Ballymena Riots 2025

So, Ballymena is at it again. And this time, far too close to where my family live.

Once more, we’re in ‘whatever you say, say nothing’ territory. A passing comment to a neighbour about the hate and madness of it all, and you might catch a look that tells you they’re not quite on the same page - some sympathy for the protestors, plenty of hostility toward the ‘foreigners’.

It’s racism, plain and simple. It’s hate and it’s stupidity squared.

I once believed, naively perhaps, that my Irish grandchildren would grow up in a time of peace and civility. Instead, just around the corner from where they live, masked thugs have spent the past two nights rampaging through the streets, attacking police, wrecking property and burning families out of their homes.

They claim it’s a response to a horrific assault on a young woman. But how does terrorising innocent families deliver justice?

My heart goes out to her. She deserves justice, compassion, and the full support of the community - not this chaos done in her name.

They are racists, plain and simple, with their hatred and ignorance on full display.

The Sweet Waters of Europe and Some Other Places

 

The Sweet Waters of Europe

Just as Bert finished reading Dutch Interior I'd completed Master Georgie by Beryl Bainbridge. I handed it over,

I think you'll like this. It's about a surgeon in the Crimean War, and it's written by a woman. 

These days Bert seems to prefer female novelists, his current faves being Hilary Mantel and Pat Barker. Sure enough he came downstairs next day saying,

That's more like it. Says what she means, no shilly-shallying around.

In the novel Master Georgie and his camp followers take a leisurely route to the battlefield. They set sail from Liverpool to Constantinople and on arrival spend some time taking in the sights including a trip to the Sweet Waters of Europe, which was a fashionable resort at that time. The area, now known as Kâğıthane, is urbanised and the wealthy must have found new playgrounds.

Now I know very little of the Crimean War for it never came up in my school history lessons. That was all Plantagenets, Tudors, The Flight of the Earls and the English Civil War. There was Florence Nightingale of course and references to limbless soldiers in Victorian novels. Yet when George and his camp followers get to where the action is I realised that many of the geographical place names were already familiar. Belfast, like hundreds of other towns and cities in these islands, had streets named Crimea, Inkerman, Alma, Sevastapol, Plevna and Varna. Most of these are part of old Belfast and no longer exist. However, Sevastapol Street, off the Falls Road still stands and that is where the famous mural of Bobby Sands is situated. Balaclava Street, also on the Falls Road, has disappeared. Its claim to fame was being named 'Balaclava' at one end and 'Balaklava' on the other. 

Nor was Lord Raglan, of Peninsular and Crimean War fame, been forgotten when it comes to Irish roads and pubs. Belfast had its Raglan Street, Dublin still has its Raglan Road made famous by Patrick Kavanagh and Luke Kelly. And Ballymena? We had the Raglan Bar in Harryville which I entered on one occasion for about five minutes. Strong Straw Dogs vibe. It's a Credit Union now. 

Get Me To The Church On Time

 Wellington Street back in the day when Bert knew what was what and where things were.

So yesterday we went to see the EAMS Christmas Concert to support Evie who would be playing the cello in the Junior Orchestra.

As always, I wanted to be early so asked Bert how long to drive to Wellington Church. He replied,

About 15 minutes.

Oh good, thought I. No more cutting it fine.

Where shall we park?, says he.

It's a big church, says I. Should be plenty of parking spaces.

We set off. Bert did not take the road I expected him to. He drove right through the village and past the end of the Fenaghy Road, I asked him

What way are you going?

Into town. Obviously.

I thought you’d go by Galgorm.

Why?

Because that’s the way to the church.

Wellington Church? That’s on Wellington Street.

It’s not. It’s on the Sourhill Road.

Since when?

About fourteen years. Haven’t you noticed it? The church on Wellington Street was demolished around seven years ago. Surely you noticed that?

When am I ever on Wellington Street?

Every time you drive through the centre of Ballymena.

We still managed to make the Sourhill Road in good time and the concert was beyond excellent. Evie and all the young musicians put on an accomplished show. Their teachers and mentors should be very proud of themselves. 

