During a trip to my birthplace, Derry, earlier this summer, I made my way to my parents’ home in the northern suburbs by foot. My journey began at the well-known town walls and stretched along the river Foyle. The familiar landmarks and locations along this regular route are symbolic of a location I still consider home, despite having lived elsewhere for a significantly longer duration.
As I ambled about, I observed closely. In Derry, understanding where and how to explore enables one to challenge the linear perspective of history. Rejecting the belief that the past is buried beneath layers of newer events, or that it’s simply an occurrence we’ve moved on from. Because in Derry, the tale of the town with its complex layers is not concealed but lies exposed under the sun. You must abandon any sequential impressions of history you might hold and acknowledge that it’s alive, everywhere around you, but only if you know where and how to uncover it.
Several years ago in Derry, this concept was dramatically depicted during an archaeological excavation in the car park located in the previous garden of the Bishop’s Palace, which is adjacent to the city walls. The relics unearthed included the skeleton of an eight- or ten-year-old child, a few skulls, musket shot, and all these pieces of history dated back to Derry’s 17th-century siege. The juvenile’s milk teeth were still intact, and the nearby objects included coins and pottery. Suddenly, I found myself envisaging the short-lived life of this child, surrounded by adults in desperate attempts to protect her during a period of turmoil – but their efforts hadn’t sufficed. With the presence of milk teeth, her story could belong to any child, in any period of time, even here and now.
Take a casual 40-minute stroll around the city’s encircling fortifications, with their seven entrances and five towers, or head northwards along the riverbanks, a similarly timed journey, to appreciate far-reaching landscape vistas including the river itself, the skies overhead and the azure hills of Donegal. Derry’s exceptional natural surroundings become strikingly clear, providing an inkling of the unique features of the location and the inherent drama the city exudes. Get a good vantage point on top of the towering fortifications or stay at the river’s edge, absorbing the beautiful view: suddenly, you’ll comprehend how geography gave birth to history and in turn, shaped the architecture of the city. This understanding brings something else into focus, something more recent and localised: it provides an awareness of how external policies and rulings have leached the life from the city for the last 100 years, depriving it, casting a pall over everyday life, and toying with its destiny.
During a bright, clear day, standing tall up on the twin towers, I can see the flat terrain of the Bogside below me, scarlet Victorian housing scaling the adjacent hill, the unseen Border truncating the suburbs, and Inishowen just a little further. This is intimately familiar terrain, dearly cherished. My grandparents’ final resting place is up there on that hill; my father first saw the light of day on Blucher Street down there (Wellington, Nelson, Blucher, Waterloo: much of the street naming in the Bogside area harks back to the times of Napoleon); my parents’ first house was over there in Rosemount; my school was there, the place where St Columb’s College’s verdant dome is barely visible among the trees.
The city of Derry is steeped in a distinctive tapestry of personal and public histories, painted with threads of Free Derry Corner, the streets where the Bloody Sunday killings unfolded and the courthouse with its imposing symbols of justice and the illustrious Guildhall tower. Two times a year, the city walls become a stage for the Apprentice Boys and their banners, with the majority of these occasions unfolding peacefully, though occasionally tension flickers. Due to an agreement reached between the local inhabitants and the Apprentice Boys, most of these events occur without escalation. This forms what anthropologists label as a “cultural landscape,” a term that in this context is synonymous with a political one, signifying the omnipresence of politics in all physical structures, every pathway trodden.
Today, Derry’s walls are a favoured spot for visitors from North America, Asia and Europe. The city centre is an intense concentrate of political and cultural history for any willing learners. While these tourists often follow the landmarks listed by guidebooks, the reality of Derry, with its run-down buildings, tales of hardship and overspreading vulnerability, might be overlooked. Ivy-like buddleia runs wild on the brickwork of Victorian townhouses, slates hang loosely from neglected rooftops and central locations where structures once stood remain vacant for years on end.
