Where tourists seldom tread, part 6: ‘ugly, lovely towns’ with stories to tell

22.11.2023 - 12:35 / theguardian.com

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

Type the names of many ordinary towns into Google followed by “is” and the search engine often autocompletes with “a dump”. The predictive text becomes self-perpetuating as people click on the link, through curiosity or accident. Local newspapers abet negativity with regurgitations of “worst places to live” rankings from surveys commissioned by dubious sources trying to grab attention in the digital media morass. The five towns featured below have surfaced on such lists, but ugliness has as many forms as beauty, as Dylan Thomas hinted at when he called Swansea “an ugly, lovely town”. Both adjectives can be simultaneously true. The ugliest place in England for me is Belgravia, London, where monotonous facades and security cameras sneer down at empty pavements. I think Belgravia “is a dump”. But I’d still go there to see it, understand it, know it.

If Hugh O’Neill, earl of Tyrone, had had his way, Dungannon would be the capital of Ulster. It’s odd to imagine a Northern Ireland that didn’t evolve around Belfast and the sea, but looked to this far-seeing hilltop town for spiritual and political guidance. To condense 400 years of history, what happened was: O’Neill doubled up as regional leader and agent for Elizabeth I; then he didn’t; he led a rebellion of earls against the English crown; they lost; the earls and their followers fled to Spain to muster a force, or reflect in exile; they never got there.

All this, and more, is explained in an impressive exhibition at Dungannon’s Ranfurly House, which stands beside the Hill of The O’Neill (Ireland’s great princes got their own definite article). As well as the storytelling, artworks and archaeological information, I was struck by three parallel timelines – one for Ireland, one for England and Scotland, one for the Americas and Rest of the World. As the centre’s genial guide Peter Lant says: “Nothing ever happens only in one place.” Dungannon is an epicentre, a crossroads, a place where the past is layered and deep. The earls had stone seats that symbolised their power. Dungannon is like a mighty throne, hill-shaped, laden with history and memory.

Over the centuries, the hill has been Druidic stronghold, Irish fortress, plantation castle, back garden of 19th-century banker Thomas Knox Hannyngton (two towers of his Georgian house still stand), British Army base and observation tower, and, more recently, improvised TV studio (used during the pandemic) and wedding venue. The huge communications mast isn’t pretty; the two large CCTV cameras are army-issue. But the views of Dungannon’s lofty church steeples and surrounding farmlands are sweeping, and beyond lie the Cooley and Mourne mountains.

The town