A musical celebration, natural wonders and a harrowing history – Prince Far Out explores Belfast; the nooks, the crannies and the awe-inspiring, spectacular scenery, flown in on a mystic via a majestic soundtrack from Van Morrison.
Mid August and being a flaneur, I was doing some flaneur-ing at home (idly browsing the web) when I saw mention of Van Morrison celebrating his 80th birthday with some shows at Belfast’s Mandela and Waterfront Halls. A long time admirer who had never seen him live (shameful I know), I went on to Ticketmaster and saw that they were sold out. Deflated, I headed over to his website to double check, and in the midst of the dates I had seen elsewhere, was a quizzical addition of a show at Belfast Waterfront Hall Studio, capacity 380. Eh? 380?
And there were tickets remaining.
That can’t be right! Double check. Yup. It is himself, Van the Man. Within a few minutes, the tickets had been booked, I had an apartment and EasyJet would whisk me there and back facilitating four days of burrowing into Belfast.
Then I thought, hang on he’s 80.
I wondered if his soaring, soulful voice might be shot because let’s face it, the voice of fellow octogenarian Bob Dylan was battered when he was half Van‘s age. Then I thought well at least I’ll get to hear him blow his sax, but then I also remembered seeing the aforementioned Bob in the 2000s and he didn’t touch his guitar. In the end, I ceased worrying and thought sod it, it’s Van Morrison innit!
As is my wont, I then got quite excited at the prospect of seeing him, and the place that inspired him. I subconsciously added a Van Morrison tour of Belfast, the Giant’s Causeway was also on my itinerary(although I had no idea how to get there) and a Falls/Shankhill Roads tour. I also have some beautiful friends over there; Valencia offered to drive me around and show me the sites, and Stevie suggested I pop in to see him on the Thursday, more of which later. However, to begin with I thought the tour of Van Morrison‘s Belfast was in order.
And it stoned me.
Wednesday: Landing at five past seven on a Wednesday morning I was itching to get going. Despite working that day, Valencia had offered to pick me up (it is a feature of my friends that they seem to not entirely trust my ability to function like a normal adult, but in this case it was also an example of Belfast generosity) and I was deposited outside the East Side Visitor Centre where my Van Morrison tour would be begin!
Only it didn’t.
It was pissing down.
I remained there for two hours, during which time, and as a result of balancing my bag and a tray, I managed to catapult my tea across their cafe, all over the floor, whilst at the same time drenching some unsuspecting, and now fuming dogs. Apologising profusely, I went back to pay for another but it was already waiting for me. No charge. Not even a ‘wee’ one. That Belfast generosity. I think Belfast people consider themselves to all be Fionn mac Cumhaill (anglicised – Finn McCool) because everything else is “wee”, whether that be shopping bags, waiting times, or drinks (which rarely are).
Around 10:30 it began to ease and with the streets all wet with rain, and having glanced at a map that seemed to show George Best‘s house in the proximity of the Van Morrison tour, I decided to head there first, and so began walking… and walking…and walking, until my feet said “No more”, and my brain agreed, adding “Yeah, fuck this”. Fortunately, I knew I was close to a part of the Van tour due to the beautiful pocket guide book picked up from the Visitor Centre (Van Morrison Trail | Visit EastSide). First stop then was Elmgrove Primary School, (it wasn’t really, I had to bastardise it due to the folly of attempting to get to Bestie’s, and so actually began at the fourth site, but for the reader’s purpose let’s do it in order) which was unassuming and didn’t really look ready to begin business again the following week, so maybe it is no longer a going concern?
Next up was The Hollow, namechecked in Brown Eyed Girl, and the electricity pylon, as mentioned in On Hyndford Street and You Know What They’re Writing About both of which are relevant to Van‘s memories, as is the gorgeous little bridge beside it that straddles the Beechie (as this part of the river is known). It is a magical place that invokes daydreams of Yeats-ian landscapes and of faeries and spirits. Similarly it is easy to picture the happy innocence that Morrison so brilliantly conjures up with Playin’ a new game/Laughin’ and a-runnin’, hey, hey/Skippin’ and a-jumpin’/In the misty morning fog , all with his brown eyed girl. According to myth, Irish chieftain Con O’Neill and his clansmen often crossed this bridge carrying refreshments for their festivities. They must have had great balance because I was sober and I nearly fell arse over tit. A must visit if you are in the area, and indeed seventy years ago these streets would have likely witnessed a childhood Morrison making the three minute dash home for his tea, because 125 Hyndford Street is only that far away, and my feet were thankful!
