clouds roll back, and the sun goes down to let a game play out against a sky filled with orange, yellow, and pink. From the upper deck of a double-decker bus, faces peer through steamed-up windows over the roof of the stand.
Hats are pulled down, scarves wound a little tighter as the sun drops and the wind seeks out any way into our bones. Crusaders are defeated again, this time it is Coleraine who leave with a hard-earned victory. The final whistle blows, the sun sets, the sky turns black, and the bus takes us home.
The city-centre streets are swarming, and behind the bright lights, every vice is satisfied. Curtains can be closed, blinds can be drawn, but Belfast is a city that will never rest; a city that wears its many faces, and will always be Northern Ireland’s beating heart.
Gallery
All photographs are the sole copyright of Sasha Hartman, who can be contacted via her website.
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