We wandered through the narrow streets, past row upon row of creperies, admiring the precision of the mock medieval architecture, until we came to the perimeter of the walls and the sea stretched out ahead of us. Yellow gold sand bordered royal blue sea. It was gorgeous, but quite commonplace to the spoilt eye of a Capetonian.
Belfast
Claire and I walked off the ferry from Stranraer to Belfast, through the strange contrivance that takes you from land to sea without seeing either, and queued at the escalator leading down to the baggage collection area. Ahead of me, a swarthy middle aged man, his bald, shiny head and large pointy nose swaying as he staggered, took a few steps forward, tripped, and bounced down the escalator, step by painful step, arms and elbows flailing.
He lay momentarily in a heap on the floor, chuckling, then stood. And immediately fell over. He was sitting, still chuckling, arms heaped on his marshmallow body, when we reached the bottom of the escalator. I watched as he refused all offers of help through a stupid smile. Continue reading Belfast>>
