Exploring Belfast on foot
After a summer holiday spent driving around Ulster with the kids, this time I was heading back to explore some of Belfast itself.
The trip began with the train into Liverpool Lime Street. Before our ferry to Belfast, we had time for a quick meal at Liverpool ONE. The city was already dressed in Christmas decorations and the Christmas market was in full swing.
Before dinner, we had time for a short wander, which took us down Matthew Street, where the Beatles’ presence is highlighted with all the signs. Passing The Grapes, we were reminded that long before the Cavern Club became myth, this was one of the pubs where things were already beginning to happen.
Practicalities followed: finding a post box, checking a few last logistics and then our attention turned towards the water.
Part of the appeal of this trip was not needing a car. From Liverpool ONE, we mapped the route to the Birkenhead ferry terminal and bought a couple of Merseyrail tickets to take us under the river.
We had already checked the food rules for travelling to Northern Ireland and with some nuts and dried mango packed alongside a flask of hot water for peppermint tea, our bags were kept deliberately light.
We arrived at the Stena Line ferry early. Bags were checked, passports glanced at by police and then we watched the quiet choreography of departure: suitcases and bikes loaded into a van that would travel with us, only to be unloaded again on the other side.
With cancellations on other routes the day before due to a storm and a noticeable swell running, this was not the smoothest crossing. I couldn’t help feeling for the cars parked out on the open section of the deck below us, eight hours of sea mist coating them steadily through the night.
We stowed our bags in the cabin, wandered the ship briefly, then settled with hot drinks from the flask. Once the safety announcements finished, along with the repeated requests for people to turn off car alarms drifting up from the deck below, we went to sleep.
Sleep came in fragments. A heavy roll waking me up and then a chorus of car alarms; then quiet again.
Morning arrived gently. I folded the bed up on my side of the room and unrolled my yoga mat for a short session. A shower followed, bags repacked and then we were in Belfast.
The ferry was a little late and missed the connecting bus into town. Rather than wait, we walked. That decision felt emblematic of the whole trip. With less to carry, you gain flexibility. Options open up rather than close down. We wandered towards a Greggs for breakfast, then continued on foot into the city, easing ourselves into Belfast at walking pace.
We had a copy of the Pocket Rough Guide: Belfast Weekender with us. A couple of the maps were a little incorrect, as it turned out, but the structure was ideal: walking tours rather than must-see lists. Paired with Google Maps for public transport when needed, it gave us just enough direction without dictating the experience and that felt perfect.
City Meets the Waterfront
We began properly at Clarendon Docks, following Walking Tour 5 from the guide, City Meets the Waterfront.
The docks now lay quiet although Dry Dock Number One sits here, the first major piece of harbour infrastructure, functional and unapologetic. Belfast doesn’t hide its industrial past.
Nearby, the red brick Sinclair Seamen’s Presbyterian Church rose unexpectedly, which was built for sailors.
From there, the route drew us inward, past the Harbour Office and on towards the river where the Big Fish mosaic glints.
The Custom House anchors this part of the city, while the Albert Memorial Clock, leaning just enough to be noticed, adds a touch of unintended character. Belfast’s own small nod to Pisa.
Much of the architecture here traces back to Charles Lanyon, whose hand shaped large parts of Victorian Belfast.
We headed past McHugh’s, then the Malmaison, the old warehouse now softened into hospitality. Across the way, Victoria Square loomed, its viewing platform closed, a reminder that not everything needs to be climbed or seen!
Belfast City Hall stopped us in our tracks. From the outside it’s grand; inside it’s astonishing: marble, mosaics, light. It’s the sort of interior that reminds you that public buildings once mattered deeply and that cities believed in themselves enough to invest in permanence.
Nearby, Robinson & Cleaver, now Marks & Spencer, still wears its Venetian Gothic red sandstone proudly. The Masonic Building felt misplaced in the guide. Then we slipped in and out of narrow, pub-lined entries. Joy’s Entry was our favourite, dressed for Christmas and glowing warmly even in daylight.
At The Northern Whig, the tone shifted once more: a former newspaper office turned pub; we paused outside St Anne’s Cathedral, before wandering past the Belfast School of Art and the Central Library. Banks, markets and shopping centres followed: Bank of Ireland, Smithfield Market, CastleCourt, each part of the everyday machinery of the city, now quietly historical in its own way.