Lunch With Martha

Another day out in which I realise that my brush with coronavirus has thoroughly depleted my energy. Thankfully, my oldest grandchild is very understanding. We lunched at Bob & Bert's (Martha's second choice as Middletown was packed) and it was good.  Then on to the shops. We browsed Cameron's, H&M and TK Maxx and bought nothing. The charity shops offered more interesting and affordable choices. I bought a thermal vest and a Barbara Kingsolver and Martha bought denim dungarees, a bright yellow raincoat and a slinky dress which I didn't really approve of but hey-ho at her age it's all about experimentation, isn't it. She can take it back if it's not right for her.

I wore my new Blundstone boots and felt rather good in them. On the way back Martha (who was walking backwards) said,

Hey Granny! I'm walking backwards and I'm still walking faster than you!

I said, 

Of course, you are. I'm nearly 70. You're lucky I'm walking at all.

That led to a conversation about how long I intended to live. I sensed that optimism was called for. I said I was aiming for 95 or thereabouts and that seemed to please her.

Isn't it odd that a conversation about mortality should warm the cockles of my heart so? For I know that at her age a quarter of a century hence must seem like a fantastical leap into the future. I'll do my best to live until then but if I don't I'm sure she'll be fine.

Tonight she is playing the ukelele at her school's open night.

A Nice Afternoon In Town

 Bert and I went to town yesterday to shop for my birthday present. Sounds nice, doesn't it?

It was anything but. The town was horrible, far too many people, too much traffic. I got him to drop me off outside Sammy Moore's in Ballymoney Street. 

You'll never get parked close enough. Just do the circle and I'll be waiting for you outside.

I was in and out in five minutes. The service in Moore's is the best in town. I stood there with my very big package and waited for Bert to come round. And waited. And waited. 

Ten minutes later he appeared. I got the box in the back of the van and jumped in. 

What happened? I thought you'd be here before now.

Why didn't you have your phone?

I didn't think I'd need it. Why?

I found a really great parking space and phoned to let you know. 

Why didn't you just keep to the plan?

This is not an unusual thing for Bert to do. We make an arrangement and then he goes off-piste.

Anyway, he kept going on and on about me not having my phone and I pointed out that expecting me to lug a huge box to wherever it was he'd parked wasn't on. And the whole thing turned into a row with me doing all the yelling. Saturday afternoons in Ballymena can be so stressful.

So, what did Bert buy me for my birthday?

A carpet cleaner. Come Christmas he's going to buy me a carpet.

Monstera Deliciosa (Tales From A Room)

I look back at this picture taken Christmas 1976 ( I was 23) and it brings back so many memories. That dress. Floral, bought from the Go Gay Boutique (yes, really!) in Lower Mill Street, Ballymena. It was floor length, fashionable then and showed a lot of cleavage which I was shy about hence the long fringed shawl. Silly to be shy, for I had a most magnificent bust. But unlike maxi-dresses and fringed shawls,  bosoms were not so fashionable back in the mid-seventies.

Who was the guy in the background? Somebody sleazy, masquerading as respectable. He sired a child back then that he ignores to this day. Shame on him. Nothing to do with me.

I remember that night so well because I was to meet a boy at that party. Someone I'd been seeing for a while, someone I thought I was in love with. Heck, I was in love with him in the way people are before they know what love is. He jilted me that night. Went off with someone else and broke my heart. I knew I'd been stood up when that picture was taken and I was pretending not to care.

The plant was a Swiss Cheese Plant, a Christmas gift from my friend Rosie. I had it for years.

Forty years later and a favourite haunt of mine is the Palm House in the Botanic Gardens in Belfast. There the Monstera Deliciosa plants are enormous. That picture only shows a few of the leaves at the base of the plant. That baby is more than ten foot tall. So I'm yearning to have one for myself. On my most recent visit to Ikea, I said to Zoe,

Should I?

And she says,

You should.

So I did.

Call back in several years when it's ten foot tall.

