2/37 – Belfast Nebraska: 21-24 Aug 2024

Now I was heading for Belfast, Nebraska via Omaha, where my oil was awaiting. I had also found a shop where I could get my tyre changed. In addition, Sheryl had spoken with a friend in who lived out past Belfast, NE. She had been meaning to visit for a long time, so asked if he would put us up for a couple of nights.

Before leaving Larchwood, however, I had to get a photo of Curt with his bike. This he had built himself and it had a striking colour scheme, which I quite liked.

I headed out to retrace my steps along Highways 75 and 59. I didn’t hang about much, as I wanted to get to the shop to have the tyre changed, leaving me all of Thursday to do the bike service. I dropped my bags at Sheryl’s and risked Interstates 680 and 80 as the easiest route to the shop. There I struggled for a while to find it as there was no sign on the road; “to keep the moped riders away” Mark, the owner, told me, only half jokingly.

Robertsons Cycles is housed in a warehouse/hanger and is a mass of bikes of all shapes, sizes, makes and vintages; there was even a CB750! Lee, one of the mechanics I had spoken with previously, took the bike round the back and I watched as he expertly removed the wheel and proceeded to mount the new tyre. Interestingly, when it came to balancing, no weights were required, so maybe the robber baron in Baltimore did balance it.

Mark and Lee were a mine of information and we chatted about several issues related to my bike and others. For convenience’s sake, I had opted to have them remove and refit the wheel, and so I had to grin and bear it when I got the bill for $187. Add this to the cost of the tyre itself and the exercise cost me $374! I am glad I don’t live in America!!!

When I returned to the house, Sheryl had not returned form her hair appointment, so I went to the pub around he corner and had a pint.

Thursday 22 Aug 2024

Today was service day, but first I had to do the shopping as I had offered to cook dinner. A trip to Walmart for some “dry sacs” I wanted, was followed by a grocery shop and then breakfast at a nearby diner, recommended by the ladies at the bakery counter.

Sheryl had borrowed an oil pan from a neighbour, which made the oil change mush less hazardous for her garage floor; I actually managed to finish without leaving my characteristic calling card. As usual though, not everything went according to plan.

As I was removing the fuel hose, to remove the tank to make access to the tappets easier, the spigot came out of the petcock. This had happened before, but this time, what looked like a tiny o-ring on the spigot disintegrated. I didn’t have a caliper to measure it, which made it impossible to call a supplier and ask for one. Imagine the response when I replied to the inevitable question with, “It’s a tiny little thing!” (Actually it is somewhat less than 4mm x 1mm). I called Mark ☝️and asked if he had any, giving my best guess at size. The response meant I now needed a ride to the shop. He had also just placed an order, with overnight delivery, with a company supplying, amongst other things reproduction petcocks and was able to add one of these to his order.

My knight is shining armour – well a dark blue bakkie – arrived later that afternoon, and after dealing with her intermittent WiFi problem, we duly went and I was given an o-ring that was close enough. Mark also suggested using some epoxy putty designed for repairing fuel tanks. This resulted in a search around some auto shops to find some.

Back at the house, however, it was dinner time. 2000 was a fine time for me, but Sheryl usually eats earlier – about 4 hours earlier. Still she announced afterwards that it was worth the wait, so I must have done something right.

Deciding it would be good to give the epoxy overnight to harden before playing with it, I went out to refit the spigot. It was persuaded back into place with a few judicious taps and then I surrounded the join with the epoxy.

 Friday 23 August 2024

Today I had a looong ride ahead of me. Belfast was some 260 km away, and Sheryl’s friend lived another 180 km after that, so I was in the garage bright and early. The repair seemed to be holding and there was no visible leakage of fuel. This was as well, because Mark phoned to say that the overnight delivery would in fact take two nights. This news was good and bad. I didn’t have to detour into the city to pick up the new part, but I didn’t now have a fallback should the repair fail down the road.

Anyhow while waiting on his call, I took the opportunity to try to adjust my voltage regulator, which, I thought, was allowing too much current to my battery. After some experimentation, I think I succeeded; time will tell. (Post note: About 800kms later it does appear to have worked)

Off then to Greely, the town nearest to Belfast, NE, where I had arranged to meet Sheryl. Having mentioned Nebraska’s awful roads, I thought I had experienced it all but no, Nebraska Dept of Transport had one last curve ball to launch. The concrete surface of the roads leading west had been scoured with longitudinal lines, meaning the my front wheel skipped from side to side, giving a feeling much more unpleasant than the now fixed wobble. I found the best (only) way to counter this was to weave from side to side across the lane like GK Chesterton’s “rolling English drunkard”.

After what seemed like interminable hours riding through flat and featureless farmland I arrived at Greeley. A visit to the town hall gave me nothing more than a contact, one of the main organisers of Greely’s annual Irish Fest. Mike McQuillan is the manager of the local bank and we had a good chat about the origins of Greely and how it became a centre of Catholicism and Irishness. A certain Bishop O’Connor played a major part apparently. He also gave me some name of some people who lived or had lived in Belfast and who currently farmed there. No-one however Could illuminate me as to “why Belfast”, so I decided to head on out there without waiting for Sheryl to arrive.

