Belfast : The land of the lazy wind

A few years ago Belfast beckoned.

I knew Northern Ireland mostly through fragments—newspaper reports of street violence during my college days, names like Gerry Adams and Bobby Sands. And football: Danny Blanchflower, Pat Jennings, George Best. Best especially, the maverick legend mentioned alongside Pelé and Maradona, whose airport now bears his name.(read a tribute to George Best

Decades had gone by and Ireland returned to normalcy.

I knew Belfast would be interesting and it didn’t disappoint.

On a late November evening I landed at the George Best Belfast City airport. I was told Belfast would be cold. For someone born and raised in central India where the temperatures went north of 45 Deg C, this was going to be a shock. Stepping out of the airport gave me an idea of the trouble that lay ahead. But then I was smart back then, unlike today and was prepared. I had put on almost four layers of warm clothing, which made me look tough and rugged.

It was difficult to walk as some snow had fallen. I walked gingerly towards the parking lot and deposited myself into the car.

A 10 minute drive along the road that dips westward towards the city would take me to the hotel. The light was low, grey skies stretched away into the horizon. The car buzzed past the beautiful Victoria Gardens, a railway line running parallel to the road. In a few minutes we crossed the River Lagan and turned into a street that led to the Hilton. It was now getting really cold. An elegantly dressed elderly concierge led me to the lobby to be checked in.

The view from the room was stunning, the city lights had come on, and night had descended. In the distance the bridge we had crossed stood bright and sparkling. The water in the river twinkled as the light reflected off the surface. There was a soothing calmness about it all.

This was not the Belfast I had imagined. Not the nervous city glancing over it’s shoulder looking for the next spot of trouble anymore. Belfast to me seemed assured , seated firmly in fine poise. There were a few cars zipping along the bridge, men and women heading home as the city prepared to sleep.

I slept poorly as the body clock tripped up. Sleeping lightly with fuzzy head, a shrill whistle and a shrieking call jolted me. I was not sure if I had imagined it. I strained my ears in the darkness and heard it again. Moving to the window I looked out, trying to get to the bottom of the commotion. A glance at the clock told me it was four in the morning. The noise was coming from the riverside. I kept staring for a few minutes and solved the puzzle.

Silhouetted against the darkness and the fuzzy reflection of light from the street lamps, a canoe glided into sight. There were at least six persons rowing. There was another canoe with a single rower , gliding along. He was holding a torch, and was the one shouting out.

It was making no sense, who in the world would wake up in the middle of the night, collect a few more lunatics and decide to row in the dreadful cold as the sharp wind descending from the hills swirled around. I was later to to be told that it was the national rowing team preparing for an international event. While the explanation made sense, to me it still was a daft thing to do – rowing at unearthly hours. Now it made more sense, it was probably the best time to practice for an international event. In professional sport learning to deal with tough conditions is a great idea.

I could not sleep any more, and decided to get out of the room and take a walk as soon as dawn emerged. It was a pretty stupid thing to do as it turned out. As soon as I stepped out of the hotel, I felt the cold air enveloping me. The ears numbed and the cheeks were to be on fire. The wind whistled, it slipped in through the trees lining up the street, came around the corners and from every imaginable direction. It was nothing like I had experienced, I could handle a shimmering heat wave in the dry heartland of India, but this was unfamiliar territory.

It was a matter of minutes before I retreated. My walk had lasted just 100 meters before it ended. I hunched up, put my hands into my pocket and rushed back. The hotel I felt was the only safe spot.

The elderly concierge , was still at his post. As I waited a few seconds under the covered car drop off zone, outside the hotel to catch my breath, he came over and smiled at me. I could see the name on his uniform now. The shining brass of the name clip had Christy written in black on it.

Christy must have been nearing 70 years of age. He had a sharp nose and bright eyes gleamed at me from under the cap. The sagging wrinkles spoke of a rough life. He had a sort of weather beaten skin, probably from being out at sea for long.

He surely had seen this all his working life, a visitor from the other hemisphere crushed by the cold. He spoke in a cheerful tone and an Irish accent which I had got used to due to my team meetings.

“Wait here a few minutes , you need to get used to the cold. The wind will not trouble you here. You should be fine.“

As I nodded weakly, he sauntered away. I thought it was a good piece of advice, but then I could have done with some company. He entered the hotel lobby and disappeared. I stood my ground, letting the body fight the cold.

I had to do it as I had another week to go in what was to me to be the North Pole. If nothing else, I was one , who could roll up his sleeves, stiffen his jaw and have a go at life when it threw stones at me.

As I fought back at the elements I heard the soft voice again. Christy had magically reappeared behind me. This time he had a cup of coffee in his hands and was extending it towards me.

“There you go, this should help.” he said.

I froze again, but this time with awe. Christy seemed like god to me. I am sure I saw a halo around his large frame. Had it been the Arctic, he would have been my Saint Bernard and the coffee cup he was holding my life saving brandy cask. I never liked coffee as much as I did that day. It slid down my throat like lava, lit up my insides and unfroze me. Christy stood watching the transformation. A man happy at having saved a soul.

Seeing I had recovered enough to talk, he continued,

You will get used to it. You see it takes time to get used to the wind here. The Irish Wind is a lazy wind.

I looked at him all muddled, not sure of the lazy part. Before I could ask , he continued.

“You see the wind is lazy, it goes through you and not around you“

I could not have agreed more. It was indeed a lazy wind, the one that was coming down from the hills that miserable gray morning. I had felt it, and now I could actually see it. The nasty wind rounded past the corner of the hotel building, rushed towards me , and went through the layers of clothing, my skin and exited from the back. Only Christy’s coffee stood in the way.

One has to experience the piercing wind as it goes through your torso to understand the pain.

Christy , the angel who I am sure must have hidden his wings under that elegant overcoat that morning, smiled and held the door open for me to enter the dimly lit lobby of the Hilton.

I said to myself – ‘Welcome to Belfast.

In the next few days I was to brave the cold, meet some interesting people and learn more about Northern Ireland. It was a pleasure to enjoy the Irish hospitality, make sense of Irish humor and get a few more stories to write about.

Write I will, you may have to wait a bit though.

Before I go now, let me tip my hat to Christy.

Thanks mate. wherever you are. Thanks to you I can now actually see wind.

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Sudhir Bhattathiripad

Indian Travel and Musings

Twitter : @tvsbhatta