A Day Full of People and Dogs

Wansn't the best of weather but today I hung out with eleven people and nine dogs. We began at the People's Park in Ballymena, some kind of Halloweem Fun Day Celebration that Miss Martha was keen not to miss. I have to say that it was a lot more enjoyable than I expected. 

Afterwards, back to our place where the girls played dress up, schools and trampoline and  Bert and Caleb bonded being the only males in a very female environment.

Nine dogs. Judy, Jess, Roy and Ziggy were pleased to welcome overnight visitors Maya and Gracie, Frank and Dora. Rex dropped in for a few hours but returned to Portballintrae with Mistress Swisstress. I was slightly dreading the nine dogs but they were ever so easy as were their people.

Quote of the evening,

Swisser: Nelly wants me to get Rex castrated,

Fergus: Never did me any harm.

In Which I Risk Being Sued Or, At The Very Least, Having My Windies Broke

Bert and I went out for breakfast this morning to a 'caff' in an industrial estate. Whilst waiting for the food I perused the local rag which I rarely buy for it is overpriced and full of shite. I was interested to read about a public meeting of 'concerned residents' concerned about the influx of Roma gypsies into the town. There is so much concern in Ballymena about the Roma people that they have a dedicated Facebook group which has five of my FB friends on it. There hasn't been as much 'concern' in Ballymena about a group of incomers since - well, since the last lot of incomers, the folk from Eastern Europe who came over here to do the jobs that Ballymena people preferred not to take or were unable to do. A lot of those folk have returned home as standards of living in their own countries have risen just as ours stagnates. And, of course, the Brexit factor means that 'foreign nationals' don't feel particularly welcome in North Antrim.

I have a sense of how they must feel. A majority of people in Northern Ireland voted to remain in the Brexit referendum but not in North Antrim where I live. North Antrim, a place of great beauty and charm (the landscape) is also a right-wing, intolerant and sectarian hole. A place where the local Westminster representative, like his father before him a right-wing, intolerant bigot, can line his pockets with all the lovely free money and perks that power can offer the corrupt politician. At least the Da had some sense of decency when it came to graft. Or maybe he, being smarter than the son, just didn't get found out?

None of this 'concerned resident' stuff is new. In the early 1980s, a number of Vietnamese refugees were settled in Ballymena. Some of the families were housed in the estate where we lived and we got to know one person, a girl of about seven called Quyen. She spoke very good English (the rest of her family didn't) and she seemed mature beyond her years. The refugees were hard working people and many started small businesses, such as chip vans. But the locals didn't like them. Ridiculous rumours abounded. They were thieves, they stole people's pets and trapped wild animals to sell as food. The locals moved against them, a pigeon shed was burned down, vehicles were vandalised. Poor Quyen was bullied and scapegoated at the local school. Local parents even went to the headteacher to complain about her.

The Vietnamese people got out of Ballymena as soon as they could. They went to live in English cities and I hope they made a good life for themselves away from the backwater that was (and is) Northern Ireland. Our loss.

I don't know any of the Roma gypsies. When I'm in town I notice that they prefer to move around in groups and that they avoid eye contact. I expect that feels safer. My sister tells me that another group of people who avoid eye contact are Travellers. They are another people despised by 'concerned residents'.

There was one funny thing on that Concerned Residents page. One woman referred to herself as indigenous to Northern Ireland. Typically, she didn't manage to spell the word properly but I got the gist. It's my belief that very few of the Concerned Residents of Ballymena are indigenous to Ireland. I can't even claim that for myself with Scottish ancestors who probably originated from Eastern Europe.*

*Hopefully, there is not too much Welsh as they voted to leave Europe, the fools. And perhaps those rumours are true, that Great-Grandfather Steen who became a Catholic and whose people came from Scotland may actually have descended from a Jewish ancestor?

Ballymena

Ballymena is the town closest to where I live. I wasn't born there, I'm not from there but it's The Town. It's where my mother caught the bus to, once a week, to collect her Family Allowance. Not for her the luxury of letting it build up. It was a necessity to be collected every week as soon as it came due. Occasionally I'd accompany her. I remember how she rushed and how there was never any time to look in shop windows, to admire all the things we couldn't afford. Still, there were treats. She'd buy a quarter of sweets in Donaghy's shop in Linenhall Street and she and I would have one each, the rest tucked in her bag for sharing when we got home.

