Tour de Drumcree

I’ve been cycling up and down the Garvaghy Road for seven years now. Not for any political reason, but because it’s the quickest way from the end of the towpath in Portadown to the little roads that follow the edge of Lough Neagh. Yesterday morning I set out for Ardboe, with a quiver of fear. I was wondering whether my normal route would even be possible in the light of recent events.

I reached the end of the towpath and emerged onto Garvaghy Road. The usual Saturday traffic greeted me. I pedalled past the carpet factory to the top of the first hill. So far, so good. I descended to the traffic lights and turned into Ashgrove Road. There were more flags than normal, but the estate seemed quiet. I climbed up the hill, past Drumcree House, and reached Derryanvil Road. Drumcree Parish Church was straight in front of me, sitting on the hill opposite. All remained quiet.

Something made me turn left, instead of right, and I soon arrived at the junction with Drumcree Road. A police armoured Land Rover sat at the top and a police car was near the church. I continued along Drumcree Road and stopped at the junction with Garvaghy Road. This was very busy with around a hundred people, large tents and banners. The road wasn’t blocked, but a trailer had been parked at the side of the road to make a stage.

I returned to Derryanvil Road and cycled on to Maghery, Mountjoy and the Ardboe High Cross. It was a pleasant sunny afternoon, so I came back via the Stewart Desmesne. But as I approached Drumcree the situation began to change.

There were many more cars on Derryanvil Road than usual, all of them heading away from Drumcree. Then I passed five police armoured Land Rovers in a laneway, their engines racing, ready to charge into action. My heart pounding, I pedalled on and descended Ashgrove Road. The estate was overflowing. It looked like a football match had just finished and the crowd had all emerged at once. People were milling around, as if discussing the game. Cars were parked everywhere: on pavements, on verges. Garvaghy Road was a traffic jam, into and out of town. I took my life in my hands and cycled up the middle of the road to make it back to the towpath.

Back home I discovered that two different rallies had taken place in Portadown that afternoon. One at the top of Garvaghy Road and one in Edgarstown. This is normal in Northern Ireland. There is always two of everything. Two sets of protestors. Two housing estates. Two schools. And so it goes on.

Every Breath You Take

I was once a good runner. I competed at regional and national championships, and raced distances from 800 metres to the marathon. A back injury thirty years ago forced me to stop and turn to cycling. My lung capacity and functioning was never tested then, but I feel sure it would have been above average.

It’s normal to lose lung capacity over time – it declines at 1% a year beyond the age of 35. But mine almost halved after my first big cancer operation. This problem was discovered by Dr Riley, a consultant at the Regional Respiratory Centre at the City Hospital in Belfast. But the reason why took longer to emerge. A surgeon had inadvertantly damaged my diaphragm during the operation. The pressure inside my abdomen had steadily pushed my stomach through the hole and compressed my left lung.

In a very long and complex operation, I had been opened up from my groin to my neck by three teams of surgeons, There ensued an argument between the three leading surgeons as to who was responsible for the hole in my diaphragm. Eventually it was decided who would fix the problem. Mr Graham called me into the Royal Victoria Hospital. He explained he would do his best to repair my diaphragm, but he didn’t know whether this would be possible until I was opened up in another major operation. To a very active person, this was an especially severe blow. I had to face the prospect of being permanently without the use of my left lung. It felt like a death sentence. But little did I know.

At my next review with Dr Riley, I complained about a pain in my right side after the breathing test. You breathe through a mouthpiece into a machine, and this measures your lung capacity and functioning. He examined me and sent me for an urgent scan. Dr Riley subsequently told me that he had felt a lump where one should not have been. It was a tumour, a metatastic recurrence. I had Stage Four cancer. So I went from what seemed like a death sentence, to an actual one.

I had two major operations to remove the tumour from my liver and bowel. The first failed and the tumour regrew aggressively. Thankfully the second succeeded. But after both of these operations, my left lung fully collapsed.

