Belfast stirred awake beneath a pewter sky as dawn crept across the River Lagan. Along the Titanic Quarter’s reclaimed docks, the great yellow gantry cranes—Samson and Goliath—loomed like ancient sentinels, recalling the city’s shipbuilding heydays. Dawn’s quiet light cast long shadows over the cobbles where the RMS Titanic first took shape. Here, Elinor McKenna waited on a wrought-iron bench outside the Harland & Wolff Drawing Offices, her long auburn hair bound neatly at her nape, eyes tracing the faded murals of shipwrights at work. Belfast’s heritage pulsed in every brick and steel girder around her—history piled upon history.
Elinor was wise beyond her twenty-nine years, a graduate of Queen’s University’s School of Philosophy, now a lecturer at the Lyric Theatre’s Writers’ Centre. She possessed that rare combination of intellectual depth and unguarded warmth. Her silver-rimmed spectacles reflected not just the skyline but also the world she engaged: full of nuance, never content with first impressions. Though Belfast had known its Troubles and its uneasy peace, Elinor saw hope in the city’s renaissance—its murals reimagined every season, its cafés in the Cathedral Quarter once again vibrant, its student crowds in the Queen’s Quarter, and the hum of conversations in St. George’s Market.
She checked her watch: 7:15 AM. The café across the street, The Dockyard, would open in fifteen minutes. She intended to study the original Titanic plans over a cup of dark roast. Yet today was meant for more than shipbuilding nostalgia. A letter had summoned her—a letter delivered by hand some days ago, its wax seal bearing the crest of Belfast Castle. It had been unsigned, save for the simple words: “Meet me where the vessels dreamed, at dawn. I have something to show you.” Elinor felt the familiar flutter of curiosity and apprehension.
Footsteps approached through the crisp morning air: a man in a charcoal-grey overcoat, face shadowed by the brim of a felt hat. His gait measured, cautious—yet purposeful. Elinor sat straighter. He paused beneath the gantry’s skeletal arch, removing his hat to reveal dark hair flecked with steel. His eyes, a stormy grey, met hers.
“Ms. McKenna?” His accent bore the lilt of West Belfast, softened by years abroad.
She inclined her head. “Mr. Caldwell?”
He lifted a bound portfolio wrapped in vellum. “Jonathan Caldwell. Thank you for coming.”
Belfast mornings carried the scent of salt, coal, and hope. The man—Jonathan—settled beside her. For a moment, the world held its breath as the two regarded each other: Elinor, the thoughtful scholar; Jonathan, the reluctant herald of secrets.
He unwrapped the portfolio: fine parchment blackened with charcoal sketches. Vessels—yes, but not the Titanic. Ships never launched. Schematics of submarines, blueprints for sea-borne fortresses, designs so avant-garde they seemed prophetic. “These were drawn by your grandfather,” Caldwell said. “Thomas McKenna—master shipwright at Harland & Wolff in the 1930s. He believed the next great leap in marine engineering lay beneath the waves.”
Elinor’s breath caught. She knew family lore: her grandfather had died young during the Blitz, his dreams unfulfilled. None had known of these clandestine plans. “Why show me this now?” she whispered.
Jonathan’s gaze softened. “Because Belfast’s history is not just the story of what was built—it’s also the tale of what could have been. And because I believe you’re the one to tell it.”
Dawn lightened to pale gold. The cranes above seemed to nod. Elinor’s pulse raced with the weight of discovery. A story buried for nearly a century was calling to her. But beneath the thrill lay another question: Who was this stranger whose life had intersected with her own? Belfast, with all its tangled past, had just grown more complicated.
Later that day, St. George’s Market brimmed with clamour: fruit-studded stalls, bakers arranging soda breads, buskers plucking fiddles in the vaulted brick hall. The market’s rebuilt ironwork—destroyed in the Troubles—now stood as testament to Belfast’s resilience. Elinor wove among the tables, Jonathan at her side. Between them lay conversation as textured as the market’s mosaic floor.
She tasted a sample of salted caramel fudge from a stall run by local artisans. “Belfast’s sweets have improved since I was a child,” she said with a smile.
