A Cheque Half-Written

Carrick is an ancient town, invaded time and again by Normans and Vikings and all comers, each bringing their own brands of raping and pillaging and government. A fortress town, and once the capital of Ireland, the Carrick of my life has been one of few surprises. The history of the town is the heart and breath of the town. For decades or centuries its economy has depended a great deal on the tourist industry, on the number of feet that walked under the portcullis in the Norman castle, or down the nave in the Norman church. Visitors came to view the town's ancient walled fortifications, or to walk its ancient streets in the footsteps, shadows and memories of some ancestor. Visitors, tourists, and day-trippers came to inhale the same salty air their parents and grandparents exhaled gladly generations afore; they came to view the archaeology unearthed in the eighties, showing the limits of the walled defences. It remains an ancient town for ancient people interested in ancient pursuits or the pursuit of ancient peoples. The Carrick I know wants everyone to be ancient, to abstain from the joys of youth and to indulge in the joys of history and archaeology and steadfastness in the face of all the change going on out there, beyond those fortified walls. 

For years the town elders insisted we needed an attraction that the youth also could enjoy, and so, very eventually - when the money was in - we sat two-by-two in their enormous Viking helmets, each rider a Viking ear, on the monorail high above in the Heritage Centre, and we took trips through the history of the town, yet again, snug in our helmets-made-for-two, the resonant tones of the actor Jimmy Ellis piped into our tight but comfy Viking worlds. There was pervading a hatred of youth in my youth. The Belfast Road play park disappeared under the marina, but that was no bad thing as the rides had rusted to a stiff silence. The rivets on the slide had popped and were missing from what was once its shiny surface. The swings had screeched to a halt in mid-air, a final giggle fallen into the seat, shattered. The leisure centre and the parks remained closed on the Lord’s day, but there were the preachers on the Castle Green if we wanted to wile away an hour or four in hymns and psalms and sermons and God and celebration of this seventh and very restful day.

Carrick likes to think of itself as homely, cosy, inviting, safe, familiar, a place where evil and change and catalysts and new dawns is good enough only for those beyond the ancient walls. There is danger beyond the Carrick walls, a danger that would pillage from us all our sense of time and place, they said. This place they defended had its heart somewhere back beyond the year 1180, when the foundations of the castle and town walls created fortress Carrickfergus. 

Carrickfergus has forever been a town of no surprises. There you can enter any shop with a cheque half-written. Someone called Stephen owned Stephen’s Barbers; Terry Windsor owned Windsor Electric; Jimmy McCullough owned McCullough’s Bakery in High Street; Derek Someone-Or-Other owned Derek’s Fashions; a McManus owned the butchers in West Street; Sally Picken owned, managed and worked in Picken’s, the newsagent nearest our house; and someone called Todd ran Todd’s newsagent in Ellis Street. Todd’s became Taylor’s when Mr. and Mrs. Taylor took it over. No surprises please.

Carrick is a town where you can get many things most of the time. You will have it handed to you rarely without some form of courtesy, wrapped up in history, sealed shut with a bang. Some hear a lock turn.