The first collapse took place in the City Hospital. I was put on an IV drip with no food. After 12 long days, my lung reflated on Christmas Eve. My Christmas dinner was a piece of dry toast and a spoonful of scrambled egg. I got out of hospital on Boxing Day.

The second lung collapse was even more dramatic. This happened at home, a day after being discharged from the Mater Hospital. I was blue-lighted to Craigavon Hospital and spent the night in a wheelchair, with T at my side. Later on the lead consultant told me I had won The X-ray of the Night. The A&E doctors held a contest for the worst problem they came across on their shift. Gallows humour does help front-line workers cope. But this wasn’t a competition you wanted to win.

The next morning I was taken to the Royal Victoria Hospital by ambulance. Mr Graham was keen to open me up straight away and attempt to fix my diaphragm. But I was only nine days on from a major operation, very weak and full of stitches. So it was agreed to postpone the surgery until I was fully recovered. Almost a year later, I was wheeled down to theatre in the Royal not knowing if my diaphragm could be repaired. Thankfully it was. But the aftermath was terribly painful. My ribs had been spilt open and the nerves that run along them had been damaged. I had to sleep sitting up for three months, drinking morphine every couple of hours. I ended up with cold turkey (not the festive foodstuff).

But, very slowly, the pain became manageable and I could return to normal activities. And the next year, the breathing tests showed that my lungs had dramatically improved. I was 23% above the average for my age and height. Then I got Covid, and was very ill with it. I was left wheezing badly and hardly able to walk for several months. After a course of steroids I did improve and became able to cycle again. But the breathing tests showed that my lung function had fallen by 20%. A permanent impairment, I was told. Just my luck to survive Stage Four cancer, only to be brought down by an evil virus.

Yesterday, I had the breathing tests again. Surprisingly, my lungs were back to the level they had been pre-Covid. Keeping very active and regularly working them by cycling up hills had helped my lungs to recover. Dr Riley signed me off from his clinic. I thanked him for everything he had done for me, and reminded him that I wouldn’t be here without his intervention. He looked a little sheepish, then said he had only been doing his job. But I assured him that wasn’t true – he had gone above and beyond.

The NHS is like that. Most of the people I came across in the past fifteen years were dedicated and hardworking. Some weren’t. But they were a minority. Then there were those who went well beyond what they were supposed to do and made a significant difference in my life. Dr Riley was one of these. I’m pleased that I don’t need to attend his respiratory clinic, but I’m sad that I won’t see him again.

My Tin Anniversary

It’s not easy being told you only have a year to live. I gasped and the room seemed to shrink around me. I was in the Mater Hospital. I recall the details vividly, despite it being ten years ago.

The surgeon said he’d do his best for me, but this was my second metatastic recurrence. The cancer had come back aggressively and invaded my liver and bowel. He would remove a third of my liver and this should regenerate. But, he said, six months later it would be full of metastases. My lungs too. He didn’t need to tell me what came next. I knew. My younger brother had died of advanced cancer just a couple of years previously.

He had a slot in theatre in three days time. Did I want to take it? I jumped at the chance.

The surgeon wasn’t being alarmist. He was being straight with me. This was 2016. At Stage 4, when the cancer had spread to other parts of the body, most patients died. The death rate was different for different types of cancer. For mine it was 90%.

So why have I survived when so many didn’t?

A big question. Without a straightforward answer.

The surgeon was skilled and removed all of the metatastic tumour. Unlike the surgeons at the City Hospital who had failed to do so at the end of 2015, but did permanently damage my abdomen.

The liver and bowel are not the worst places to have a cancer recurrence. The liver is the only organ that can regenerate: mine was healthy and did. The small bowel is 20 feet long, so you can afford to lose a foot of it.