Ballymena is where I went to grammar school for three long and hateful years. The summer holiday before, 1965, was ruined by my anxieties about this move from the small country school that we were able to walk to. I was especially terrified of travelling on the bus on my own. What if I got on the wrong bus? Ended up in some far-flung place like Ballyclare, never to find my home again?

The bus wasn't as intimidating as I'd feared but there were new anxieties. What if there was no seat on the lower deck? What if the conductor made me go upstairs where all the rough Academy boys sat? That actually happened once and I was terrified until a big boy, David Allen, who'd gone to our country school, sat beside me. I'm sure he recognised my terror at being among these great oafs. He tried to make conversation with me but I was too shy to engage. There was another boy from our school on board and I remember the other fellows bullying him. David was standing up for him. He was as old as my protector but fat and poor and probably a great butt for their jokes. He was a very sweet and kind boy and ended up working in the Civil Service at a very high level. David Allen became a GP and practised in the village where I live now.

And later on, Ballymena was where I socialised and came to live and, in time, where I met Bert. It's where my children where reared until we moved to the country to live with Bert.

These days it's The Town and I am ashamed of it.

Like all small towns, it is full of decent people but there is also an element of xenophobic, racist and bigoted people who live in it and, unfortunately, they are the ones who seem to define the place. When Ballymena gets in the news it always seems to be for the wrong reasons. From being the heroin capital of Northern Ireland, to the savage sectarian murder of a 15-year-old Catholic boy, the years-long protests at Harryville Chapel, and then a DUP Mayor asserting that Hurricane Katrina was divine punishment for the existence of gays. And, more recently, we had Ian Paisley Jr. M.P., prancing up and down Ballymena streets exulting being let off the hook by his constituents after his suspension from Westminster. Worse still, Ballymena's racists have now attracted the attention of England's worst and we may well become infested by them. Is it any wonder I'm ashamed to call it my town?

Black Elder

Evie and I had around an hour to use up before we collected Martha from school, so we went for a walk, our eventual destination being the nearest sweetie vending emporium. On the way, we walked past a very lovely shrub in a garden (pictured above) and I said,

I must get a picture of that on the way back because I'm sure Bert will know what it is.

On the return journey, I was camera ready. Evie held the Haribo and I got my pictures, one at a distance for the general shape of the bush and one close up for better identification. I hoped the people in the house weren't looking out and thinking me presumptuous. Job done, I put the camera away. Evie said,

Granny what's all that stuff? What happened to the house?

I looked at what she was looking at. Outside the front door was a pile of half-burnt and melted stuff. It looked like the type of thing people might stash in their roof space. I looked up. A vast hole in the roof, partially covered with a blue plastic sheet, tiles damaged or missing,

It was easy to find out what happened from the school lollipop man and his friends. An electrical fire in the roof space a few days ago. The people were away. The fire melted the plastic water tank and the house flooded. Scary. My own attic is full of just the sort of crap that those people had but there is no plastic water tank to put out the fire.

And...if it hadn't been for Evie I wouldn't even have noticed the fire damage. Talk about not seeing the wood for the trees.

The shrub? Bert identified it immediately - Sambucus nigra f. porphyrophylla. Who says Latin is a dead language? Not for horticulturists it isn't.

So what have I learned apart from the name of that covetable shrub?

1. To pay attention to my surroundings.

2. And get the attic cleared.

A Shooting At The Pub

On Friday 24^th May 1974, Day 10 of the UWC strike we went, as usual, to evening Mass in Tannaghmore chapel. As always we were in good time and there was the regular group of men standing chatting at the chapel door. This had recently become an ordeal for me, passing those men, neighbours and family members, for I was 20 years old, six months pregnant and unmarried. Forty years ago this was no light matter. John Heffron and Uncle Sean smiled and nodded at me but Uncle Brendan was not on speaking terms with me and made no acknowledgement. This was hurtful but understandable. I'm sure, that if given the chance, once my daughter was born, he would have come round. Brendan had a great fondness for children and was a very well-loved uncle.

