Belfast and me: Friends again

As my plane touched down at Belfast City Airport, I looked out the window to grey skies. It wasn't raining, it wasn't particularly cold, it was just grey. As I listened to the accents of people talking around me, all I could think was, "I really hope I don't sound like that!" And as we drove home from the airport, I couldn't help but notice the murals, the flags, the police armoured vehicles.

I did not want to be in Belfast. Actually, I wanted to be anywhere but.

Two weeks on, Belfast has crept around those criticisms and planted itself firmly in my heart again. I've remembered that sometimes the sky is blue, that the accent makes us unique, that there's more to our history than violence.

One day last week, I walked into the city centre. It's a walk that takes about an hour, past churches and shopping centres, cafes, my old high school, through Protestant and Catholic areas. I think it was during that walk that I started to see Belfast again. I had driven that route a couple of times since being back, but when you're driving, you don't see the faces of the women selling The Big Issue, you don't see the menus of the boutique cafes; you don't see much. And when you don't see much, you can't appreciate much. I'm sure it's the details that make us appreciate; it's the details that make us fall in love.

On Saturday, I went to St George's market. It just about sealed the deal. From the second you walk through the door, you're hit by the smells of bacon, coffee, spices, you're consumed in the buzz of people milling around the stalls, you don't know where to go first and all your senses are on fire, the good kind of fire. Your biggest problem is that you have no idea what to eat first: a bacon and egg soda, pancakes, an Ulster fry, cupcakes, Guinness bread.

If you've been to Northern Ireland and you haven't eaten at least five different types of bread, you wasted your trip and you need to go back at once! I opted for a bacon in soda bread and enjoyed some gentle banter with the woman on the stall as she put it together. I sat and watched the band setting up as I sunk my teeth into it. A few minutes later, if I hadn't felt like I was going to burst, I would've gone straight back for another one. The market is a place to gather, a place that proclaims diversity with unity, something that has long been an unattainable goal in Northern Ireland. And I loved it.

Fast forward a few hours and I'm standing on top of Cave Hill (after a steady walk up to work off the bacon soda). Belfast sits in a bit of a bowl, with the Holywood Hills on one side and Cave Hill, Divis and Black Mountain on the other, all opening out onto Belfast Lough. The climb up Cave Hill is steep in parts, and worth every step. You can see right up to Slemish Mountain, where St Patrick tended his sheep and right down to the Mournes, near the border. And the whole way across the city - to Samsom and Goliath: the cranes at the Harland and Woolf shipyard, the new Titanic museum, built for the centenary, the city hospital, with its orange glow, not one of the more attractive buildings in Belfast and the Stenaline ferry, starting out of the mouth of the lough. You see Belfast in all its glory, all its beauty.

Belfast was stating its case and demanding my attention.

The final argument came after some quality time with some quality people. When you come back after being away, there's a whole lot of catching up to do, but I can tell you this: when you get to the point when it's no longer catching up, but simply spending time together, that's when you can release that breath you've been holding as you've been waiting to feel ok about being home again.

I still miss New Zealand; that's not going to go away in a hurry. And I would give my right arm to be able to bring all my friends into one place. But right now, I'm ok with Belfast. Durham has a lot to live up to...