Sadly, Derry often ranks highest on UK social deprivation scales. Commercially, numerous shopping streets are dominated by vacant buildings and charity shops, and when development does occur, it tends to be patchy and uninspired, as though any proposal, regardless of quality, would gain necessary approval. Derry’s tourist brochures may not indicate these less appealing realities, but they’re hard to miss in a city that’s balancing on the brink of an undefined future.
In 1970, I took my first breath in the always-on-the-cusp city of Derry, and it’s remained that way throughout my lifetime. Derry has a unique position; it’s situated at the utmost boundaries of Northern Ireland and the United Kingdom, and mirrors a line of division drawn in 1920 without consideration for the existing socio-economic landscape. Serving as an emblematic city for the Protestant-unionist Northern Ireland, Londonderry was by preference severed from the backdrop of Donegal, resulting in its neglect and decay. The city’s importance and connections were diminished, and economic focus was redirected, primarily toward the east of Northern Ireland and Belfast. The resultantly nationalist Derry did not fit into this newly formed political entity.
During the era of the Troubles, Derry suffered greatly and although peace came sooner to the city than elsewhere, the economic benefits of peace were never fully realised. Derry currently suffers more economically than ever, with widespread destitution and isolation from the rest of the country. Despite this, Derry remains authentically itself with its distinctive character: as poet Colette Bryce describes it: a “fully encapsulated world under a dome of rain”, and in the words of the late commentator, Gerry Anderson, “Monaco without the riches”. Derry Girls portrayed the city’s vibrant spirit, its riotous humour, and also its inherent sorrow and solitude.
As I depart the urban confines and head due north along the glistening Foyle under today’s sunshine, my eyes meet the hillside array of Magee College’s structures, a begrudging segment of Ulster University stationed in Derry. At the core of public outrage, the university’s ill-regard for Magee depicts a deep-rooted issue that echoes the toxic nature of Northern Irish societal alignments. Magee has been a constant victim of disregard and overt political antagonism since the ’60s. This happened when Northern Ireland’s second university was positioned in the unionist stronghold of Coleraine and not here in Derry’s pre-existing university college. Ulster University now upholds a reluctant presence in Derry, adhering to political demands, but its preference of location is elsewhere. The university has initiated a prohibitively costly new campus in Belfast, while Magee languishes in a restrained state. Promises to increase the student body are frequently made and just as frequently forgotten. This saga of higher education drips with malevolence, leaving the city subjected to political influences over which it has no sway.
In my reminiscences, a recent dialogue at Dublin’s Royal Irish Academy replays as I stroll. The academy has commissioned a study listing the numerous advantages which could result from creating an independent university in Derry. The law-making body of Stormont and political organisations of Northern Ireland overlooked the study and its conclusions. The appeal for a new university dates back to the civil rights movement of the ’60s and remains unfulfilled till date. This Dublin discussion enlightened me on the newly-formed medical facility at Magee – a commendable progress, although significantly delayed after years of ferocious political resistance from unionist politicians in Belfast. In hindsight, I ponder over the recent substantial investment of €45 million by the Irish Government in Magee. An indication of the tide turning — a gateway into what’s to come. Milk teeth.
This marks Northern Ireland’s concluding period. This region never held any logical or monetary validity – epitomised by Derry, which exemplifies this overarching failure. A hundred years ago, the city was arbitrarily tethered to Belfast – a link that continues to drain it even today. The excessive Belfast-focus in Northern Ireland’s politics and economy is the culprit. I’m hopeful that when Northern Ireland reaches its end, natural social and economic order may resurrect, and a century-long deterioration in Derry can be obliterated. As I meander, I often daydream – I’m doing it now. I envision new academic edifices, the campus expanse departing its traditional hillside grounds, inching toward the city centre, revitalising neighbourhoods, enticing people to live, work, and learn in central Derry. The city, finally able to achieve its capability, acknowledging its history and moving past it.
This isn’t merely a dream, but an impending reality.
Neil Hegarty, a Derry-born author known for works like The Jewel and Inch Levels, and Nora Hickey M’Sichili, co-editor of essay anthology Impermanence, reflect this future.