After Mass my parents went to visit Mum's family in Randalstown. The first hint of something wrong was a series of strange phone calls. My younger sister took the first call that alerted us to something badly wrong. A shooting at the pub. A neighbour called to the door and took my brother down to Randalstown to inform my parents. I took a call from a woman who did not identify herself.

“Is that Byrne's?”
“It is.”
“Tell Sean we'll be over for a carry-out.”

There was laughter in the background. It sounded like they were having a party. I took it to be a malicious call.

The younger children were hysterical with fear. They thought that maybe the gunmen were coming to our house too. I tried to reassure them. By the time the tragic news came to us the gang had left the Wayside Halt and were already in police custody.

The thing is, the RUC were well aware of the gangs' activity. They were a ramshackle band of UVF, UDA and other loyalists who had come down to our area to reinforce the strike. Around thirty in number, they were armed with cudgels and sticks and at least one carried a loaded firearm. A neighbour of ours saw them at their work in the Harryville area of Ballymena where they smashed up pubs that were open in defiance of the strike. Their way back to Belfast took them past the Wayside Halt public house and it was there that a gun was used to shoot my uncles. That is when the police went in pursuit. That neighbour reported their activities in Harryville at the time. Had the RUC moved in Ballymena my uncles would not have died that night.

So there it was. Two devastated widows, eight fatherless children, a community torn apart, a loss felt as keenly today as on that terrible evening 40 years ago.

That link above is well worth reading as it is my sister's account of the events of that night and there are details that I have not included here.

In The News

Is it nearly a week since I last looked at Nelly's Garden? Sure doesn't time fly when you're enjoying yourself?

I had the Leitrim Sister up for a few days and the country wine had a very mixed reception. She caught me racking the orange and tasted it then pronounced it rank poison. The raspberry, while tasty enough, was "too strong". I suppose that is a fault of sorts.  Maybe it is too strong for I had one of those hangover thingies the next day and I didn't like it.

The weekend rushed past in a flurry of visiting and being visited. I can say without any fear of contradiction (for if you contradict me, you are just plain wrong) that a lady from Tannaghmore, formerly from Armoy, makes the best soda bread in County Antrim and probably the world.

And Liam Neeson received the Freedom of the Borough in Ballymena today. Miss Martha and her mummy appeared in the local TV news as part of the crowd that welcomed Liam to the Town Hall. I'm sure this will not be the last time Martha appears on a news programme.

 Pictures are screen shots from UTV player

Meadow Street

Back in the 1970s Northern Irish bars stopped serving drink at 11pm and you were out the door at 11:30pm. If the publican or bar staff did not comply with this rule they could expect a visit from those big lads in green, the Royal Ulster Constabulary. But when you're in your teens or twenties and you're having a good time you don't want to go home before midnight. That is why if Kevin was around we'd often end up back in Meadow Street. Kevin, God love him, did not have the usual family thing going on, his Mum was dead and he lived with his Dad. Ned was a real character who usually spent his weekend evenings drinking in O'Rawes, a pub which, for some reason, didn't seem to have an obligation to close at the usual time. Ned would roll in some time after midnight in the best of form and, if he was in the mood for it, call in to see who was around and have a bit of craic with the company. Though not with me, for I was heart-feared of him.

The Wee Manny and a friend

Kevin had a wee terrier dog called Trouble. Trouble was also a character and danced only to his own tune. He had a back leg missing due to a brush with a moving vehicle but it never kept him back. The leg he lost was the one that he used to balance on when he needed to piss. You'd have thought he would have swapped balancing legs but not Trouble. Instead he somehow managed to balance on his two fore legs while he lifted this one remaining back leg to make his water. It was a sight to behold. Trouble was not one of those dogs who bothered himself with people and while he was prepared to tolerate the weekend invasions of young post-pub visitors he would not take kindly to being petted or stroked. Indeed he would have taken the hand off anyone who would have tried it.