I’ve since had frequent CT scans to check for any signs of recurrence. I am still having them annually at the Cancer Centre. The renal team there have been brilliant. I’m very glad that they took over my care from the renal department at the City, who were neglectful and often incompetent. My first metatastic tumour was found by chance, after I complained about a pain in my side when breathing deeply. My renal consultant had failed to send me for regular surveillance scans.

I’m healthy and fit. I gave up smoking forty years ago and gave up alcohol in 2011 after finding I had renal cancer. I eat well. I’d like to think my immune system is in good shape.

I’m in a loving relationship. T has been by my side throughout the ordeal. Steadfast and utterly dependable. I do wonder how I would have fared without her. But thankfully I haven’t had to find out.

Yet I also know many people who had good surgeons and effective treatment, who were heathy and fit, and who were in loving relationships – but despite this, they still died of cancer. My younger brother, for example. So there has to be another crucial factor.

Luck.

I’m very grateful for the unexpected ten years of life I’ve had. I try my best to be healthy and live well. I try my best to do no harm. I hope to have many more years to come. But you never can tell. The type of cancer I had has been known to recur 20 years after the initial tumour. So I won’t start counting my chickens before 2031.

The Anniversary Outing

I met T on the first day of the John Hewitt Summer School thirteen years ago. Since then we’ve had to go through plenty of trials (cancer, parental dementia, etc) but these have strengthened our devotion to each other. To celebrate our first meeting, we return to the Marketplace Theatre in Armagh every year. We always run into old friends, like Paul Maddern and John McAllister, and take part in literary events. This year there were two that stood out.

Andrew Miller was interviewed by author Michael Hughes about his latest novel ‘The Land in Winter’. This brilliant book explores England in 1962-63 through the intertwined lives of two young couples. It is an atmospheric story of love, loss and survival in a winter landscape that becomes increasingly harsh. Michael’s questions were thoughtful and probing, bringing out a series of insights from Andrew – that his father had inspired one of the main characters, and that Andrew’s work in a secure mental hospital had led him to write another of the main characters. The book won several major awards and was shortlisted for the Booker Prize 2025. It was the favourite to win, but didn’t. Unjustifiably overlooked, in my view.

Sinead Morrissey was interviewed by poet Maureen Boyle about her new memoir, ‘Among Communists’. A marvellous account of her growing up in a family that were devoted members of the Communist Party. We were treated to an engaging and very entertaining series of extracts which revealed a world where the Soviet Union was the promised land and where Sinead’s attraction to Brownies set her on the slippery slope to appeasing the monarchy. Maureen’s questions were gentle and full of anecdotes. I would’ve liked more insight into how this rather fractured childhood, where everyday events were interrogated as features of capitalism, led to Sinead developing her masterful poet’s eye.

All too soon we had to leave. The next morning I needed to drive T to Belfast for some medical appointments. We switched from the sublime to the anxious. But such is life.

Shiver me Timbers

To celebrate the return of good weather, I cycled to Warrenpoint harbour to see Galeon Andalucia, a full-size replica of a 400 year old Spanish galleon. The ship immediately transported me to the world of ‘Treasure Island’. I was back with cabin-boy Jim Hawkins on the Hispaniola in search of pirate gold. It was my favourite book as a child. I still have the copy I was given for my fifth birthday. 

What many don’t know is that this pioneering novel owes a great debt to Unst, the most northerly of the Shetland Islands. In 1869 Thomas Stevenson took his teenage son on a voyage to Orkney and Shetland to encourage him to join the family business – which was lighthouse building. To his father’s great dismay, Robert Louis became a writer. But that voyage did make a lasting impression on the young man. ‘Treasure Island’ was his first novel and the map of the island in the book has a strong resemblance to Unst. The high point on Unst is called Saxa Vord. In the book it’s called Foremast Hill, and from it you can see Thomas Stevenson’s lighthouse perched on a jagged finger of rock.

My new book of poetry, ‘True’, contains several poems inspired by Unst and ‘Treasure Island’. Here is one of them.

