Northern Ireland

On Saturday we did something that was a complete first for me.

We went to Northern Ireland.

Now, before you start thinking I’ve lived a terribly sheltered life, let me clarify. Travelling to Northern Ireland is nothing new. Both my parents were Irish, I still have family there, and we’ve holidayed plenty of times with friends. I’m no stranger to Belfast.

But this trip was different.

This time, we flew to Belfast in the morning, had a full-blown, fabulous, slightly chaotic day out… and flew back to Newcastle that very same evening.

Yes. In one day.

Was it knackering? Absolutely. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

Partly because we were with a big gang of our most fabulous friends, and partly because the whole thing felt delightfully reckless. A bit bucket-list-ish. A bit “why not?” A bit “we’re not dead yet.”

Now, I won’t pretend the 5am alarm was delightful. There is nothing dignified about crawling out of bed when it’s still basically yesterday. Normally, if I’ve nothing particularly authory planned on a Saturday, I’m happily snoring until at least 10am. But touching down in Belfast at 9am, full of promise and mild sleep deprivation? Totally worth it.

First stop: breakfast at the markets.And let me just say this, french toast with maple syrup, crispy bacon and poached eggs is so good it should probably be illegal. I’d go back just for that.

We pottered. We shopped. We sight-saw (a wee bit). There’s something deliciously smug about knowing you’ve achieved more by lunchtime than you normally would by teatime.

Then came the Guinness. A few perfectly poured pints in some gorgeous little drinking spots, Followed by the most amazing gay bar, proper atmosphere, glittery chaos and karaoke singers so good never mind Belfast they should have been in Vegas.

And we danced. Boy did we dance! We absolutely let it all hang out to Celine Dion. At one point I’m fairly sure we were a breath away from forming our own tribute act.

And yes, by the time we headed back to the airport we were slightly tipsy. Yes, there was a low-level, shared anxiety about whether we looked too “joyful” to be allowed on the flight home.

But it all came good. We boarded. We buckled up. We winged it back to Newcastle like the seasoned day-trippers we now are.

And as I flopped into bed that night, utterly shattered and still faintly smelling of maple syrup and stout, I thought… that was my idea of a very nice day out.

Exhausting? Yes. Ridiculous? Slightly. Memorable? Completely.

And frankly, if you can’t fly to another country for breakfast and be back home for bedtime with your mates, what are we even doing?