Ophelia Day

Unexpected bonuses - and counting my blessings very gratefully as I thought about people who hadn't been so fortunate in her wake - of Ex-Hurricane Ophelia's sweep through Belfast were a day off work and some beautiful light. The afternoon sun was warm and low and the clouds were busy and dramatic.

I went for a long walk round part of the west side of Belfast Harbour, exploring the area round Corry Road, Dufferin Road and McCaughey Road. I was hoping to find some subject matter that would fit the theme of 'Infrastructure', a forthcoming competition round in my camera club. I'm still not exactly sure what will count for this, despite lots of helpful advice. I suspect I'm focusing too much on the details that go on around the infrastructure and not enough on the infrastructure itself. And now that I keep saying and thinking of that word, it's beginning to sound wrong and strange, the way words do when you concentrate too hard on them.

But whatever with the infrastructure, it was an exhilarating walk. There were no other pedestrians round, just one guy on a bike, who winked at me and called out, 'Good luck!'. With what, who knows. But thank you very much.

Everytown blues

You look behind Main Street.

You let the shadows sink deeper and the cracks show more clearly.

You see the words which hang empty and painful at the back of beyond.

You find the blues of everytown, the sad/beautiful poem that's different and the same every time.

Becoming sculpture

Beauty, heritage and decay - three words I keep returning to when I'm thinking about my photography practice. I haven't found better ones to define what appeals to me.

I've been to some places which represent this combination of qualities perfectly. Old Car City in White, Georgia, is one. This is another. It's the old gasworks at Carrickfergus, now a museum and visitors' centre.

I was there a few weeks ago. The guided tour was very interesting, but I fear I wasn't a terribly good visitor, always lagging behind everyone else, taking photographs while the rest of the group was already at the next station listening to the guide. Sorry about that.

It doesn't take much for an industrial installation to become sculpture. And it doesn't take long for disused industry to become a secret gallery of old masters. Such a privilege to round a corner and see such beauty.

Following Frances 4: Swanlinbar, Part 1

I

It’s the day after the autumn equinox, mild, pretty and a little bit melancholy. I’ve left the main routes from Belfast as soon as possible and approach Swanlinbar from a new angle, all poignant abandoned cottages and narrow grassy roads. The Creamery Road brings me into the heart of the town. I turn right and there, almost immediately, is the abandoned Methodist chapel where William started working in the summer of 1900.

I drive up and down the town to see what’s happening. It doesn’t take long, and the answer is very little. Swanlinbar is attractive and nicely situated on the river, but it’s the quietest of all the towns I’ve visited so far. It’s midday on a September Saturday, and there’s no-one about.

I know from my research that this is a fairly recent slowing into slumber. In the early eighteenth century, there was an iron foundry here – the Irish place name is An Muileann Iarainn, The Iron Mill, and the name Swanlinbar was a fabrication, a jigsaw of syllables from the names of the foundry’s owners. Later, there was a hotel in town for visitors to the six mineral spas which flowed nearby. John Wesley himself visited in 1767, 1775 and 1778 (and found the people of all denominations “artless, earnest and loving”). And even in recent years, the town was thriving, with a lively eleven-pub high street. Now there’s only one.

I don’t have high hopes for what I’ll find here, although it’s fantastic to be able to see the church, still standing plain and proud near the river. But I want to walk around a little, so I park at the end of the Creamery Road and go across to the Post Office, which adjoins the church.

II

And everything changes. Behind the counter I find Gregory. He is now the owner of the old Methodist church. He’s a keen and most knowledgeable local historian. He loves Swanlinbar and is involved in all sorts of plans for its regeneration. He’s also very kind and friendly, and within minutes I’m being shown up and down the street and regaled with tales of old Swanlinbar and prominent Methodists from days gone by.

He recalls Christmas Days in his own childhood, going to Mass with his siblings, full of excitement to see what Santy would have brought them, and noticing the Methodist service already in full swing. They were just that little bit holier than the Catholics…..

He asks if I’d like to see inside the old church.

There’s nothing I’d like more.

Most of it is empty space. Bare boards, no pews or furniture. Peeling duck-egg blue wooden walls. A high ceiling, exposing the roof. Gothic windows, offering a view only of the sky. There’s no smell of damp. It’s been well preserved.

There’s a tiny minister’s room, board-panelled, near the main door. Some old coat-hooks on the wall. And an amazing treasure – an old harmonium tucked into the corner.

I’m not sure about the chronology of instrument use in Methodist services. But this is an old instrument, one which Frances could have played. Its keys are swollen stuck, but the pedals move. It’s still breathing.

I stand a while, taking in the atmosphere, looking around and imagining the little sanctuary freshly painted and bustling, full of people in their dark Cavan Sunday best. My great-grandmother at the organ, turning the pages of her hymnbook for the next stirring setting of a Charles Wesley text. My great-grandfather addressing the first congregation that was really just his, inspiring them, making a joke about being a Monaghan man himself, noticing the absentees, encouraging the flock.

III

Gregory shows me the church basement. You can see how sturdy the construction is, standing beneath the floorboards I’ve just been walking on. Strangely, there’s a fireplace built into the wall down here. Did somebody live here at some point? There are mysteries still to be unravelled.

I’ve been thrilled by this visceral glimpse into Frances and William’s life in Swanlinbar, and I’m ready to drive away happy. But Gregory wonders if I’ve called at the manse yet. No – I had assumed that the manse lay between the church and the river, and that it’s long demolished.

It’s not. It’s a few houses up the Creamery Road from where I parked my car. Gregory suggests that I call at the door.

To be continued......