I’ll get to that promised Sir John Poo Beresford thing, later rather than sooner. I promise.
Meanwhile, a sad thought from a long weekend.
The trip to the Lady in my Life’s ould sod was very curate’s eggy.
Good to see relatives, in fine form. Good to see Belfast bustling in some kind of consumer frenzy. Grand to have another Ireland win (though, was that really the Australian 1st XV?).
And a night, just one, at the gorgeous Bushmills Inn.
The gloom was seeing the slow dying of the towns of north Antrim.
The main street of Bushmills itself is an object lesson. Decent terraced houses selling (or rather not) for the price of a basic SUV. Pretend vinyl shop-fronts masking the gaps in the Main Street. Fine older buildings lying derelict.
And the finest of all has to be the Old Court House, built — as far as I can determine — shortly before Victoria acceded to the throne, with prison cells and apartments above for the peelers.
A bit further north along Main Road, sitting a bit back from the street, a fine “gentleman’s property”, boarded up, rank with the smell of decay.
Of course, north Antrim was never exposed to universal prosperity; but this is depressing in the extreme.
There is an indicator of worse to come: so many of the “improvements” across Northern Ireland (including the Bushmills Inn) come with a tag: European Structural and Investment Fund Programmes in Northern Ireland.
Yet the brain-dead of the DUP (who paradoxically do well in these parts) were loudly for #Brexit.