An unpretentious terraced house squeezed in-between similarly humble abodes attests to his working class roots. At present, all that exists to hint at its former occupant is a brass plaque, but rumours abound that an announcement is imminent suggesting it may soon be a museum akin to the childhood homes of John Lennon‘s Menlove Avenue and George Best‘s Burren Way (my poor feet!). A lengthier walk takes you across the beautiful Orangefield Park to Van‘s secondary school which is nothing too special but it is where Morrison earned his musical chops. As the name suggests, it is a big Protestant area and if I am entirely honest, I found the plethora of British and English flags that accompanied me to and from it to be oppressive and plain weird. If the racist flag shaggers in the UK were to fly over (not many will because they don’t have jobs, unless of course you want a red cross daubed on a white background which they are ace at- but heaven forbid, you ask for anything more challenging – there’s only so much crayons can achieve) they would likely become highly aroused.
References to trains litter Morrison‘s songs and indeed the old railway line, now a pedestrian dog walking run, sidles close by all of the area, and passing it I ended up on the splendidly named and even more splendidly atmospheric Cyprus Avenue. Like The Hollow there is something mystical and magical about the place thanks to every beautiful image Morrison magically weaved into the self titled song and also Madame George. The penultimate site was St Donard’s Church where Van‘s mother and father were married and it’s bells are mentioned in at least two of Morrison‘s compositions. I didn’t hold out much hope for hearing them though, given the clock was about four and half hours behind my watch. The final site was a Chinese Restaurant, formerly Davey’s Chipper mentioned in a Sense of Wonder. It is an unassuming end to the tour but in taking the tour you get a real sense of the streets that Van Morrison grew up on because they are pretty well unchanged. Like the Beatles and Penny Lane, a mundane street in Liverpool, Morrison can create worded wonder that imbues these places with a sense of otherness. I would recommend the tour highly, but if you fancy incorporating George Best’s house, get a taxi.
Speaking of which, by now my feet were crying out in pain and so for the first time in my life, this consummate walker ordered an Uber. I checked in and showered, ready for the evening. Valencia had promised to show me around the nightlife of the Cathedral Quarter, but given it was a Wednesday, at least it would be quiet.
Not a bit of it! It was like Manchester or Liverpool on a Saturday night and was a riot of bright and loud bonhomie. It was rammed but it all seemed good natured. We even picked up a stray waif along the way as we sampled various local beverages ranging in percentage from Guinness to Jameson’s. I rocked up back to my apartment at about three in the morning, which I knew would entail a message to Stevie in the morning pushing back our ETA, since my chauffeur was equally spiritually fulfilled.
And The Thief Came In…
Thursday morning (barely): Today was to be dominated by music because Stevie (Scullion), who had obliged my request with a revised ETA of 12 noon, is better known as Malojian, a fantastic singer-songwriter from Northern Ireland. I had reviewed his Humm album back in 2020 (HUMMing back to Happy: Malojian releases perfectly brilliant album for these apocalyptical times. – Urbanista Magazine) and we had stayed in touch discussing music and the genius of Flann O’Brien amongst other things. When I had messaged him to ask if there was anything else to see in Northern Ireland besides my initial itinerary, he had suggested I come by the studio he was currently working in and he sent me a link to help find it. Valencia arrived to take me there and we began our journey, both of us in denial about the excessive quaffing of the previous night, and both telling the other “I feel fine”. I for one was being economical with the truth. Stevie‘s studio was put together by a former engineer of Van Morrison, Enda Walsh and it is positioned a good hour away from the capital, and in an area of the country where Wi-Fi connections are at a premium…not too helpful when you are using Google Maps, but nevertheless we eventually found our way there and on time (revised). Stevie came out to greet us, and the first thing to note was the splendid and beautifully crafted garden put together by the octogenarian owner of the neighbouring house. The studio itself is beautifully laid out with pristine wooden panels, and it is both spacious and peaceful. When Stevie played a new song of his, it sounded quite lovely in that environment, not that he needs it because his vocals are soaringly beautiful anyway and anywhere. Whilst Malojian is very much a solo project, he also has two other projects, The Breeze and Dead Goat, both of which have new music almost ready to go. It is criminal that he is not better known on this side of the pond because his song-writing is exquisite, and let’s face it, Jason Lytle of Grandaddy and Steve Albini don’t work with just anyone, but both were happy to lend their considerable production skills to, in Jason‘s case Malojian – Humm, and in Albini‘s case Malojian – This Is Nowhere. If you have not yet checked him out, you really should because your ears and your soul will be amply rewarded for it. We chatted some more about the state of the world today and about Stevie‘s imminent meeting up with Bill Drummond at his water tower in Cushendall, before heading back Belfast way to get ready for Van Morrison. We were, in effect covering the ancient and modern of Northern Irish rock n roll in one day, but in reverse order.