The churches came next, interspersed with pubs: First Presbyterian, White’s Tavern, Kelly’s Cellars, St Mary’s Roman Catholic Chapel.
We passed through Queen’s Arcade, elegant and narrow, before heading on to the Titanic Memorial Garden.
Across the river, the Beacon of Hope reached skyward, while the Waterfront Hall buzzed with life: a graduation ceremony spilling out, families gathering, photographs being taken. Celebration layered over the same water where ships once launched.
The city kept offering contrasts: the severity of the Royal Courts of Justice, the colour of St George’s Market, the cultural gravity of Ulster Hall, the quiet confidence of the BBC building.
By the time we reached our hostel near Shaftesbury Square, we were ready to drop our bags and make a hot drink in the communal kitchen, although we were soon to be drawn back out.
A late afternoon at the Botanic Gardens
After checking in and getting ourselves sorted, we headed back out.
We walked south past Queen’s University Belfast, the red-brick Gothic buildings catching the late afternoon light, before turning into the Botanic Gardens. It’s one of those spaces where Belfast seems to exhale.
Our first stop was the Palm House, all iron and glass. Inside, warm air and tropical plants created a deliberate contrast to the cool outside. Palms arched overhead, leaves overlapping, the space feeling both grand and gently contained, with its Victorian optimism preserved.
Nearby, the Tropical Ravine felt more intimate. Tucked away and slightly hidden, it dropped down into greenery and humidity, plants layered vertically rather than spread out. It was quieter here, more contemplative and definitely a place to pause rather than pass through.
From there, we popped into the Ulster Museum, with only about an hour before closing time and we could easily have stayed longer. It wasn’t long enough to be comprehensive, so we started at the top and worked our way down through the floors, getting a good feel for the place. The displays cover so much, spanning art, history and natural science.
With the light now gone, we headed back past the front of Queen’s again, the buildings now softly lit and less imposing than they had been earlier.
Dinner was deliberately simple. Food from Tesco, cooked back at the hostel, eaten without ceremony. After a day of walking and noticing, that felt exactly right.
Then bed. No late night. No sense of missing out. Just the quiet satisfaction of having used the day well.
Stormont
Friday arrived with a good forecast, the kind that invites you outward. It felt like the right day to leave the centre and head east towards Parliament Buildings, Stormont and the surrounding estate.
This was our chance to properly get the hang of the buses. From what I’d read, they seemed simple enough: tap on with contactless and you’re away. The Glider felt closer to a tram system than a bus, and with no contactless option, we could see that you use the ticket machines at the stops, opting for day Metro tickets on the days we knew we’d be using transport a reasonable amount.
That said, one thing had already become clear: Belfast rewards walking. For anything under an hour or so, walking often proved quicker and calmer than waiting for connections, especially when delays crept in. The city is compact and like most places, it reveals more of itself on foot.
We walked down to Belfast City Hall and from there travelled out towards Stormont. The Stormont Estate feels deliberately set apart. A long, straight, mile long approach leads the eye towards the Parliament Buildings, which sit back from the road with quiet confidence.
We spent the morning walking the grounds, taking it slowly. At midday, we joined a guided tour of the Parliament Buildings. Inside, the scale is more restrained than the exterior suggests. The chambers are smaller and more intimate, designed for debate rather than display. The guide was excellent, explaining not just how the building works but how its purpose has shifted over time, with RAF fighter control, periods of activity, suspension and return. After the tour, we paused for a cup of tea in the café before heading on again.
Nature & Wildlife
From Stormont, we headed back towards the water. A bus carried us part of the way into town, followed by a walk through Victoria Park Belfast and then on to the RSPB Window on Wildlife at Belfast Lough. It’s a modest reserve on the edge of Belfast Harbour, easy to overlook but well placed for a pause.
We arrived to find the visitor centre closed; the staff were out at their Christmas lunch. The signs suggested the hides were open, although the access codes weren’t displayed anywhere obvious. In the end, it didn’t matter too much. We could still reach the viewpoints and part of both hides. It wasn’t a day of abundance. The mudflats were mostly quiet, the sun low on the horizon, the timing not quite aligned.
