Jackie McGregor: Echoes of footprints: the enduring grit and wit of Belfast
As I struggled to ingest my own cooking, like it was a bush tucker trial, a memory resurfaced: quiche and salad, smothered in a delicious dressing from a restaurant I loved years ago.
This inevitably led to my usual stroll down memory loss lane with hubby.
“What did you call that place we used to go to in town? You loved their Cherry Pie, back in the eighties? It curved around the corner from Lombard Street onto Rosemary Street, facing McNeilly’s Jewellers?” I quizzed, as our family sat around the table for Sunday lunch.
Hubby is accustomed to an inquisition; I rarely remember things first time.
Thinking of McNeilly’s Jewellers, I touched my earlobes. Women of a certain vintage will remember Mr McNeilly, who seemed about a hundred years old and performed the ultimate local rite of passage for teenage girls. Upon turning thirteen, we’d race to him to have our ears pierced, then wear them like a badge of honour.
“I think that’s going to be apartments,” chipped in my son.
“We’re up to our oxters in apartments!” I complained.
“You have such a delicate turn of phrase,” quipped hubby, spearing my leftovers.
“I wish I could remember that restaurant’s name,” I murmured.
“Google it,” said my son.
“Certainly not! I’ll get it eventually, use it or lose it,” I blustered.
A mere five hours later, I’d cracked the case. “Delaney’s!” I shouted in triumph, punching the air, startling my beloved.
“In the name of …” he muttered.
“Nailed it!” I smiled smugly. Performing brain archaeology and retrieving that name felt magnificent.
“Never heard of it,” shrugged my son.
My mind drifted back to our courting days and the Belfast of my youth.
“I used to love the Washington Bar, we’d get tipsy, then call into the Ruby King for a curry. At the weekends you’d bust your Rick Astley moves at the Cavalier Hotel disco or Joplin’s, then treat me to a Hawaiian burger from Ken’s on the way home. Ambassador you were spoiling me!” I laughed.
“Your mum’s off on one,” he sighed, “they’re all gone now.”
“Is Lavery’s still going?” I asked my son. “I once filmed there with Adrian Dunbar as an extra in “Children of the North.” I told everyone to watch, but when my episode aired, all you saw was the back of my head,” I snorted.
“That’s quite cool mum,” junior smiled. I soaked up a rare moment of teenage approval.
It struck me that I must have sounded to my son as my parents once sounded to me, wistfully rhyming off places I didn’t recognise, like the Orpheus Ballroom and the Plaza. In those memories, Mum became her younger self again, her eyes alight.
My son knows a different Belfast from his dad and me, and my parents knew a different one from myself.
The footsteps of our youthful selves and those before us, are still alive in the pavements. We continue to treasure the memories of those places, where in our minds we stay forever young.
From the Blitz to the Troubles and beyond, it’s the generational grit and wit that keeps us moving on, regardless. At the end of the day, no matter what was blown up or demolished, Belfast isn’t about the buildings. It’s about the people.