I'VE BEEN BACK in Belfast. It was my fourth time in the city. I'd passed through once on holiday, experiencing great hospitality in the so-called province and beyond. The other two occasions were as a reporter, post-Troubles, for a protest march and a visit by Bill Clinton (and Hillary – very impressive, I recall).
I must say, on the latter occasion, I enjoyed being part of a motorcade (albeit on a bus with other hacks) flanked by motorcycle outriders. Perplexed and impressed citizens looked on as we flashed by. It's the only time in my life I've remotely bee
n tempted to do a moonie at the window.
Come to think of it, that was in Dublin, on the subsequent part of Bill's tour. Another fond memory here is of being in a massive hall for the international press corps, each with a pint of Guinness on his or desk, supplied free by the Irish government. It was here that Bill at last said "sorry" for the Monica Lewinsky business. Alas, I mucked up my momentous first line for the front-page splash. Don't remember it now, but I blame the Guinness (contrary to popular misconception, I never normally drink on the job).
In Belfast, I remember staying at the Europa Hotel, the hacks' favourite and, during the Troubles, the most bombed hotel in Europe. For some reason, the beds were unmovable and, hellishly pressed for a deadline, I'd to unscrew the headboard to plug my laptop into the phone connection to file my copy. I imagined the hotel manager thinking: "I wonder why the journalists always unscrew the headboards?"
This latest visit to Belfast was just a day-trip from Stranraer. The Stena Line ferries are fantastic and, on this occasion, we got a free gift and a donut to celebrate the opening of a new terminal. I cannot tell you what the gift was, as I am giving it to the Burd as a memento, thus saving me considerable expenditure. I hope she accepts it with more grace than the Christmas gift I gave her: a DVD collection of Fred Dibnah's Age of Steam.
By the quayside, an open-top tour bus was waiting. These charabancs are great for folk like me, who dislike travelling independently. The guide introduced himself to the assembled mob, adding: "We'll be on our way shortly – just as soon as we get the driver sobered up."
We passed the site where air-conditioning was invented and another where the inventor of the Dunlop tyre had lived. The Ring of Thanksgiving statue, beside Queen's Bridge, featured an angel-style figure holding a hoop, earning her the soubriquet "The Thing with the Ring" or "The Doll with the Ball". The humour was reminiscent of Glasgow's, where the Donald Dewar statute was dubbed "The Glaikit in the Jaikit".
When a chap in a Rangers top shouted "Bastards!" at us, we knew we were near the Shankhill Road. Here, you could buy Union flags for £2.50.
A mural of the Queen Mother looking pie-eyed attracted tourist titters. On the Falls Road – the republican area – the murals these days are more about Palestine and Cuba. From west to east Belfast, we saw where CS Lewis was born, in a place called Ballyhackamore. Here were leafy suburbs, very pleasant in the sunshine. The guide indicated in the distance a building known as the Belfast Barometer, saying: "If you can see it, it's going to rain. If you can't see it, it is raining." A line doubtless heard in many places.
Much of Belfast is English-style redbrick but not, of course, Stormont, the parliament building, a palace in Portland stone. We passed a restaurant called The Thai Tanic. The Titanic is big in Belfast, as this is where the doomed liner was built.
On the streets, ice-cool girls sailed by, looking more stylish than of yore. Belfast is prosperous and "happening" these days, though you still see a few demented-looking men with fire-and-brimstone eyes. I can recommend the Belfast Eye to you, unless you've a fear of heights. As I have. I'd done the London Eye and really enjoyed it. But it has big pods, in which you can walk around. The Belfast pods are small and, at the top of the wheel, while doubtless it's as safe as the teeny-wee houses below, it's easy to experience a pronounced distaste for gravity. I sat petrified, a fragile mortal, for most of the half-dozen spins round. Granted it was exhilarating but, next time, I'll take a parachute – and a bible for my pre-extinction repentance.
Back on terra firma, I bolted for the boat, anxious to be on the infirm sea, having had a terrific time, made sweeter by its brevity, but inclining me to return at leisure another day.
• Read Robert McNeil every Tuesday and Friday in The Scotsman.