From there, it was a short hop back on the bus towards town, carrying us on to the Titanic Quarter. We resisted the pull of the museum for now, though we checked prices and timings and realised it made sense to book tickets online and save a few pounds. That was left for the following day. For now, it was enough to note the outlines of cranes, docks and modern glass buildings rising from historic ground.
We walked towards Thompson Dry Dock, where Titanic was fitted out before her maiden voyage. On the way beside the SS Nomadic we spotted inside the dry dock close to the museum, the caisson, the massive dock gate, still sits stored at one end. Not a ship, not a relic in the romantic sense although a piece of working infrastructure.
Further along the quay, past the old lighthouse, HMS Caroline, last surviving ship from the First World War battle of Jutland, lay moored, having come to Belfast as a drill ship. Nearby, the former pumphouse, now home to Titanic Distillers, glowed warmly as evening settled in. As the light dropped, the cranes stood out more sharply against the sky. The Samson and Goliath cranes didn’t dominate so much as preside, their silhouettes fixed while the city shifted around them.
Once again, we headed back to the hostel on the Glider bus via Tesco, gathered supplies and returned to City Hostel Belfast to cook dinner and wind the day down.
Walking the River, Titanic Experience
Saturday morning began with a walk. We followed the river, letting the city ease us towards the Titanic Quarter at walking pace. The River Lagan was calm and the paths still quiet.
We’d booked the first entry slot at Titanic Belfast, arriving early and joining a small queue outside. Not “peak day” busy, according to the staff, although busy enough to remind you that this is one of the city’s defining attractions. The building absorbs people quickly, though there were still plenty of visitors wandering around.
Inside, we made a conscious decision to slow down. The galleries are designed to carry you forward, with sound, light and movement all gently nudging you on although we resisted that pull. When space opened up, we let others pass. Families on tight schedules, people heading straight for the highlights, visitors clearly working to a timetable. We stayed behind, reading, listening and watching.
The early galleries set the context carefully: Belfast at the turn of the twentieth century, a city shaped by linen, engineering and shipbuilding. What stood out wasn’t just scale, but confidence. This was a place that believed in industry, in progress and in its own capability.
The shipyard scenes grounded the Titanic story firmly in labour rather than legend. As we moved deeper into the experience, the focus shifted from city to ship. Design decisions, class divisions and the sheer complexity of fitting out a vessel of that size.
The sinking itself is handled with restraint. Instead, the narrative moves quickly into the aftermath: inquiries, consequences and the long shadow cast over shipbuilding and maritime confidence.
One of the strongest sections came later, with the exploration of the wreck itself. The tone changes again, becoming quieter and more reflective. The ship no longer belongs to history alone although to the deep. A place rather than an object.
By the time we emerged back into daylight, several hours had passed without us really noticing. The crowds were thicker now, the pace faster. We were glad we’d come early and glad we’d taken it slowly.
What struck me most was that this isn’t just a story about a ship that sank. It’s about a city at a particular moment in time: its ambition, its skill, and the people whose lives were bound up in both.
As our ticket included access to SS Nomadic, we wandered over afterwards, crossing the quay. In a dry dock close by, Nomadic feels modest after the scale of the exhibition building, but that’s precisely its strength. This was Titanic in miniature, not the engineering marvel, but the lived experience. Built as a tender to ferry first and second class passengers out to the great liners anchored offshore in Cherbourg.
The fittings are simpler than Titanic’s grand interiors, though still recognisably of the same world. Wood panelling and practical elegance, rather than excess.
West Belfast
That afternoon we headed over on the Glider, first the Glider Two and then the Glider One, out to Belfast City Cemetery. The plan was to walk part of the West Belfast route we’d been following, to see more murals, one of the peace lines and to understand the legacy of the troubles rather than just read about it.
We set out knowing this would be different in tone. The guidebook was clear enough: this was one of the most absorbing and controversial parts of the city and one best taken slowly, on foot, with attention.
We began at Belfast City Cemetery, then continued along the Falls Road, where murals announce themselves without apology. Some are immediate and iconic; others reveal themselves only when you stop and look properly. Faces, slogans, fragments of history layered one over another. This is not decorative street art. It is narrative, argument, remembrance.