He returned it. “But the stories have always been rich.” He paused before a map-maker’s booth, inspecting a hand-drawn chart of the Lagan River’s winding course. “Your grandfather’s submarines were to navigate those waters, too—secret patrols, supply runs. He intended them for the Admiralty in World War II.”
Elinor ran a finger along the map’s riverbanks, as if feeling the past through her skin. “No one ever mentioned this in family gatherings. Why? Was it classified?” Her voice held both fascination and regret for lost connections.
“He was silenced after the war. The Admiralty shelved the project. Belfast moved on—shipyards transitioned to tank factories. By the time the USS Navies claimed naval dominance, those designs were deemed obsolete—until I found them, buried in a crate in the old Drawing Offices.”
Elinor’s heart quickened. The Drawing Offices, now part of the Odyssey Complex, were undergoing renovation. If Caldwell had truly retrieved those plans, then perhaps more lay hidden in Belfast’s forgotten corners. “We should go there,” she insisted, “before they’re archived or lost again.”
He nodded. “I’ll show you tonight—when the offices close to the public.”
They left the market, walking through the Cathedral Quarter’s cobblestone lanes. Above them, the spire of St. Anne’s Cathedral pierced the sky like an ivory dagger. Tourists snapped photos; clergy swept the stone floor within. Belfast’s religious tapestry—Protestant, Catholic, and secular—wove through every street, every mural.
As they strolled past the Crown Liquor Saloon, Caldwell paused. “I know of your work—lectures at Queen’s Quarter, your essays on Belfast as a palimpsest of dreams. You speak of the city as if it’s a living thing.”
“I have to,” Elinor replied. “Belfast is my mother and my challenge. It’s where I learned that progress and pain walk hand in hand. And what of you? If your roots aren’t here, why did you return?”
He looked skyward, where gulls wheeled over the fluorescent yellow cranes. “My mother grew up on Falls Road. My father was British Army. They married at the end of the Troubles, hoping for peace. I was born in London, but those walls—they left their mark. I needed to understand the city that formed half my identity.”
Her gaze softened. Between them lay parallel histories: division and reconciliation. The Troubles had ended decades ago, yet the scars persisted in murals and Peace Walls. Elinor touched his arm lightly. “Belfast has a way of calling back its children.”
They reached the River Lagan’s banks, following the Peace Bridge’s graceful red arch to the Titanic Hotel, itself a repurposed Victorian grain warehouse. Over coffee in the grand lobby, they pored over more family documents. Yellowing letters, tinkling fountain in the atrium, whispers of a Belfast that might have been.
Jonathan lingered on one passage: a love letter from a young Thomas McKenna to his fiancée, a Belfast nurse named Agnes O’Neill. “Your eyes are brighter than the lights of Victoria Square,” it read. Elinor’s voice trembled. “The past isn’t just metal and machines. It’s blood and bone.”
He nodded. “And love. Belfast holds stories of love that endure through air raids and peace negotiations alike.”
Outside, the sun dipped low, gilding the Cathedral Quarter in fading gold. They left with plans to explore the Drawing Offices that night—two seekers tracing the threads of history in a city that had known both greatness and grief.
As dusk settled, Belfast transformed. Streetlamps glowed amber, the pubs grew rowdy, and a distant busker tuned his guitar at Custom House Square. Elinor met Jonathan at the gates of the old Drawing Offices—once the birthplace of the Olympic-class liners, now a semi-abandoned relic awaiting redevelopment. The iron gates resisted their push, groaning under the weight of memories.
Inside, the cavernous hall stretched before them: nails of moonlight through cracked windows, dust motes dancing like ghosts of shipwrights past. Caldwell switched on a lantern, its circle of light carving a small sanctuary amid the shadows. He led her down a corridor lined with ancient filing cabinets, each drawer stamped “Harland & Wolff.”
“Elinor,” he said softly, “your grandfather’s designs should be in cabinet fifteen, drawer twelve.”
She knelt before the metal drawer, inhaling the scent of oil, paper, and time. With deliberate care, she slid it open. Inside lay more than blueprints—also personal effects: a silver pocket watch, engraved with the initials “T.M.,” and a battered leather journal. She lifted the journal reverently.
