The Lagan tow-path parallels a thread of sometimes stagnant and weed choked and sometimes wide clear and fast flowing water. Having already walked from Belfast central even the OCD inclined “must walk the whole Ulster Way” voice in my head was prepared to allow me to join the path at the Queen’s bridge – appropriately enough as I was in the excellent company of my brother Gerard. He is a qualified Belfast city guide and knows facts and anecdotes about every Belfast building … providing that building can be seen from the top deck of a double-decker bus. So we were in fact mutually ignorant about what might lie on our path ahead.
Gerard walked with me as far as Shaws bridge where we nipped off the path to have a rather lovely lunch in the restaurant at Malone House. We were joined by other members of my family and my friends Carrie and Daryl who had just completed a 20k training run practising for a marathon. Daryyl has surrendered all independent thought regarding his bodily functions to the iron will of his new sports watch; it chides him with increasingly urgent buzzing if he has been sitting for too long or when he hasn’t taken his recommended nap. I’m happy to report that it allowed him and Carrie to join us for lunch (“I’ll have a large bowl of chowder – BZZZZ!!! – No, sorry a small bowl of chowder… thank you”). Carrie clearly see herself as a Sarah Conor figure fighting the tyranny of the machines, she smuggled me an iced bun to eat. They joined me for the second half of the walk to Lisburn and were lovely company. The photo is of the lunch party, everyone to my right walked part of the route with me and the collection of mothers, sisters, nieces and a wife to my left had more sense.
It was lovely warm dry weather and it being a Saturday the tow-path was enjoying full weekend occupation. An earnest mother explaining the concept of decisions consequent on manifestations of poor behaviour to a toddler whose entire vocabulary consisted of only “Mamma” and “Dadda”. Tall thin runners in need of a good feed overtaking short wobbly runners who perhaps had had a few too many feeds. Cyclist chaps wearing Lycra I am confident they wouldn’t if they could see themselves from the back and pensioner couples walking in either affectionate companionable silence or sullen resentment – it can sometimes be hard to tell which.
The stretch of the path from Shaws bridge to Lisburn is populated with old industrial buildings whose dilapidation is just on the cusp between unsightly eyesore and charming ruin. A few more years and the feral ivy and fuchsia will cover-up the last of the graffiti “Wanker Wilson ” tags, and one or two more trees sprouting from upper floor windows will complete the conversion of what were once grim dangerous mills into soft edged tourist board postcard snaps. In places where the canal has accessible banks the allure of water over-powers some people’s natural aversion to lyme’s diseases – either that or we came upon a bunch of jockey’s who mis-read their map key and confused “bridal path” with “canal”.
I appreciated yesterday’s day off and though my knee still aches a bit my hope is that ibuprofen will continue to do its magic thing.
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