The Bobby Sands Memorial stands quietly among them, instantly recognisable and drawing people in.
Further along, the scale shifted again at Clonard Monastery. Built in French Gothic style, its rose window and stonework carry a different kind of authority. This was not just a place of worship but also one of dialogue, a setting for conversations that would eventually feed into the peace process.
Eventually, the route brought us to the Peace Line. Even if you’ve read about them, even if you’ve seen photographs, encountering one in person is different. The scale is unsettling. Corrugated iron, concrete, fencing, utilitarian and unadorned, still standing. It is both a boundary, a scar and part of history that is still unfolding. Crossing through the gates that close at night felt oddly anticlimactic, which in itself said something important. Life continues on both sides. Shops open. People pass. The wall remains.
On the Shankill Road, the contrast is stark although it is the proximity that stays with you most. These roads are not far apart. You can feel that physically.
What stayed with us wasn’t any single image or explanation, but the accumulation. The sense that West Belfast is not something to be consumed quickly or neatly summarised. It asks for attention, humility and a willingness to sit with discomfort.
Our visit, alongside the black taxi tours moving between these sights, left a heavy reminder that the troubles in Northern Ireland and Belfast in particular, are not fully behind us yet.
Still, I found myself hoping, cautiously, that this is something moving in the right direction, with the awareness that this kind of change is not an event, but a journey. One that takes time, consistency, understanding, open dialogue, and the willingness to keep showing up, even when progress feels slow.
Eventually, we turned back towards the hostel: bus, Tesco and another simple meal.
The kind of ordinary ending that feels grounding after a day like that.
Morning Light and Leaving
We were up early on the final day, deliberately so. It was a chance to walk while the city was still waking up and without our bags, before checkout.
Morning is always my favourite time to move: the world not yet busy, edges softened, things allowed to be exactly what they are. We slipped out before full light, heading back through the Botanic Gardens.
Along the river path, we weren’t entirely alone. A seal surfaced near the bank, its large head and dark eyes watching us with the same curiosity we were offering it.
We continued on through Ormeau Park, the city stretching gently around us. Dog walkers appeared. A jogger or two. The day easing itself into motion.
Back at the hostel, we paused for a second breakfast before collecting our bags and heading back into town to catch the bus out to Belfast Castle, perched above the city. We took a quick look inside, then wandered the gardens. From there, it was time to climb again.
Cave Hill rose steadily ahead. The weather wasn’t dramatic: light drizzle and low cloud although that felt appropriate. The path took us past the caves themselves, dark openings in the rock and then higher, where views across Belfast emerged in fragments rather than panoramas, before looping back towards the castle. From there, we caught the bus back into the city one last time.
Food came next: supplies for the evening crossing and the morning after. With time on our side, we chose to walk back to the ferry terminal. Just over an hour on foot, a final chance to let the city pass by at human speed.
The ferry was delayed arriving, although we could track it on the marine app, a small modern reassurance. Once it docked, everything moved quickly and we were soon settled into our cabin.
We stepped briefly out onto the deck to say goodbye to the city, then headed back inside as the day finally caught up with us. The boat eased away from Belfast, and with no need to stay awake for it, we let sleep take over. All that was left was the morning train back home.
What travelling light actually means
Travelling light isn’t just about what you leave behind. It’s about the small things you remember.
I always forget to take enough shopping bags. At the moment, Decathlon ones are my favourites. And every time, I promise myself I won’t forget next time. They’re endlessly useful: for groceries, for stashing damp coats on trains, for keeping clothes dry when you’re showering somewhere communal and space is tight. They weigh almost nothing, yet somehow never make it into the bag.
The same goes for other unglamorous essentials.
Baby wipes, for hands before and after food eaten on the move and for feeling vaguely human again before the next stretch.
A handful of IKEA food clips. Perfect for sealing half used packets, keeping bread fresh and stopping bags of granola or trail food exploding in shared kitchens.
A padlock. Essential in hostels, especially places like the HI where lockers are provided.
And a Sharpie or any permanent pen, because if you’re using a communal fridge, writing your name and date on food isn’t paranoia. It’s courtesy, and it stops unnecessary waste.
For me, travelling light is about remembering the things that quietly make life work.