Into the Music.
Thursday Evening: By the time I had eaten and showered, it was getting close to show time. The ticket simply had the time 8pm written on it, so with nothing better to do I moseyed on down. For most gigs the time on the ticket is the time the doors open, but for Van Morrison, this was the time the show began, and some of the audience had obviously thought the former to be the case tonight, since they wandered in halfway through his set. I just had time for a drink before the announcement suggested we make our way to the auditorium because the show was due to to start in five minutes. The venue was indeed intimate and I began to wonder what he might play. A London pal of mine had maliciously hoped he would be “miserable and doesn’t play any songs you know”, and I had heard that the songs at the previous shows at Mandela Hall had been predominantly covers, but what the heck, it’s Van Morrison!
Any fears were quickly allayed when following, “Ladies and gentlemen, will you please welcome Van Morrison“, he strolled onto the stage and without pausing, pulled the microphone towards himself and delivered the familiar opening lines to Into the Mystic. His delivery was soft and laid back as he ambled along, backed by a beautiful interpretation from his nine piece band. My fears that maybe his voice could no long attain it’s former glory looked well founded, but then halfway through Only A Dream from his New Arrangements and Duets album the voice kicked in and became entirely recognisable as the Van of old, and is if to emphasise that I was silly to imagine anything but, as the song segued into Bonaparte’s Retreat from Accentuate the Positive, he whipped out his sax and proved that his skill on that instrument was equally undiminished. He then addressed the crowd, and was obviously in good humour when he suggested that the show was a “weird selection“, and that “some of it will make sense, some of it won’t!” before soulfully entering Enlightenment with a quite beautiful harmonica solo. The instrumental break saw Morrison directing his musicians to take centre stage with solos, and to these ears, the trumpet solos in particular were utterly gorgeous all night, only just besting the various keyboard, saxophone, bass and guitar solos. Scottish troubadour Robin Williamson wrote For Mr Thomas, but tonight Van made it his own, with a reverential rendition. Similarly, his delivery of Crazy Jane and God which borrows from WB Yeats, quite apt given their spiritually similar paths, is fabulous this balmy Belfast evening with backing singers Dana Masters and Jolene O’ Hara adding flight to the line “All things remain in God“.
An early highlight followed with a brilliant Cold, Cold Heart, a version that Hank Williams likely never envisaged, and with that voice now entirely in its stride, when he and the band started singing “melt your cold, cold heart” it resembled a negro spiritual from back in the day and by the end, Van was positively belting it out! Dweller on the Threshold from 1982’s Beautiful Vision continued in the same vein as Van and Co seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. He then announced that he would play a couple of songs from Remembering Now, his latest album that has been very well received, some reviewers going as far as to suggest it his best since the early nineties. Personally I found Back to Writing Love Songs a little Van-by-numbers (although when he sings in the bridge of soul and inspiration it taps into the Morrisonian themes of yore), but the following Only Love I Need Is You is quite wonderful. As the drummer counted in, getting as far as to two, Van barked, “Hold it a second, I need to explain this. I didn’t write the lyrics, the co-writer was Don Black. He wrote the lyrics, I did the music. If you want to know what this is about… (pause)… get in touch with him!“, cue much laughter from all, including Van. The arrangement was liltingly beautiful, with dreamy backing vocals and some warm and comforting musical accompaniment, and the Man obviously enjoyed it since he finished it with an approving “Yeah!”.
