Northern Ireland – 2019

As was no longer news to anyone, in 2019 I was living in Europe. I had only been there for a little over a month when that familiar urge hit me — the kind only those who live far from home will understand: to hit the road and explore whatever the map had to offer. And that’s how we decided to spend a weekend in Northern Ireland.

I had been there once before, back in 2018, and I had liked it. But this time felt different. Special. Because this time, it was a trip with friends — the kind who become your family when you’re living on the other side of the ocean. It was me, Gra, Ro, Raquel, Marcelo, and Mari. We hopped on a bus heading north toward Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland and part of the United Kingdom. We had an Airbnb waiting for us and that good kind of excitement that only shows up when you know the adventure is just beginning.

Belfast welcomed us with that serious, almost reserved air that northern cities seem to carry. A curious — and at the same time fascinating — mix of Irish soul with a British accent. It was as if Belfast existed between two worlds, and made no effort to choose just one. The flags, political murals, and neighborhoods that seemed to change character from one street to the next constantly reminded us that the city still carried its invisible borders. And yet — or perhaps because of that — there was something deeply captivating about that suspended atmosphere. Belfast was moving forward — without forgetting, but without surrendering either.

We arrived in the late afternoon and, as had become tradition in our travels, we walked from the bus station to the Airbnb. The bags were heavy, of course, but enthusiasm pushed us along the streets. Once we finally dropped everything in the apartment, we did the obvious: ordered pizzas. Sitting on the living room floor, laughing for no reason, we officially kicked off our weekend in Belfast.

But the night couldn’t end there. After our makeshift dinner, we headed to my favorite pub in the city: The Thirsty Goat. The kind of place that doesn’t need to try to be authentic — it just is. Cold beer, wooden tables worn down by time, and live music at just the right volume. That night, a solid band was playing classic hits everyone knows. Between sips, we found ourselves singing along, laughing, feeling like Belfast itself was saying: relax, you’re home here.

It was as if the Thirsty Goat showed us Belfast’s most laid-back side. And of course, we toasted to it. Because some nights are made of exactly that: friends, music, and a good beer in hand.

But the highlight of the night was when the band started playing Zombie, by The Cranberries. It wasn’t just a song — it was a symbol. At that moment, standing in Northern Ireland and hearing those lyrics loaded with pain and resistance carried a different kind of weight. The chorus echoed through the pub, and without saying a word, we all started singing together. There was no way not to. Because that song crosses generations and borders — but there, it felt like part of the landscape.

I looked around and saw it wasn’t just us. The entire pub seemed to understand the weight of those words, even those who weren’t really paying attention. It was as if the city, with all its silent history and invisible divisions, was listening too. Hearing Zombie in Belfast was like understanding a piece of Ireland the books don’t teach you.

There, at the Thirsty Goat, between raised glasses and voices in unison, it became clear: this trip was already worth it.

We went back home in a black cab, proper Brits.

The next morning, still with the melody of Zombie echoing in our heads, we woke up early for something entirely different: a day tour that would take us to some of the most breathtaking sights in Northern Ireland. We had bought one of those classic tourist packages — perfect for when you just want to switch off your brain and let someone else do the guiding — and that’s exactly what we did.

Our first stop was Carrickfergus Castle — a medieval fortress that looked like it had stepped out of a picture book, but without that “do not touch” museum feeling. The weathered stones, the sea crashing down below, and the sharp wind created the perfect backdrop for the first photos of the trip. It was there, among towers and walls, that our day on the road officially began.

We then followed the famous Causeway Coast, one of the most scenic coastal routes in the world. The Atlantic followed us through the bus window, cliffs dropping straight into the sea, and with every bend in the road, a new painting seemed to unfold. We hopped off and walked along the cliffside. The ocean, an almost Caribbean blue, contrasted against the vibrant green grass and bright sky. It was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen in my life.

At one point, we started teasing one of our friends, saying she looked like a witch — a slightly moody one, to be fair. And of course, we laughed, joking that she had as many boyfriends as there were crows in Ireland — which, honestly, is quite a number. That’s how we came up with an improvised legend: a kind of curse. We said she had made a pact with a goddess to keep her beauty, but in exchange, every man she dated was condemned to turn into a crow. And that’s how all the crows in Ireland came to be.

Back in Limerick, that silly joke kept echoing in my head. I spent days wondering how to turn it into an actual story. Until one day, I sat down and started writing. I didn’t finish it all at once — the ending only came to me during a meditation, when I found the perfect way to close the tale.

