Belfast Ale (and past Belfast Ails)

August 7^th Day something

Belfast Ale

Beatrice Kennedy restaurant, Botanic Avenue, Belfast

Having eaten lots… and I mean lots… over the past few days, the thought of going out to eat more would have seemed greedy, if we did not have some flimsy excuse to justify our piggishness: so to Beatrice Kennedy’s, a mere amble down the road from the Ibis Hotel, for an “exciting range of dishes”.

This standard Victorian house has been traditionally decorated in period dark greens and reds, landscape pictures hung and the odd ornament here and there, all of which conveys that established semi-antiquarian feel. The publicity write-ups were good and the menu, although short (six starters and six mains listed), covered all bases: certainly the steak and salmon were well prepared and, although not spectacular, certainly hit a mark (burp!).

We considered a wine to accompany, but were, as said earlier, just not hungry enough. The Belfast Ale was therefore a welcome diversion. A short head on a weak cola-coloured clear ale, the presence was initially understated, but in tasting filled a full and pleasant palate. The lasting effect was of a strong hoppity-hop accent and extremely maltyness –almost to the point of malt extract. It went down quite well and, if I had chosen a lighter course I think I would felt contented, but like a fool I ordered another and, on top of the steak and truffle mash, suffered for it: So much for my pursuit of Epicureanism through wanton noshing at the trough –perhaps a simple salad would have sufficed (and then a jog home and yoga and meditation and…)

Staying in Belfast has been interesting (and a wee bit chilly). Ostensibly we have been here so that Brenda could attend the Inclusive and Supportive Education Congress conference held at Queens University. But what has been of nearly as much interest has been exposure to Northern Irish culture, and perhaps working class NI culture at that, with the attendant outwards displays of ire and identity, tribal tattoos and inflexible invective. “Fair do’s to ‘em!”

I think it’s fair to say that most English-types (and many expats in HK for that matter) have created distance from our religious and tribal origins. There are few of us willing to lay down our lives to defend our identity as Wessex men and women, or East Anglians, Mercians or Northumbrians. Perhaps only those whose national identities have been threatened, such as the Irish, Welsh or Scots, have defended them as ferociously (although there are undoubtedly similar thoughts held by some Cornish, Cumbrians and the inveterate Yorkshiremen). Let’s not kid ourselves; English history is one of conquest. But despite the embarrassing World Cup St George’s bunting fluttering from Astras and Escorts throughout the land (as a kid the flag was always the Union Jack), few English would take to the streets to protest anything and none but those on the maddest radical racialist fringe would get fired up against their Irish Catholic or Scottish Protestant neighbours. Few would raise anything more than an eyebrow (at most a frosty few lines to The Times) in order to defend the Church of England, the established religious institution of the land with the Queen as head. Some might find time in the pub to voice disapproval of the prevalence of Mosques, but they wouldn’t dream of burning them down or knee-capping their Muslim neighbour’s teenagers. We have our freedom of speech and our tolerance for others, our love for eccentricities and delight in exotica. We had an Empire and direct threats of obliteration, barring the menace of Hitler, did not occur since the times of Napoleon. Perhaps, if the few extremists amongst the Muslim minority would get fired up, take direct action and cause a bit of mayhem, at most we’d call for greater police protection, but for now English sectarianism is wholly unpalatable.

This hasn't, however, always been the case. Popular English violent protests against anything Papish took place during the 16-18^th centuries, but perhaps took on more racist overtones following the large immigration of Irish Catholics at the onset of the industrial revolution. They came to work in the new factories, they helped build canals, roads and then railways. Their wave of immigration, of course, was one of many: such a regular occurrence since these Islands were first detached from mainland Europe, there is about as much chance of finding an 'indigenous Brit' as there is the Loch Ness Monster. For many it is a matter of interest alone, and perhaps not a little pride, that some may have Catholic Irish or Scottish Presbyterianism or even Jewish blood coursing through their veins. The last great wave of Irish immigrants, however, that arrived during the catastrophic peaceful decades that following the Napoleonic wars heralded a great change in British demographics, but to no more effect than shuffling cards. The Irish, Scots, Welsh and the English are a common people with different histories, accents, literature and power. And it is, as far as I’m concerned, the last point which holds most true.

That power is held in London is accidental. Had the Romans been defeated, or the Saxons or Normans for that matter, then perhaps the British capital might be Oxford, Winchester or even Slough: imagine that and be grateful!

I have great sympathy with those who have been denied power or the access to it: the world is full of such as these. And perhaps that is why the tenuous Belfast Agreement has held since 1998: it finally addressed the genuine grievances of a sizeable section of the community that had little satisfaction through the instruments of established British government.

It may have taken a thousand years to bring about union of English, Scots, Welsh and Irish, and this has undoubtedly come partly through economic pressure and partly through the sword. As much as an Independent Scotland and a United Ireland may bring out the William Wallace or the Michael Collins in many, the truth is that cash walks when bullets fly. Belfast is clearly prospering and long may it continue to do so. The defensive working class agendas proudly on display may hark back to a strong siege mentality, but growth can only occur with freedom. Perhaps the freedom from the demons of the past can be summed up in two lines I saw on the side of the Garrick Bar in the city centre:

 

“A nation that keeps one eye on the past is wise.

A nation that keeps two eyes on the past is blind.”