The intro to Little Village from 2003’s What’s Wrong with This Picture? had me hoping it wasn’t the similarly starting Wherever God Shines his Light, which for me, was ruined for all time by Cliff Richard, but I needn’t have worried because it is a far more nuanced creation than that, and by now I was transfixed in wonder at the immaculate vocals that Van was pounding out but when he hit the sax solo my wonderment was fully realised. He still has soul by the bucketload. When the jazzy Jumping With Symphony Syd was tossed out, a Lester Young and His Sextet cover, I was conscious of the fact that this gig had been like a celebration of nearly all of the musical styles of the twentieth century, which is testament to Van Morrison‘s unique talent. Blues, country, jazz, rock n roll, rhythm and blues and (always) SOUL made an appearance tonight. When you have written as many songs as him, selecting a set list must be a daunting affair, but Morrison bypasses this by welding songs into each other and so we got In the Afternoon, Ancient Highway, Big Joe Turner, Raincheck, Stretching Out, Sitting Pretty and No Plan B all in one! Phew! And what a magnificent stew it was, all 11 mesmerising minutes of it. In particular when Van and Dana were riffing on “I wanna make love to you“, you could feel the passion in your bones, down to your boots and in your soul!
A bona fide classic was dusted off and delivered into the Belfast evening showers via the brilliant Wild Night from 1971’s Tupelo Honey, before Van and the band delved back a year further with the, tonight, hilarious Blue Money as lead guitarist Dave Keary proffered the “duh do” refrain much to the merriment of band and audience. Then we went further back in time again to 1964 and Them‘s Dont Start Crying Now which segued into Sonny Terry‘s Custard Pie, and included another delicious Van Morrison harmonica solo. The set was really bubbling up now and it wasn’t about to end as Morrison strapped on his guitar. Addressing the crowd with “We’re going to do a Bo Diddley, Buddy Holly medley” we were treated, and what a treat it was, to a ten minute long Who Do You Love? / Mona / Not Fade Away – pure rock n roll by one of the purest RnB artists of all time who was whooping and hollering throughout. Just stunning. And then he was gone and I was thinking “What? No Gloria?” and he must have read my mind (not really…it’s his go-to encore)because he suddenly reappeared as the band whipped up a glorious G. L. O. R. I. A., and he took those of us too young to remember back in time to Them‘s crowning glory. At about three minutes thirty of the song he began walking off as the announcer asked “Let’s here it one more time for Van Morrison” – no bow to the audience, no thanks, no big farewell, but what he was in fact doing was allowing his quite brilliant band to do their thang as the song continued for a further rollocking 11 minutes with each member allowed a flight of fancy, in particular Jolene O Hara conjuring up the spirit of Lisa Fischer in her Gimme Shelter prime. It was a generous gesture from Van Morrison in allowing his band to take the reins and the acclaim at the show’s denouement. Standing ovations ensued as they finished and trooped off into the sanctuary of the dressing room. I looked at my watch and could not believe he had performed for just shy of 1 hour 45 minutes, so quickly had it passed. I stood there utterly blissed out for a moment. It is astonishing that Van Morrison is still singing and playing at a level not too removed from his pomp. Sure, there were no high kicks, but, hell, his eightieth birthday was in a couple of days time. Van Morrison at the Waterfront Hall Studio was an event and he rarely tours now aside from the odd Belfast gig or two, so I urge you to see him whist he is still this vital.
It was a triumph.
I wandered out into the Belfast night air, and given my alcoholic exertions the night before, I had one in the Cathedral Quarter before sloping homewards, because tomorrow I was due to see the kind of sweet things that are worthy of a Van Morrison soundtrack.
“Are you scared of heights?”
Friday: I was asked this question by Valencia’s middle daughter Abi, who was joining us for the day (along with Bob the dog!). I considered it a strange question given we were heading to Giant’s Causeway which to my knowledge didn’t particularly involve heights. I could have regaled her about my experience as a teenage window cleaner (a short lived profession I share with Van Morrison) and the time I was up a ladder on the top floor of an old people’s home when a resident thought it would be a splendid idea to open the window my ladder was resting against. She opened it wide enough for me bellow at her not to, thus staving off my inevitable life long paralysis or death. However, fearing ridicule, I kept schtum. The drive we took was along the coastal route which whilst taking longer than the motorway, was terrifically scenic, with the sea to the right hand side, at times affording views of Scotland in the distance, and rolling hills and prettified villages on the left.
