I was a little nervous about Belfast after lasts month’s attempted bombings. I arrived after dark, and having spent all day travelling, settled in for an early night. I woke early and spent several quiet hours walking around the city centre. Sunday morning is a quiet time for Belfast – the only other person I saw was a German tourist following a similar route. Even the 24 hour Tesco is closed until one in the afternoon.

It’s a bizarre feeling walking though a city that has such a violent recent history. It reminds me a little of Sarajevo, but with fresher wounds. The “peace line”, a three-mile wall dividing the Falls Road and Shankill neighbourhoods, still stands, though the tanks guarding the gates have been gone a decade. The police stations are heavily fortified and shelter a legion of armoured cars. Republican and Unionist propaganda and graffiti covers the walls of the working class suburbs, and there’s barely a city block that doesn’t fly at least one Union Jack, Tricolour or St. George Cross.

Still, the people are as cheerful and friendly as anywhere else on this island, with accents equal parts entertaining and unintelligible.

Just don’t talk religion or politics.

The Ulster photoset is here.