Queasyjet suits me fine. So what if they don't give you sawdust flavoured sausages delicately positioned on a yellow coloured glob which is reputed to be eggs?

They get you there. Cheap. Whether you get to your desitination on time, every time, is a completely different philospohical argument.

Having made a sizeable dent on Mrs. Wills's dosh with my soujourn to London and the subsequent trip to Edniburgh, I reckoned it was time to save some pennies. Thus, when I downloaded Mark's message, I clicked on to QJ's site and ordered me a flight to Northern Ireland.

If Mark said it was worth coming over for, that was good enough for me.

Which was why I found myself at Belfast International Airport .. which is 20 miles from the city itself. It used to be called Aldergrove and you can still see the RAF station which bears that name as you descend over green fields and country roads to the economy-sized terminal.

Mark wasn't hard to pick out. He was the joker in the sweat shirt emblazoned with the legend 'Norn Iron 1, Ingerland 0' - jeez, I thought, will they ever stop talking about that? Then I remembered 1966.

Anyway, Marko was smiling broadly: "'Bout ye son. Nice flight?"

"Pretty good. Like your sweatshirt," I grinned.

"Cracker, isn't it? Thought you'd maybe want one to take home."

He grabbed my bag and sauntered out of the arrivals lounge: "C'mon, you look as if you need a feed. We'll beat an Ulster Fry down your neck."

The Centurion Cafe is the sort of place which only city dwellers know of. It was just off the Bandy Row and was flanked by a bicycle repair shop and a charity store.

If the people who do 'rough guide' had managed to get their heads out of their proverbials and actually done a bit of proper scouting in Belfast, they'd have hyped The Centurion into the Michelin Guide.

Thankfully, the backpackers' Bible had stuck to the main drag, and The Centurion stuck to making grub for the locals.

The Ulster Fry has been described as a 'heart attack on a plate'. Which is pretty much a fair statement. Go there, get one, enjoy. I ain't writing a travelogue.

Look up The Centurion and ask for 'Wee Sammy'. You'll get sorted.

Which was how I felt after my third cup of tea and a Benson.

Mark pointed at the fag and jerked his thumb towards the door.

"Filthy habit, and you can't smoke in a confined public space over here anymore. We'll go out to the door."

Belfast was in mid-morning mode. Elderly women wheeled their shopping trollies, a street cleaner was giving a postman a tip for the horses and three Atomic Kitten look-a-likes were 'mitching' school. Some things are the same the world over.

Mark came to the point: "Billy Swinton's son is still alive. Getting on a bit but he's well at himself. Not doting or nothing."

"How did you find him?" I asked.

"No problem. The Swintons still live in Matilda Street and that was where old Billy lived before and after the war. In fact, I used to go to school with his grandson."

Ten minutes later, after a car journey punctuated by Mark's ongoing 'tour guide' to Belfast, we were knocking at number 16. It was a modern council house and my brow wrinkled.

"I thought you said this was a pre-war house?"

"You weren't listening right .. the street is still here but they knocked down the old red bricked terraces 20 years ago. Ripped the heart out of this wee area but an awful lot of people decided to stay on when they built the new houses."

A silver-haired gent opened the door.

"How're you doing Tommy," said Mark. "This is the fella from England I was telling you about."

Tommy Swinton looked me square in the eye: "Ye'd better come in. I've a thing or two to show ye."