Ned could be sharp too. Sometimes after he'd gone to bed he'd rise again and come down to us and order everyone out of the house. The thing to do was to look down, stay quiet and allow him to grumble himself back to bed. Nobody ever left. Oh - many the good night we had there and even the odd bad one too.

Christmas Night 1976 and I'd just been dumped

I remember one Christmas time when the bars had been packed and afterwards Meadow Street. Someone, I forget who, had a bit of hash and he rolled a joint. I was anxious to give hash a go for I'd never tried it before. The joint made its way around the room, everyone taking just a few drags. At last it reached the girl next to me. I was so excited. But she smoked and smoked and eventually finished it and stubbed it out. Then she remarked, “I don't know what people see in that oul stuff for it never does a thing for me!” I had to wait a while longer for my first smoke of a joint.

A few weeks ago I passed by Meadow Street and I thought of the scores of evenings we trekked there after the pub, not wanting the evening to end. And I thought of a tale that a musician friend had told me. Way back in the 1960s Cream were playing in Ireland. A local music promoter was driving them around and invited the band to stay in his home. The story is that Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce took up his kind and hospitable offer. But what of Eric Clapton? Apparently he was so wasted that he spent the night sleeping in a van in Meadow Street. I'm sure he wasn't the last.

Hey You (Sonshine) Get Out Of My Face!

After the bike shopping on Saturday morning Bert and I took a dander up the street. Could we get moving through that town? For we were everywhere impeded and besieged by mobs of green-shirted God-botherers from a local cult church. They were on every street but the bulk of them were congregated around a group of musicians and singers at the bandstand, roaring, singing, lepping up and down like buck eedjits and grinning like loons. I think beaming and grinning must be compulsory in their church. Or maybe they were just really happy because they had found the Lord and he was not a stuffy old Lord like the Presbyterians and the Methodists and the other churches have. Their Lord must be a zany, fun-loving, tone-deaf Lord for, to be honest, the band was pure shite and no amount of maniacal pogo-ing Christians will make me believe otherwise. I was surly when I refused their literature. Bert didn’t see the point of that for, as he pointed out, if you’re clutching one of their handouts they’ll not try to give you another.

I’m considering putting a complaint in to the Council about the hideous din of it. It certainly did not make me want to hang around town and spend money. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who felt alienated by the spectacle. Of course there were people who seemed to think it was all very jolly but if we must have Christians monopolizing the bandstand every Saturday morning I’d prefer the dour gang preaching hellfire and damnation. And I’d definitely rather receive tracts from downcast, humble souls who, even if they might think I’m a sinner bound for hell, at least will have the decency not to gloat!

Flickring Interesting

William, Mary & Ollie, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

No Heavy Jewellery

Today whilst walking past ‘The Spinning Mill’ (formerly known as ‘McSwiggan’s’ and originally McKendry’s Bar) I saw, and stopped to read, a handwritten notice that had been placed in the window. This notice stated that a dress code was to be imposed. From now on there would be -

• No tracksuits after 6pm
• No football shirts
• No political insignia or tattoos on display
• No heavy jewellery
• No drunks

Proper order! But there was no mention of baseball caps. Nor weaselly faces.

Ulster Dyslexic Association

Graffiti spotted at the back of J&R Keys in Castle Street. One of their young employees gave me a right glaring out for taking the picture.

Anybody know what those initials stand for? Answers on a postcard please. Asterisk use will be accepted. The first correct answer will receive a prize of an enamelled lapel pin featuring "the sore hand of Ulster" in this season's fashionable aquamarine. The second prize is a tattoo of the "sore hand" and the third two tattoos....

Old Ballymena

The Mill 1, originally uploaded by Fossie1.

Now a retail park.

Fossie1 has a nice little collection of vintage Ballymena pictures on Flickr.

Modern Ballymena

Yet another hole in the road, originally uploaded by ZMB.

This scene is so typical of modern Ballymena.

The picture also includes (to the right) a shot of Ballymena's most photographed dog.