Northern Ireland — The Cross-Border Adventure
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Northern Ireland — The Cross-Border Adventure
The occasion was the Northern Ireland Athletics Championships. At the time I was running for Ballymena and Antrim AC so I could be part of the All-Ireland League. I was engaged to Elaine—whose family had moved to Scotland but who still had deep roots in the North and competed for Northern Ireland.
So off we went: Edinburgh to Stranraer, car onto the ferry, across the slate-grey Irish Sea, and into Larne. From there Ballymena was an easy hour’s drive—rolling fields, stone walls, and a feeling that history sat quietly in every hedgerow.
We were staying with Elaine’s friends in Ballymena—a deeply Unionist town. Her friend’s father was RUC, which meant the household lived with a heightened awareness that outsiders like me didn’t quite understand.
At the championships I lined up against some of Alf’s athletes—this was a year before I joined him. I finished 3rd behind two of his hurdlers, the winner being future Commonwealth Games champion Phil Beattie. Not bad company.
Afterwards, we decided on a trip to Derry (or Londonderry if you were British enough to insist on it). The girls—Elaine and Nolene—were from there, so I relied on them for directions. At midnight, they took me on a “shortcut” through the Bogside.
I thought nothing of it. They went very quiet.
Later I discovered it was a notorious IRA checkpoint zone. Their RUC host in Ballymena later told me, “That was foolhardy.”
“Why? I’m Scottish. Practically a tourist.”
“Tourist?” he repeated. “They’d think you were a soldier chatting up local girls. You’d be lucky to get away with only being kneecapped.”
That sharpened my awareness of where exactly I was.
And it reminded me of something many Scots quietly resented—Scottish regiments doing the frontline “dirty work” in Ulster. Scots and Irish had never fought each other; even during the Troubles the IRA never set foot on Scottish soil.
The Border Crossing — and the Gun
The next day the girls went shopping, so I headed west alone for Donegal and Sligo—two gems of the Republic.
At dawn I drove across the Craigavon Bridge over the River Foyle and towards the British Army border post. It was utterly silent. I pulled up. Waited. Nothing. Waited some more. Still nobody.
So I drove on.
A soldier suddenly appeared in my mirror, waving his rifle and shouting.
I reversed back.
“Why’d you drive off?” he demanded.
“I waited. Nobody came.”
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
The mischievous Scot in me thought, ‘Collecting weapons for the IRA’—but I suppressed that urge.
“Just touring around for the day.”
He let me go.
Fifty metres later the Garda checkpoint greeted me with smiles, a wave, and a warm, “Welcome to Ireland.”
The contrast couldn’t have been sharper.
The Republic — Guinness, Boxty and Instant Friendship
I cruised through emerald countryside along the N15 and reached Donegal around 10am. After a wander I continued to Sligo—beautiful coastline, friendly faces, fresh air that tasted like freedom.
I spotted a pub and mentally bookmarked it for lunch. When I finally wandered back it was calling my name. I ordered a Guinness—dark, creamy heaven—and a stew with boxty (a kind of potato pancake).
The barman, who turned out to be the owner, sized me up.
“Scotland, yeah?”
“How did you guess?”
“I worked in Edinburgh. Dalkeith Road.”
“That’s my hometown.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
We even shared the same name—Stuart, spelled the Scottish way.
The food was superb. Then another Guinness arrived.
“I didn’t order this,” I said.
“On the house.”
More locals drifted in. Before long we were swapping stories like old friends. Time slipped past—it was suddenly 4pm. I wasn’t about to drive after two Guinness, so I stretched my legs and returned for a coffee and shortbread to sober up.
By 7pm I finally set off. A thick dusk had settled in. I was heading into “bandit country”—the locals’ term for the borderlands where the IRA, the British Army and the Garda all operated.
Bandit Country — and the Snipers
The roads emptied. Clouds sank low. Every story I’d heard about border checkpoints tapped me on the shoulder.
Then, in the murk ahead, I saw red lights—brake lights? No. A red torch.
A soldier stepped out of the darkness, signalling me to stop.
I hit the brakes a little too hard and skidded slightly past him.
“ID please.”
I handed over my licence.
“From Scotland.” Not a question.
“What are you doing here at this time of night?”
“Visiting Sligo and Donegal.”
“Why?”
“Just to see the place.”
“Where you staying tonight?”
“Derry.”
“Londonderry,” he emphasised.
“I suppose my hometown would be Londonedinburgh then?” I quipped.
The moment the words left my mouth I saw them—two snipers, rifles trained on me. One on a ridge to my left, the other in a hedgerow to my right.
That wiped the humour off my face.
“What address?”
I couldn’t remember. “The Bogside,” I said.
That made everything worse.
They pulled me over, kept my passport, searched the car for weapons, radioed my details to Belfast, and only after a thorough rummage and some tense silence did they wave me on.
A Beautiful, Troubled Land
It was a beautiful trip—rich countryside, warm people, deep history. But Northern Ireland during the Troubles had a way of reminding you, sharply and suddenly, that you were in a place where everyday life ran parallel with danger.
And yet I loved the people. I loved the land. And I’ll write another chapter—because Northern Ireland deserves to be remembered with all its beauty, complexity and humanity.