Jonny McCambridge: The Lion, the Witch, the Wardrobe and the Irish Cup Final traffic

​The show was to be put on at Belfast’s Grand Opera house and the discovery caused a small flurry of excitement in our household. I am currently reading the Narnia books to my son. It was quickly agreed that we must go.

I was in charge of securing the tickets and decided that to approach it as a rare treat. I paid more than I usually would and purchased three seats in the middle of the front row of the circle to afford the best view.

And then we waited. Several times my son inquired how many more days were left until the show. It had something of the quality of Christmas or departing for summer holidays when we finally woke on the morning of the Saturday matinee.

We put on nice clothes and set off on the short drive to the theatre more than an hour before the show was to begin. I drive into Belfast often at the weekend and knew the journey would usually take less than 20 minutes. We would have ample time to have a relaxed snack and drink in the bar before the curtain rose.

My normal route for this journey is to proceed along the Westlink, turn off at Grosvenor Road and then park in the multi-storey behind the Great Victoria Street railway station, just a couple of minutes from the Opera House.

However, more recently I’ve had to amend this due to the works around the new Grand Central transport hub. The road which leads to that car park can no longer be accessed from Grosvenor. Instead, I come off at the Broadway roundabout, drive past the City Hospital and down Great Victoria Street to access the car park from that direction. It has added just a few minutes to the journey time.

There is much excited chatter as we make the short drive. How will Aslan the Lion be presented on stage? How will the final battle scene be recreated? I can almost physically sense the excitement oozing out of my boy.

As my car moves along the Westlink, I notice the traffic is heavier than expected. I am not overly concerned as we have lots of time. However, once we are on the slip road to the roundabout we slow to a crawl and then, worryingly, stop entirely.

There are dozens of cars marooned at the roundabout in the shadow of the large sculpture and nobody is moving. Two police cars with flashing lights are attempting to control the traffic and blocking exit routes.

Both my wife and son ask what is going on. My first thought is there must be a crash. However, then I notice the hundreds of people on foot, wearing scarves, walking across the road in the direction of Windsor Park. I have a terrible sense of deflation.

“It’s the traffic for the Irish Cup Final,” I tell my family. “And we’re in the middle of it."

The show we want to see begins at 2pm. I assume the football kicks off at 3pm. I know my previous plan of driving through the city, close by the stadium, must now be abandoned. I have to get back onto the Westlink.

But the police are preventing cars leaving the roundabout in the direction I want to go, instead diverting them back around the roundabout towards the Falls Road.

For more than half an hour we inch around the roundabout, progressing no more than a few yards. We are all growing increasingly tense, my son makes repeated pleading inquiries if we will make it on time. With less than 15 minutes until curtain rises, and still hopelessly stuck, he bursts into despairing sobs. I grab his hand.

“Don’t worry son, daddy is going to do everything he can to get you there.”

But I don’t like making promises I’m not sure I can keep. I’m conscious that the previous weekend we had abandoned a trip to Barry’s in Portrush due to traffic. I find I am biting my lip. Why did I not check traffic advice? Why am I not more organised?

All sense of order has broken down now within the lanes on the roundabout. I see that the police car blocking access back onto the Westlink has finally pulled away. I fight to nudge my car in that direction, ignoring the scowls and protests of other drivers amid the chaos as I cut in front of several.

Eventually I manage to free myself from the web of traffic and am back on the Westlink. It takes just a few more minutes to get to Grosvenor Road. We are much closer now, but the traffic towards the city centre is also heartbreakingly slow here. I am desperately trying to think of parking options. There is less than five minutes until the curtain rises.

In a final despairing act, I turn right off the Grosvenor Road in defiance of the signs stating that the road is closed due to roadworks. I drive along a narrow lane where I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be.

I emerge, unexpectedly, on to Glengall Street, right outside the Grand Opera House. However, any excitement at seeing the theatre is immediately tempered by the fact that I am once again stuck in a non-moving line of traffic. The city is grid-locked and I know I am going nowhere fast.

The final cruel taunt is that we have somehow got to the location on time but still cannot park. My son begins to cry again.

I look at the clock. It is 1:58pm. I take a deep breath, fish the tickets from my pocket and hand them to my wife.

“Go,” I say. “Get the wee man in for the show.”

My wife begins to protest.

“No,” I say again. “Go and enjoy it. I’ll join you when I can.”