Thomas’s handwriting was almost illegible in places, spidery loops that detailed not just engineering diagrams but philosophical musings: the ocean as the planet’s bloodstream, ships as vessels of human ambition. Elinor traced a sentence: “May Belfast rise again from darkness, not through walls or weapons, but through shared wonder.”
A sudden creak echoed. Jonathan clicked off the lantern. Inky darkness enveloped them, broken only by the faint glow of Belfast’s city lights through high windows. For a heartbeat, Elinor’s chest tightened—fear and exhilaration entwined.
He placed a steady hand on her back. “We should take these somewhere safe. The university archives, perhaps. But first…” He drew closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I have something else for you.”
Her pulse fluttered. He produced a small, leather-bound sketchbook—modern, worn at the edges. Inside were drawings of Belfast’s landmarks: the Albert Clock leaning with character; the red brick of Queen’s University sprawling under spring blossoms; the fractal shadows of the Casino at Windsor Park. But among these familiar scenes were figures—two silhouettes standing beneath the Peace Bridge arch, gazing into each other’s eyes.
Elinor’s breath caught. “Is this…?”
“Your grandfather’s vision,” Jonathan said. “He sketched this as his final concept: his vessel, coded ‘Agnes,’ named for his lost love. It was never built. Instead, he immortalized it here—as art. I found this in your grandmother’s attic, in Holywood.”
Tears pricked at Elinor’s eyes. The interweaving of past and present, loss and hope, settled around them like a benediction. Outside, Belfast’s heartbeat thrummed—trams humming, buses rumbling, voices spilling from pubs where “The Fields of Athenry” drifted into the night.
She closed the sketchbook, placing her hand over his. “We must bring these stories to light—both the vessels that never were and the love that endured. Belfast deserves no less.”
In that silent hall, two souls—one shaped by history, the other by discovery—found something akin to destiny. The cranes loomed above like curious giants; the Lagan whispered at the gates. Outside, the Titanic Quarter shimmered under moonlight.
Elinor looked at Jonathan with newfound clarity. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
He smiled, a gentle curve. “Thank you for seeing what I could not alone.”
Under the slumbering cranes, amid the echoes of Belfast’s past, they stood—two storytellers bound by heart and heritage—ready to write the next chapter. Their journey had begun with a mysterious summons, but it would continue in every lecture hall, every museum corridor, and every quiet corner of the city they both loved.
For Belfast was more than a setting: it was a living tapestry of dreams, losses, and relentless hope. And in its vibrant streets, two lives had converged, promising to weave new tales into the city’s ever-evolving history.
Dawn broke pale and misty over Queen’s University’s College Green. Elinor McKenna paused at the wrought-iron gates, inhaling the scent of dew-damp grass and the distant roar of the Belfast Hills. The Lanyon Building’s red sandstone façade—an Edwardian flourish in the heart of the Queen’s Quarter—glowed gently in the morning light. It was here, among the grand lecture theatres and crumbling cloisters, that Elinor and Jonathan would begin piecing together Thomas McKenna’s unwritten legacy.
Jonathan joined her, bearing the leather sketchbook and the brittle pages of her grandfather’s journal, now protected by archival sleeves. “The Special Collections Room opens at eight,” he said in a hushed tone, mindful of students milling about. “We have until noon before they shift the volumes back into the underground vaults.”
Inside the library’s hushed sanctum, oak shelves soared two stories above, lined with vellum-bound tomes and yellowed manuscripts. The archivist, Mistress Rice—herself a Belfast native who had witnessed the city’s transformation—led them to a reading table. “These items were generous gifts,” she explained, placing the portfolio and sketchbook on green-baize cloth. “But please handle them carefully. Their fragility matches their rarity.”
Elinor gingerly opened the journal. The first entries were spare: notes on engine pressure, hull stress, the curvature of ballast chambers. Yet interspersed were lines of single, aching longing:
“I think of you every dawn, Agnes—your laughter as bright as Belfast’s first tram. If only I could launch these dreams into reality.”
She looked up, meeting Jonathan’s steady gaze. “He poured his heart into these designs as much as his engineering skill.”
Jonathan nodded. “And his love for Agnes drove him.” He produced a photograph, sepia-toned and curling at the edges: a young nurse in starched uniform, her smile both serene and fierce. “This is Agnes O’Neill. She served in the Royal Victoria Hospital during the Belfast Blitz. They never wed—her family disapproved of a shipwright’s station—but they remained devoted until his passing in ’43.”
