|
I walked out of Derry towards the border on a beautiful, cloudless
afternoon, past the broken-down public houses, past the aban-doned
shirt factory and the new housing estates and the sailing
boats on the Foyle. It was Saturday. I was wearing a rucksack.
When I crossed the border I would turn right and take the road
to Lifford.
In half an hour I would be in the Republic of Ireland where
the price of petrol would be much higher, where the price of
drink would be a constant source of discussion and where just
about everything else – new cars, hi-fi, televisions, videos – cost
more than in the North.
The river widened. There was a smell of cut grass. Men were
playing golf on the other side of the river; down below the road
there were boys fishing.
The soldier at the border stepped out from his hut as I came
towards him.
‘Walking, sir,’ he said to me.
‘I am,’ I said.
‘Where are you going, sir?’ he asked me.
‘To Lifford,’ I said.
‘You turn there, sir,’ he said, pointing to the road.
‘How far is it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know sir, ten miles, twenty miles.’
I walked on towards the customs posts. The first one, which
belonged to Her Majesty, was closed up. No one would dream
of smuggling from the South into the North. The Irish customs
offcial sat in the second hut, waving each car by. They were all
locals, he said, he knew them; there was no point in stopping
them, it only annoyed them. They were probably just driving
over toget cheap petrol.
|