Read Online Adventures in Correspondentland by Nick Bryant - Free Book Online
Authors: Nick Bryant
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Loyalist paraphernalia, such as bibs reading âBorn on the Twelfth of Julyâ.
Catholic protesters, carrying placards featuring the silhouette of an Orangeman with a no-entry sign superimposed, would have assembled at the other end of the main street, or have beenhemmed in on side roads so they could not assault the marchers.
Playing their own part in this pageantry, the police would be occupying the middle ground, clad in black riot gear and standing alongside their battleship-grey Land Rovers parked bumper to bumper to form a barrier. Then, at the appointed hour, the bands would strike up to the pounding beat of a huge Lambeg drum, while the protesters would hurl abuse and missiles. In one country village, it was Lucozade bottles. In another, at the sound of a high-pitched whistle, protesters hurled hundreds of golf balls, most of which were eagerly scooped up by the policemen, who presumably planned to tee off with them as soon as the marching season was over, and with it their ban on leave. Along the most contentious parade routes, it was Molotov cocktails and occasionally gunfire.
Of all the sectarian interfaces, none was angrier than Drumcree. Contentious parade routes normally skirted predominantly Catholic neighbourhoods, but here it passed right through the middle. Held on the Sunday before the traditional 12 July celebrations, which marked King Williamâs victory at the Battle of the Boyne, Orangemen set out from their fortress-like lodge in the centre of nearby Portadown. Then they marched out of town to the steepled church at Drumcree set in rolling hills that evoked the music of Elgar and Vaughan Williams rather than the high-pitched squeal of the piccolos and flutes.
After holding a service to commemorate the Battle of the Somme, the Orangemen returned to the centre of town via the Garvaghy Road, which was lined on either side by Catholic housing estates. It was there that trouble usually flared, and by the mid-1990s the Garvaghy Road had become Northern Irelandâs most active sectarian fault line. In 1995, the police banned the parade, only to back down when thousands of Orangemen amassed onthe hills around Drumcree and threatened to hammer through the army barricades using a bulldozer and petrol tankers.
My own Drumcree initiation came two years later, in 1997, shortly after Tony Blair had taken office, when the new Labour government indicated to the local Catholic residentsâ group that the parade would again be banned. With another stand-off certain to ensue, BBC safety advisers issued us with hard-hats, protective goggles, fire extinguishers and even flameproof underwear. For fear of identifying any of our Irish colleagues as Protestant or Catholic, we were also warned not to use their Christian names. A careless âSeamusâ or âBillyâ uttered on the wrong side of the battlelines could put them in real danger.
That weekend, we all expected serious trouble, but there was still something shocking about the outburst of violent fury from local residents when police Land Rovers screamed onto the Garvaghy Road in the pre-dawn hours to pave the way for Orangemen and formed an impregnable phalanx of armoured vehicles on either side of the parade route. Calling it the âleast worst optionâ, the government and security forces had decided the Portadown Orangemen should be allowed to march, whatever the backlash from the local Catholic community.
It was fearsome. After the parade passed by, and the police and soldiers beat a hurried retreat, they were chased down the Garvaghy Road by hundreds of youths hurling rocks, petrol bombs and what we later found out were bottles filled with sulphuric acid. One of our cameramen thought he was standing in a puddle of water. Then his shoes started to melt. Through the melee of exploding Molotov cocktails and fizzing baton rounds, the Orangemen could be seen in the mid-distance marching beneath a ceremonial archway bedecked with
Catholic protesters, carrying placards featuring the silhouette of an Orangeman with a no-entry sign superimposed, would have assembled at the other end of the main street, or have beenhemmed in on side roads so they could not assault the marchers.
Playing their own part in this pageantry, the police would be occupying the middle ground, clad in black riot gear and standing alongside their battleship-grey Land Rovers parked bumper to bumper to form a barrier. Then, at the appointed hour, the bands would strike up to the pounding beat of a huge Lambeg drum, while the protesters would hurl abuse and missiles. In one country village, it was Lucozade bottles. In another, at the sound of a high-pitched whistle, protesters hurled hundreds of golf balls, most of which were eagerly scooped up by the policemen, who presumably planned to tee off with them as soon as the marching season was over, and with it their ban on leave. Along the most contentious parade routes, it was Molotov cocktails and occasionally gunfire.
Of all the sectarian interfaces, none was angrier than Drumcree. Contentious parade routes normally skirted predominantly Catholic neighbourhoods, but here it passed right through the middle. Held on the Sunday before the traditional 12 July celebrations, which marked King Williamâs victory at the Battle of the Boyne, Orangemen set out from their fortress-like lodge in the centre of nearby Portadown. Then they marched out of town to the steepled church at Drumcree set in rolling hills that evoked the music of Elgar and Vaughan Williams rather than the high-pitched squeal of the piccolos and flutes.
After holding a service to commemorate the Battle of the Somme, the Orangemen returned to the centre of town via the Garvaghy Road, which was lined on either side by Catholic housing estates. It was there that trouble usually flared, and by the mid-1990s the Garvaghy Road had become Northern Irelandâs most active sectarian fault line. In 1995, the police banned the parade, only to back down when thousands of Orangemen amassed onthe hills around Drumcree and threatened to hammer through the army barricades using a bulldozer and petrol tankers.
My own Drumcree initiation came two years later, in 1997, shortly after Tony Blair had taken office, when the new Labour government indicated to the local Catholic residentsâ group that the parade would again be banned. With another stand-off certain to ensue, BBC safety advisers issued us with hard-hats, protective goggles, fire extinguishers and even flameproof underwear. For fear of identifying any of our Irish colleagues as Protestant or Catholic, we were also warned not to use their Christian names. A careless âSeamusâ or âBillyâ uttered on the wrong side of the battlelines could put them in real danger.
That weekend, we all expected serious trouble, but there was still something shocking about the outburst of violent fury from local residents when police Land Rovers screamed onto the Garvaghy Road in the pre-dawn hours to pave the way for Orangemen and formed an impregnable phalanx of armoured vehicles on either side of the parade route. Calling it the âleast worst optionâ, the government and security forces had decided the Portadown Orangemen should be allowed to march, whatever the backlash from the local Catholic community.
It was fearsome. After the parade passed by, and the police and soldiers beat a hurried retreat, they were chased down the Garvaghy Road by hundreds of youths hurling rocks, petrol bombs and what we later found out were bottles filled with sulphuric acid. One of our cameramen thought he was standing in a puddle of water. Then his shoes started to melt. Through the melee of exploding Molotov cocktails and fizzing baton rounds, the Orangemen could be seen in the mid-distance marching beneath a ceremonial archway bedecked with
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