Elinor traced the photograph’s border. “Her eyes are steady. I see why he loved her.”
That evening, as twilight settled over the Lagan, the pair walked toward McHugh’s Bar on Queen’s Square—one of Belfast’s oldest pubs, its wood-paneled walls echoing with ballads. They took a corner table beside stained-glass windows depicting the City’s coat of arms. The brass candlesticks flickered over pints of Murphy’s and plates of Irish stew.
Elinor laid the journal and the sketchbook side by side. “There’s more than just naval blueprints here. These sketches of Belfast landmarks—your grandfather’s final artistic homage—how did you come across them?”
Jonathan smiled wryly. “Your grandmother kept them hidden away after the war. When she passed, my mother found them in a suitcase marked ‘TM’ in the attic of their Holywood home. I brought them to you because you make sense of these stories—and I can’t ignore how much you care for Belfast’s past.”
Elinor’s cheeks warmed. “I… care for it because it’s my home, too. And because these stories need voices.” Her fingertips hovered over the delicate ink drawings: the Albert Memorial Clock, the bustling stalls of St. George’s Market, the winding Crescent Link under construction.
“Do you think your grandfather ever conceived his submarines as more than weapons?” she asked softly. “His journal frames them as instruments of rescue—smuggling medicine into blockaded ports, evacuating wounded from the coasts of Europe.”
Jonathan leaned back, considering. “He wrote of the ocean as ‘the midnight highway for peace.’ Perhaps he saw technology as a tool for unity, not division.”
A hush settled as they shared the weight of that idea. Outside, a fiddler’s lament drifted from a nearby busker, and the low church bells from College Square chimed the hour.
Elinor sipped her pint. “What if we reconstructed the story—not just the blueprints but the philosophy of humanistic engineering? We could propose a centenary exhibition at the Ulster Museum. Belfast deserves to honor inventions that never were, as much as those that defined its past.”
Jonathan’s storm-grey eyes brightened. “An exhibition—yes. We could include interactive models, archival footage, and panels on Agnes’s nursing work. It would recount a Belfast united by progress and compassion.”
McHugh’s bustled around them—regulars humming folk tunes, heritage posters on the walls—yet in their corner, the city’s future felt suddenly within reach.
The weeks that followed saw Elinor and Jonathan immersed in preparations. They secured support from the Ulster Museum’s director, Dr. Fiona McCready, and enlisted local historians, engineers from Queen’s School of Mechanical & Aerospace Engineering, and the Titanic Quarter Trust. Posters went up along the Falls and Shankill Roads alike, heralding “Dreamships: The Unbuilt Vessels of Thomas McKenna”, opening on the anniversary of the Titanic’s launch.
In the museum’s grand halls—once echoing with the footsteps of Victorian pioneers—they installed life-size reproductions of the submarine “Agnes,” its hull etched with McKenna’s hand-drawn annotations. Nearby, holographic projections allowed visitors to explore the vessel’s interior: the engine room, the sickbay, even Agnes’s own quarters recreated from her nursing journal. A diorama of Belfast’s harbors in the 1930s sat beside modern panoramas of the city’s skyline, reminding viewers how far the metropolis had journeyed.
On opening night, the air crackled with anticipation: Belfast’s civic leaders, elderly shipbuilders’ grandchildren, students in tweed jackets, and couples arm in arm. In the foyer, a banner displayed Thomas McKenna’s words:
“Let not our inventions lie idle in rust and regret. May they sail upon human kindness.”
Elinor greeted guests while Jonathan checked the lighting. He found her by the photograph of Agnes at the entrance. “You did this,” he said, awe in his voice. “You gave shape to dreams that were nearly forgotten.”
She rested a hand on his arm. “We did this—because you brought me the pieces, and because Belfast’s spirit demanded it.”
As the doors opened, a hush fell. Elinor stepped forward to address the crowd. In her voice rang the clarity of conviction. “Tonight, we reclaim not only the vessels that never sailed but also the ideals they embodied. Thomas McKenna’s designs remind us that innovation without empathy is hollow. And Agnes O’Neill’s service shows that compassion is as vital as courage.”