CONCERNING THE FIRST VOYAGE OF R L STEVENSON WITH HIS FATHER

Huge sea tossing the fore-deck,

ropes and mainsails thrumming,

nor-easterly cutting yer bones,

the island emerging to larboard.

We hailed the precious sight.

One shipmate never returned,

left under stones in a cove,

wreck-wood across the grave,

reefs groaning, gulls screaming,

black crags cleaving the surf.

None can tell why he picked it,

the Cap'n always a careful man,

atop the cliff with his spyglass,

no fields, not a tree,

nary a lubber on the land,

and us hauling the sea-chests after

cursing the wind and sleet.

Buried 'em?

- I reckon us did.

The map?

- I won't peach.

Another?

- Thank'ee kindly.

Rum… it's been meat and drink

man and wife to me.

The Return of The Native

I returned to the Marketplace Theatre in Armagh to see a dramatisation of this Thomas Hardy novel by Hotbuckle, a touring theatre company from England. The Return of The Native was seen as controversial when published in 1878, given it’s central theme of the desire to go beyond the constraints of place, community, class and morality. For some characters these desires are achieved (by, for example, illicit sexual relationships) while for others they are thwarted. Over the course of the book, these desires lead to tragedy and two characters die. The four performers were skilled, changing costumes quickly on stage to become different characters and using a small number of props very effectively. They also played a series of instruments. I do love live theatre and have seen a wide range of productions over many years. This time, I came away feeling that the performance could have been better. To me there were two main flaws.

Hotbuckle’s adaptation of the novel seemed to contain too many scenes, and this led to the central theme being dramatised only patchily. This problem was exacerbated by the four actors making frequent changes of character as the scenes changed. I felt it would have been better to focus on the six main characters and omit many of the minor characters they portrayed.

At the centre of the drama are two young women and their relationships (neighbours, friends, lovers) with three men. While the character and motivations of the three men were rendered very well by the two actors portraying them, this was not successfully achieved by the actor portraying the two young women. There was little difference between her vocal and physical characterisations of the two women. I had to work hard to try and remember which character she was now seeking to be. For me, this undermined the drama significantly.

When you go to any live event, you don’t know what you are going to get. You hope it will be fantastic and memorable. But it might be awful, and you begin to wish you had stayed at home. Hotbuckle’s production of The Return of The Native was very good at times, and not at others. Still, I’m glad I went.

Authors Fight Back

I’ve joined the frontline against huge technology companies, and it’s personal.

In the US District Court for California, three US authors alleged that Anthropic pirated 7 million books to train its Claude AI model. Anthropic contested the allegation of piracy but did admit to downloading half a million copyrighted books without permission. One of these was a book I co-authored while an academic, ‘Creativity and Innovation in the Cultural Economy’, published by Routledge in 2009. I was then contacted by the lawyers for the three US authors and invited to join them; I was happy to sign up. More than 100,000 authors have now joined the class action, making it one of the most significant in the history of copyright.

The case against Anthropic exposes the grubby underside of AI. Not only do the big technology companies need to build enormous data-centres which use as much water and power every day as a city of 100,000 people. They also need to train their large-language-models on huge amounts of information. To do this legally would be very expensive, hence they work with sites that offer pirated versions of copyrighted publications (such as LibGen).

Okay, you turn on your computer and up pops an AI assistant. Why should you care about protecting poor authors from the illegal exploitation of their work?

Because most authors are in fact poor, as writing is not well paid. I authored seven books and dozens of journal articles while an academic and have authored three books of poetry since. My total earnings from all these publications would probably not keep me alive for more than a couple of months. That’s why the majority of authors earn their crust from work other than writing, such as teaching or the day job. Richard Osman and JK Rowling are the exceptions, not the norm. Most authors are driven by imagination, not money: by the desire to create something new and different. That’s where the books, plays, films and TV programmes that people want to read and see come from. And that’s why creative work needs to be nurtured and protected.