Belfast, Nebraska

Belfast Road is about 10 km north of Greely Centre and Belfast itself about 6 km off the tar. I set out along the gravel road, but stopped at the first intersection as the road, I decided, was becoming increasingly hazardous to my continued good health. Fortunately, Sheryl caught up with me shortly after and we proceeded in the safety of her truck.

There wasn’t much left of Belfast when we did arrive; mind, we hadn’t been expecting much! A few concrete foundations, a subterranean storeroom, some rusty barbed wire and an old windmill that previously filled a now empty water cistern were all that indicated that once upon a time this have been a thriving spot.

I walked up to the windmill, the one in that 19320’s photograph, from the sandy road and sat for a while taking in the scene and the atmosphere. I got a strange feeling sitting there, maybe ghosts from summers past, that made me want to linger a while. I’m not one to feel such things usually, so this definitely felt weird. I would have stayed, but Sheryl was sitting patiently in the truck waiting for me.

I later learned that Belfast was first settled in 1890-ish. One of the first settler families was called Donovan and it was Pat Donovan, great-grandson of that settler who related the stories below. Belfast was essentially a railway depot, and that there had been a coal yard and water tower for the trains, a store and a lodging no house for travellers and for a brief period (1908-09) a post office. It was also a renowned centre for barn dances, so I would guess there might have been a hostelry also. The area was farmed by homesteaders, who had plots of 160 acres each, and many of these were of Irish origin. The train stopped running in the 1930s, people started leaving shortly afterwards, and Belfast’s fate was sealed.

We returned to Greeley where I decided to spend the night. It was already 1800 and with 100+ miles to go to Arnold, I decided not to risk having to ride in the dark. Sheryl continued and I went to find a place to sleep.

Greeley is a small town laid out with wide streets. The first thing I did was go to the bar, not primarily for a drink, but to check if I could get some food later. There, a beer was bought for me, I was told where I could pitch my tent, and I met Peggy Zauha. Beer drunk I went to find my campsite beside one of the local baseball fields and was quickly established – actually that’s not quite true, but the detail is not important.

Not only are all the street called after Irish counties, but the lamp posts ae painted green, white and orange. On my way back to the bar, I was taking some photos of this  ancestral fervour, when a truck stopped, and I was offered the contact details of someone who I was assured would be able to give me stories of Belfast; nothing is secret for long in a small town!

Back in the bar, I ordered my burger and fries and joined Peggy and her friend, who’s name in my dotage I’ve sadly forgotten. Anyway Peggy was a sprightly 82, and had been born in locally as a McManus. Her father had a homestead in Belfast and she had grown up, running up and down the sandy roads, barefoot, to feed cattle and do other chores. She also remembered the railway track and the cinders, which she said were vey sore on the feet. The town bible – which seemed ot be a book listing all the protests and nuns who had ever served the congregation – was retrieved from behind the bar as she sought out some information on Belfast, to no avail. It seems it was a place apart then and has been forgotten now.

Saturday 24 Aug 2024

I spent a quiet, restful night and before departing decided I should give some of the contacts I had been given a call. Pat Donovan returned my call and said he could certainly give me some stories of Belfast.

Pat Donovan’s great-grandfather was one of the first settlers in Belfast in 1891. It seems he and a brother, both millers in Cork, were deported for non-payment of taxes – the other option being the army; one went to Australia and the other to the US, arriving in Belfast via Canada and Minnesota. Initially an engineer on the railway, the great-grandfather took up farming which turned out not to be his forte. His son Dennis, however, quit school at 16 and lying about his age – you had to be 18 to homestead – took up the homestead. He was much more successful and planted an irrigated orchard, grew crops and ran a cattle feeder, becoming in time successfula dn quite wealthy. Today, a Donovan still farms in Belfast and there are several living nearby.

Pat’s father was called Richard Anthony, a fact which seemingly greatly annoyed his Grandmother. When he was taken to be baptised, his mother – Pat’s grandmother – remained in the birthing house. His grandfather took the child to the church, having agreed that he would be christened John Michael. However, when asked for the name of the child, his father said, “Richard Anthony”. This was the name of a childless neighbour who regretted not having children. The grandfather felt pity for him, so he named his son after him. Whilst this made the child’s mother mother mad, it made the neighbour very proud.

Pat’s grandfather was a small slim, dark man, but one of his sons was big child/man and had blond hair. His got the nickname Swede, because of a Scandanavian neighbour who was a tall, blond man. This was another thorn in Grandmother’s side.

One other anecdote Pat told me concerned some neighbours of his grandfather. This old couple were not well off and lived a quiet life. One day, in mid-winter, the sheriff arrived at his grandfather’s door, saying no-one had seen the old couple for a while and asked to be accompanied to check up on them. The old lady answered the door and when asked if everything was OK, replied that all was well, but her husband had died the week before, and as the ground was too had to dig, she had put him in the shed. Sheriff and Grandfather agreed that this was not a suitable resting place and arranged for him to be properly interred. How times have changed!

I am sure there are many more stories relating to past events in Belfast, and there may be more than one skeleton buring in the fields. Maybe the odd vibe I had felt on the hill was some spiritual remnants of such events.

Having now finished my coffee, packed up my tent and scribbled my notes, I set out for Arnold, the town, to meet Sheryl and Jon for breakfast.