We reached the bustling car park of the Giant’s Causeway and began the walk down to Northern Ireland’s natural wonder and despite not being too youthful myself I reckon I was one of the youngest visitors there, because for some strange reason the place was rammed with pensioners. We spotted buses heading back up and all agreed we would take advantage of the service rather than do this walk in reverse. We then turned a corner, and in the distance could see the Causeway trying to escape into the sea. Multitudes were marauding and manoeuvring over the rocks, and we soon joined them.
The Giant’s Causeway is a natural geological formation which I couldn’t quite believe looking at it, since it looks too symmetrical, too man made, but then I am no volcanologist so I will have to take their word for it. I also muttered out loud “I thought it would be bigger”, to which my travelling companions said “Don’t be slagging off our natural wonder of the world!” It is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and consists of over 40,000 interlocking basalt columns formed by ancient volcanic activity about 60 million years ago. In some ways I was more blown away by the formations of rocks on either side of it that dramatically jut out from the sea. I clambered up to the highest point, which wasn’t that high, so was still baffled by Abi’s puzzling question earlier. After photo ops were taken, we eventually got the bus back up to the car park and then headed back from whence we came, that was until we entered a tiny car park in a place called Carrick-a-Rede. A tired Abi (it was the first week back in school in Northern Ireland) was left in the car, so Valencia, Bob and I made our way along the coastal path that followed the kind of views that money just cannot buy. I have seen similar in Wales and Jamaica, but this was truly breath-taking and it was about halfway down the path I finally understood Abi’s morning question. Between two massive slabs of head rock was a rope bridge precariously transporting the brave and the foolhardy (I am in the latter camp) from one to the other.
It is dramatic, and given the wind was high today, dangerous too. In the far distance, the Mull of Kintyre, responsible for one of the worst songs of all time, was sat ready to observe my passage across the bouncing bridge. These sort of things don’t really bother me, and I was getting a little impatient with the people in front who were taking such delicate and dainty steps across whilst I waited behind. Finally, it was my turn to go and I marched deliberately across turning to wave to Valencia who was recording my voyage for posterity. As I turned back to continue my journey, my balance suddenly went and for a split second I thought “I’M GOING TO DIE!” before regaining my composure and balance (less so my dignity) and completing the passage. It is a glorious place surrounded by stacks, arches and emerging islands and to my eyes was far more impressive than the Giant’s Causeway, with birds swooping, swaying and singing all around. It is in places like this that Van Morrison‘s music makes most sense; the drama, the beauty, the mysticism, and I would recommend it to anyone visiting this beautiful country. It really did, almost literally, blow me away.
We headed back to the car and then on to Belfast via the motorway and the roads we had followed to visit Stevie the day before. Another trip was made to the Cathedral Quarter, though we were less riotous than on Wednesday night, and then to bed, sad in the knowledge that tomorrow was to be my last day. I had toyed with the idea of taking a Glentoran match in, but decided instead that a visit to the Falls and Shankhill Roads would be of more interest.
Haunted
Saturday: I made mention of a “harrowing history” in the sub-heading to this article and it was to this part of my journey I was referring. Even the casual observer knows that Northern Ireland was a notorious, religious battleground during what is now referred to as the Troubles. I must make it plain at this juncture that I bat for neither side, which enabled me to be an impartial observer to what I was about to witness. When I had been traversing the Van Morrison trail I was acutely aware that he had grown up in a Protestant or ‘Proddy’ area by dint of some of the flags and displays in the streets surrounding Hyndford.
In fact, on my first night in the Cathedral Quarter we had been in the Duke of York pub, which incidentally I took to referring to as ‘the nonce bar’, and spotting both Guinness and Murphys being served, I innocently (some might say stupidly – I’d had a few) asked the barman, “Guinness is a Proddy beer isn’t it? And Murphys the Catholic one?”. He looked at me a little nervously, and replied “those times are long gone”, but pursuing the matter (because I knew I was right) he simply said he did not know. This to me was a sign that “those times” are far from long gone. There is still an element of nervousness in talking about the issue, and indeed, Van Morrison has always delicately skirted nailing his colours to either mast, being more into spirituality than religion. Today I was visiting areas that were notorious in the last three decades or so of the twentieth century. I began my journey with my trusty sidekick Valencia at the Falls Road, the Catholic area and she helped fill in some of the historical gaps for me. We headed down to the Milltown Cemetery, since I wanted to see Bobby Sands final resting place. Sands is the most famous of the hunger strikers by dint of becoming an elected M.P. whilst starving himself in prison. After 66 tragic days of no food, he finally succumbed at the tender age of 27, and his death haunted me as a child, because even at that early age I was acutely aware that British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was responsible for his death because she refused to give in to his very modest demands. He was not alone either, lest we forget the names of the other Hunger Strikers from 1981 who paid the ultimate price; Francis Hughes (25), Raymond McCreesh (24), Patsy O’Hara (23), Joe McDonnell (30), Martin Hurson (29). Kevin Lynch (25), Kieran Doherty (25), Thomas McElwee (23), Michael Devine (27).
