The holiday brochure had promised them green hills, crystal-clear streams and spectacular rainbows spanning ancient round towers and Celtic crosses; and that was exactly what my Austrian relatives were determined to get when they announced a three-day-visit to their long-lost niece in Ireland. I left the land of the sound of music 10 years ago after deciding that I had had enough apfelstrudel and lederhosen to last me a lifetime. I thought the choice of Belfast as a home base would protect me from the visits of even the most adventurous relatives on their "grand tours of Europe". I was wrong.
Sunny morning
Uncle Fredi and his charming wife Gertie arrived at Belfast's Aldergrove airport on a clear and sunny Monday morning. I was delighted that the heavens were smiling on us, considering the dismal (and not entirely undeserved) reputation which Irish weather enjoys on the Continent. I quickly realised, however, that that was not what the brochure had promised. "And I was looking forward to filming my first Irish rainbow," mumbled a disappointed Uncle Fredi, brandishing his brand new, state-of-the-art camcorder. "He has been talking about little else all morning," Aunt Gertie confirmed. She could not wait to don her Armani raincoat, specially bought for the occasion. After all, one knew what to expect and came prepared.
Uncle Fredi's camcorder turned out to be something of a curse. Apparently, it was at its best on "action shots". Now, "action" is a rare commodity along the Antrim coastline on a mild November morning, but that did not stop us from trying to locate some. Being reasonably experienced at chauffeuring friends from abroad along the Ulster tourist trail, I believed that the Giant's Causeway would be our best bet. Spectacular rock formations produced by long-dormant volcanoes, the story of the lovesick giant Finn MacCool, who built a causeway to Scotland to reach his object of desire - this was the sort of stuff that tourists lap up by the coachload.
Not so my Austrians. "So the volcano has been inactive for a while, then?" asked a visibly disappointed uncle, casting a cold eye over the North's foremost tourist attraction. "When we were in Sicily last year, you could see Mount Etna's smoke from miles away," said my aunt. Since no volcanic eruption was likely to occur on that particular day, or even on the next, we carried on along the coast until we reached the ruins of Dunluce Castle, dramatically perched on a windswept cliff-top looking towards Scotland. I told the story of how its owners abandoned the castle on a stormy night in 1639 after the kitchen tract collapsed into the sea, thinking it would strike a chord with my relatives. After all, Austrians live to eat and would not be seen dead in a building that did not house generous kitchen facilities as well as at least one decent cake-shop.
Cliff edge
"So exactly how many people died when the kitchen fell into the sea?" asked Fredi, while zooming in on a sheep which was grazing dangerously close to the cliff edge. I tried to recall the casualty figures. "Well, I suppose, whoever was working in the kitchen that night - cooks, servants, maids and so on," I mumbled vaguely.
"So the owners survived unscathed and just could not be bothered to rebuild the kitchen?" he asked, his voice dripping with barely concealed contempt. "When we were in France last spring we visited a chateau where the entire family perished in a fire, all 32 of them," my aunt reminded him. They were right. Dunluce Castle was a non-story. Even the sheep had no intention of throwing itself over the cliff.
Traffic accident
It occurred to me that for drama, action and casualty figures, nothing could beat Belfast. In the end, my uncle got to film a highly satisfactory sequence of a decent traffic accident involving a Citybus and two black taxis in front of the city's Europa Hotel, now only the world's second most bombed hotel after Sarajevo's Holiday Inn, as my aunt reminded us.
I got a Christmas card from Gertie. She wrote that she and Fredi were looking forward to their New Year break in southern Mexico. Apparently, you could go there at bargain prices in the aftermath of Hurricane Mitch. Uncle Fredi sent his love.