The short story ended up being called “Cailleach Aoife and the Crows of Ireland.” It tells the story of a woman who lived in ancient Ireland and, in exchange for eternal beauty, accepted a cruel fate. Every man who crossed her path was doomed to be free... but with wings. And that’s how, according to the legend we made up, the skies of Ireland became home to so many crows.

And it all began right there — between cliffs and deep blue sea.

The next stop was the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge — a suspension bridge connecting the mainland to a small rocky island. Crossing that bridge, swaying above the sea, was one of those moments when you alternate between laughter, fear, and silent gratitude for the view. Of course we decided to cross. Sure, it gave us butterflies. But nothing compared to Raquel, who could only conquer her fear by clinging to Marcelo’s arm the whole way. And that’s how she crossed — eyes shut, baby steps, but with a victorious smile once she reached the other side. It felt like a scene straight out of the Iron Islands in Game of Thrones. Except this time, it was us living the adventure.

We continued on to the Giant’s Causeway, a place so surreal it feels more like a fantasy creation than a geological one. Thousands of hexagonal basalt columns sit side by side, as if carved by a giant sculptor. And in fact, that’s exactly what the local legend says — that an Irish giant built the path to cross the sea and fight his Scottish rival. Walking over those stones, with the waves crashing around us, was a feeling hard to put into words. On the other side of the water: Scotland. It felt like standing at the edge of the real and the impossible — and there we were, tiny humans walking across a legend.

Our tour wrapped up at the mythical Dark Hedges, that naturally twisted tunnel of beech trees made famous by Game of Thrones. But even without the show’s fame, the place would still be striking. Walking beneath those centuries-old branches felt like stepping into an enchanted — or perhaps slightly haunted — forest. Eerie and beautiful in equal measure.

With each stop, one thing became clearer: Northern Ireland may be small on the map, but it’s enormous in every other way. Between castles, bridges, and cliffs, we weren’t just collecting photos — we were living a day we’d remember for years.

At the end of the night, we headed to The Dirty Onion, and it turned out to be another unforgettable evening — full of laughter, dancing, and singing until we were completely spent.

You can’t talk about Belfast without mentioning Falls Road, which was our destination that Sunday. Walking through it isn’t just sightseeing — it’s an open-air history lesson. Falls Road is the heart of the republican side of the city, where the story of conflict, struggle, and resistance is written on the walls. Literally.

What impresses most are the murals. Every wall tells a story. These aren’t just pretty paintings — they’re cries frozen in paint. There are tributes to political prisoners, homages to those who died fighting for independence, images of martyrs from the republican movement. But there’s also space for international solidarity — we saw murals about Palestine, Cuba, and even figures like Nelson Mandela. The fight for freedom doesn’t recognize borders, and Falls Road makes a point of reminding us of that.

Walking there was uncomfortable and fascinating in equal measure. Each mural seemed to force us to slow down and reflect. It wasn’t a place for quick snapshots. It was a place to really look. To try to understand — even knowing we never fully would.

One of the murals that struck me most was the one honoring the 1981 hunger strikers, featuring the image of Bobby Sands, the most iconic face of the movement. His painted eyes seemed to follow you. As if history were still alive, watching everyone who passed by.

Falls Road doesn’t try to be beautiful. It doesn’t need to. It carries scars. And scars tell stories too.

After the intensity of Falls Road, we explored a lighter side of Belfast. We passed by the modern Titanic Museum, that striking building shaped like a ship’s prow planted right in the heart of the city. We didn’t go inside this time — I had already visited — but we took some photos and admired the futuristic architecture contrasting with the old shipyards surrounding it.

Then we wandered through a more touristy Belfast: we found a few Game of Thrones murals, took goofy photos with the famous Big Fish — the blue ceramic sculpture that tells the story of the city through tiles — and of course, stopped in front of the Albert Memorial Clock, Belfast’s own “Big Ben.” With its stone tower and slightly tilted clock, it stood quietly watching over the city center. We couldn’t resist snapping a few more photos there, laughing and pretending to be organized tourists, when really we were just enjoying the freedom of wandering aimlessly.

Belfast showed us, around every corner, that even if it’s far from being a “cute” city, it knows how to welcome you in its own way. And between history, pubs, and unexpected sculptures, it waved us goodbye with that sweet feeling of “see you next time.”