Just look at those ages.
They died because a stubborn bitch from Grantham would not agree to their right to wear civilian clothes, the right to free association and recreational/educational facilities, the right to one visit, letter, and parcel per week, the right not to do prison work, and the full restoration of lost remission of sentence.
They were hardly demanding the world.
Today Belfast was gloomy and the distant fog that was rolling over the hills gave Milltown a particularly mournful feel. As we entered the Cemetery passing gargantuan headstones and a plethora of Celtic crosses, we spotted some Irish tricolours fluttering in the distance, and sure enough, it was the Republican burial plot. Situated towards the end of an avenue of graves filled with the bodies of idealistic, and mainly young men and women was the grave of Bobby Sands.
I was a little dumbstruck once there because his plight had filled the pages of newspapers and the news broadcasts whilst I was at an age when I was just beginning to understand a little more of the world, and if I was on anybody’s side, it was Bobby‘s and not the evil grocer’s daughter. We solemnly returned to the car and headed back up the Falls Road taking pictures of various murals along the way.
When we reached Conway Mill, a site renowned during the Troubles, we took a right and parked up at the unassuming Eileen Hickey Irish Republican History Museum. However, once inside I was astonished by just how much they had by way of bonafide artefacts that they had salvaged and were now displaying as evidence of the Irish history of resistance to British oppression. Eileen Hickey was an Irish Republican and a former Officer Commanding of the Provisional IRA prisoners in Armagh Women’s prison, and the first person who greeted us was her sister Susan, whose husband Patsy was also sadly incarcerated. As she showed us around, she pointed to a miniscule camera that her Patsy had smuggled into Long Kesh (also known as The Maze or the H Blocks) and a letter to her on a single sheet of toilet paper with the tiniest writing that had to be smuggled out. Other artefacts included a Bible belonging to De Valera; an amazing collection of weapons from Mausers to Kalashnikovs to rocket launchers, plastic bullets, items created by inmates including wooden craftwork (with a number of harps especially), leather work (wallets and belts) models made from matchsticks and lollipop sticks, clothing from Long Kesh, the blood pressure pump used to check on the health of the hunger strikers, keys from the Maze, a fascinating library and a number of bodhráns decorated with scene of Republican interest. They even had a detailed mock up of one of the cells from Armagh. The museum covers the period from before the Easter Rising of 1916 up to 1998’s Good Friday/Belfast Agreement that thankfully has held firm until today. It is a vital and important document to those times and anyone who visits Belfast really should make time to visit.
With ten minutes to go until the museum closed I was wanting to purchase a couple of bits from the gift shop but it was cash only. Susan asked what it was I wanted and was inclined to allow me to take them (Belfast generosity again!) but I refused and made a dash to the cash machine, before returning to pay for them with an added a cash donation, because, astonishingly, there was no entry charge to this treasure trove of Irish history. We left and headed towards the Peace Wall and then onto the neighbouring Protestant Shankhill Road that again was covered in murals, one of which listed the crimes of Sinn Fein and bizarrely included the 2005 London bombings that were nothing to do with the Republicans. Others included two huge portraits of Queen Elizabeth II and old sausage fingers King Charles III, and it is quite evident that underneath the veneer of peace, a simmering resentment still remains in these quarters.
Having feasted my eyes, soul and heart on all that Belfast could offer, all that was left for Valencia and I was to get a final meal at Benedicts (their champ in pepper sauce was sensational) and then for me to sadly bid her farewell and head for the airport.
Van Morrison had brought me to Belfast, and I was leaving culturally, historically and musically far richer than when I had arrived. Belfast is a quite amazing place and if you haven’t been you really must. When Morrison sang about a Sense of Wonder, he could well have been describing my experience in this wonderful city.
Thanks to; Valencia and family, Steven Scullion, Susan Hickey and George Ivan Morrison.
Prince Far Out
Streets of Arklow
