Jackie McGregor: ​The rock, the ring and the pilot: secrets of the slumbering giant

“For the last time. The first ridge is his hat; that next sticky-out bit is his nose. Then his lips and chin,” I said, as we stood in my front garden, looking up at the Cave Hill.

I couldn’t blame him.

He’d recently moved from the US, while I’d lived in the hill’s shadow all my life.

For years I stared at its dark mound in bewilderment until, one day standing on the Antrim Road with a friend, he explained the outline and suddenly I saw it: Napoleon’s profile.

“They say the silhouette of the mountain was the inspiration for the sleeping giant in Jonathan Swift’s, “Gulliver’s Travels,” I said.

“I was wondering about that big stone. It almost looks like it’s been painted,” he mused.

“It is. It was painted white and used in the Second World War like a giant road sign to help pilots navigate where they were. The local postman who lived in Cave Hill Cottage, at the foot of the mountain was paid £5 to keep the rock painted white.

"Volunteers now do it to honour the wartime generation. Though eejits keep vandalising it.” I sighed.

“Good story though,” he nodded.

“There’s an even better one. Do you know about the pilot and the ring?” I asked, assuming the role of local historian.

“No,” he shook his head.

“It was June 1st, 1944, a heavy fog blanketed Belfast,” I set the scene, warming to my subject. He turned to face me with interest.

“An American aircraft – a Flying Fortress, was on its way to land at Nutts Corner Airfield from Canada. A crew of ten were on board, but the weather was so bad they had zero visibility even though it was midday. The plane crashed into the hillside, killing the crew instantly.”

“Decades later, fascinated by the story, Alfred Montgomery, was searching the crash site and found a battered wedding ring. Inside was the simple inscription, ‘Ruth and Larry.’

“After all those years, that’s pretty unbelievable!” he breathed, looking at me intently.

I felt strangely captivating for a change. Hubby rarely looks up from his phone when I speak.

Enjoying centre stage, I continued. “He wrote loads of letters – there was no internet back then, and traced the ring back to Lawrence Dundon, the radio operator of the crashed plane,”

“Wow!” he exclaimed, resting his elbow on the fence.

“Montgomery eventually tracked down Lawrence’s widow, Ruth, in Kentucky and returned the ring to her personally,” I concluded.

“That’s given me shivers,” he said gazing up at the ridge.

“What were the chances of that? Finding the wife after all those years. It’s like something out of a movie.”

“They did make a film of it,” I replied.

“Hollywood picked up the story, it’s called ‘Closing the Ring’. Shirley MacLaine and Christopher Plummer star in it.”

“Can’t wait to tell my wife, she’ll want to watch it. When you think of all the things that have happened up there. Those guys were from my homeland ...” he reflected.

We stood together staring at the sleeping giant, thinking of all the history resting above us.

“You still can’t see Napolean’s profile, can you?” I asked.

“Nope,” he replied.