Applause rippled through the hall. Jonathan slipped beside her, offering quiet support. When the clapping faded, an elder man with lined cheeks and trembling hands approached. He introduced himself as Liam O’Donnell, former foreman at Harland & Wolff. “I remember your grandfather,” he rasped. “We worked side by side on the Admiralty models. I always thought those submarines were too fanciful, but now…” He paused, eyes misting. “I’m proud to have known him.”
Elinor took his hand. “Thank you for sharing your memories.” Liam looked around, as if seeing both past and present converge. “Belfast needs keepsakes of hope, especially now.”
After the museum lights dimmed and the last guests departed, Elinor and Jonathan stood alone amid the models and projections. They wandered to the diorama of Belfast’s docks, where miniature cranes pivoted beside unmanned slipways.
“Look how the city has changed,” Elinor said, voice echoing softly. “From wooden wharves to steel gantries, from warships to cruise liners.”
Jonathan took her hand, guiding her to the replica conning tower of “Agnes.” “And now the city evolves again—this time through remembrance and renewal.” He drew a slow breath. “Elinor, I’ve been grateful for your mind and your heart these past months. But what I feel now goes beyond partnership or shared history.”
Her pulse fluttered. The hushed glow of the exhibit, the quiet hum of machinery, the weight of Belfast’s hopes—they wrapped around her like a promise.
He continued, “I love you. I have since the moment you first stood under the cranes at Titanic Quarter, curious and unafraid.”
Elinor’s eyes glistened. She thought of every cobblestone lane they’d walked, every dusty page she’d turned, every secret they’d unearthed in Belfast’s layered soul. “Jonathan,” she whispered, “I love you, too. You showed me that our stories—yours, mine, Thomas’s and Agnes’s—they’re all bound by these streets and skies.”
He smiled, relief and joy mingling. In the quiet, they leaned together, sealing their words with a kiss as gentle as dawn over the Lagan.
Outside, the night wind carried the distant strains of “Danny Boy” from a pub across the square. Belfast breathed around them—ancient, renewed, alive.
Months later, Belfast’s collaborations flourished. Schools arranged field trips to the “Dreamships” exhibit; engineers built working models for STEM programs; artists painted murals of Agnes’s steadfast eyes; and every August, a commemorative lecture was held beneath the towering silhouettes of Samson and Goliath.
Elinor and Jonathan often returned to the Titanic Quarter at dawn, when the river mist curled like tendrils of memory. Hand in hand, they watched ships—real ones—glide from dry docks into the water. Their reflections danced among the ripples.
“Ready for our next chapter?” Jonathan asked, sliding an envelope into Elinor’s palm. Its wax seal bore two interlaced initials: “E & J.”
She broke the seal. Inside was an invitation: an international symposium on “Humanistic Engineering” in Oslo—an opportunity to share Thomas McKenna’s philosophy on a global stage.
Elinor’s eyes sparkled. “Belfast brought us together, but now the world awaits.”
Jonathan drew her close. “Wherever we go, we carry Belfast with us—its cranes, its currents, its undying hope.”
As the sun rose behind the yellow giants, they stood together beside the River Lagan, two hearts anchored by the same unbreakable bonds of history, love, and the promise of dreams set free.
And so, in the city that had forged both Titanic and peace walls, Elinor and Jonathan charted their course into a future shaped by compassion, courage, and the echo of unseen vessels forever sailing toward dawn.
If you want to read other stories from United Kingdom click here.
If you want to read stories from other places click here.
For more information check these posts:
- The Story of The DOCK
- River Lagan
- The River Lagan and the Big Stink
- Northern Ireland in 2023
- 10 Game of Thrones Attractions To See on a Northern Ireland Road Trip
- A Lifeform In Northern Ireland
- Northern Ireland Travel Guide: 24 Things to Do in Northern Ireland!
- Ghosts of the Sea
- Haunting Reminders of the Night: Titanic Artifacts and the Paranormal
- Ghostly Messages from Beyond the Titanic: W.T. Stead, Spiritualism and The Blue Island
- Ghosts, Angels, and Spirits
- Paranormal Activity at the Titanic Museum in Branson
- Northern Ireland in 2023 – Dark Tourism Blog
Leave a Reply