This August, I took a little adventure with my daughter—just the two of us—in the heart of Belfast. It was a trip woven with moments both ordinary and magical: endless bus rides, laughter in indoor playgrounds, pretend tea parties at a role-play café, quiet walks through the botanical gardens, animal encounters at the zoo, the awe of Giant’s Causeway, and a quiet reverence at the Titanic Museum.
It was exhausting at times—being the only adult, always on alert—but it was also a window into something beautiful. I watched her grow before my eyes. In these past few years, she’s been maturing quietly, steadily… but on this trip, that growth danced right in front of me.
I was constantly thinking of her safety—my quiet worry never far behind. I told her how nervous I get when we’re out, half-joking, “Daddy will be mad at me if anything happens to you.” She looked up at me, calm and sweet, and said, “It’s okay, Nanay. I will help you.”
And she did. Every time we stepped onto a bus or crossed the street, she followed every instruction without question. Run, jump, stop—she listened, she helped, and she found joy in doing so. It was both amusing and moving—her determination to support me while soaking in every experience.
To my surprise, she adored the bus rides, especially the top deck. On our first day, though, she fell asleep in my lap during the hop-on-hop-off tour. She only woke up as it was ending. “You missed so much,” I told her. She was surprised, but I reassured her—it was okay. After all, we’d left the house at 5 a.m. to catch our flight. She needed that rest.
One of my favorite moments was sitting on the grass outside Belfast’s City Hall—its grandeur standing at the city’s heart, where we’d catch our tour bus each day. A few kind strangers helped us capture those moments in photos. But the ones etched deepest in my heart are of us sitting quietly, watching the world pass by.
It wasn’t a picture-perfect trip. It was real. A little chaotic, often tiring—but filled with small wonders and shared memories I’ll hold close for a long time.
Suddenly, the quiet rhythm of the city was interrupted by a burst of noise. Curious, I looked around to find the source. A group of young people rolled down the main street on a strange, elongated vehicle—part bicycle, part jeepney, part tuk-tuk. It was like something you’d see on a holiday postcard from Southeast Asia, but here it was, weaving through the heart of Belfast.
They were laughing, singing, and raising their drinks in the air—clearly in celebration. Their voices rose above the usual city hum, loud and intentionally so, as if trying to draw everyone’s eyes their way. Well… they certainly caught my little girl’s. Her eyes lit up with excitement as she tugged my hand and exclaimed, “Is that the ice cream car?”
To her disappointment, no ice cream appeared—but the spectacle continued. Two men soon gave the vehicle a push, and off they went again, disappearing into the winding streets, their laughter trailing behind like confetti.
Not long after, another group came along, just as lively. That’s when I realized—it wasn’t a one-off. Perhaps this was something people do here. A quirky, festive tradition, maybe popular among locals or visitors looking to celebrate in a unique way. Whatever it was, it added a layer of color to our day—an unexpected delight in the middle of the city’s everyday flow.
In Between the Wonders
As the tuk-tuk faded into the distance and the noise died down, my little one quickly grew restless. The excitement had passed, and now boredom settled in. She had no toy with her—a decision we made before leaving the house, afraid she might lose it during the trip.
Thankfully, I had tucked her Peppa Pig plush into the bag just before we left. Had I not, she would’ve had nothing at all. But even Peppa couldn’t hold her attention for long that day. The city was big, unfamiliar, and she needed something new to anchor her imagination.
So, we made a little detour to a nearby mall, where I picked up a small toy—not her usual type, but something. To my relief, she took to it. She has this wonderful habit of finding joy in the smallest things, weaving entire worlds out of the simplest objects. Her imagination filled in the blanks, and I joined her in play—becoming characters, inventing stories, making magic out of the ordinary.
In those quiet in-between moments, it wasn’t the toy itself that mattered—but the shared play, the connection, and the comfort of knowing that even in a new city, joy could still be found.
I made sure our days stretched long, so by the time we returned to the hotel, she’d be tired enough to drift off easily—her little body worn out from adventure, her mind filled with new memories.
The Stillness of Churches
There’s churches in almost every corner but nobody goes. Streets were quiet. Though Belfast holds a reputation as the “city of churches”—a nod to Northern Ireland’s deep-rooted religious heritage and the fact that it has more churches per head than anywhere else in the UK—it struck me how few people were actually attending them. The buildings stood tall and dignified, whispering stories of the past, yet many pews now sit empty.
Still, I wanted to give Lyra a glimpse of that part of the city’s soul. I took her to a quiet Presbyterian church just a few meters from our hotel. Inside, I met a kind-hearted woman named Karis, who welcomed us warmly. She pointed out places she thought Lyra would enjoy, and shared little insights that made the area feel less like a stranger’s city—and more like somewhere we could belong, if only for a while. The service started an hour later than I thought and we had a pre booked tour so we didn’t end up attending the service but the visit as still not in vain.
Frozen Yogurt and Little Surprises
In the heart of Belfast’s old market, where chatter drifts like wind through alleyways and vendors call with voices worn soft by time, we found ourselves drawn—almost by magic—to a small frozen yogurt shop.
She spotted it first.
Her face lit up as if it were treasure.
Of course, we stepped inside.
The treat itself was simple, cold and sweet.
But for her, it was delight in its purest form.
She offered her Peppa plush a careful, invisible spoonful—
tending to her toy with the same tenderness I’d shown her just hours earlier.
She didn’t ask where we were going next.
She didn’t need to.
To her, the world was one long unfolding of wonders,
and I—her tired, tender, always-alert guide—was enough.
She learned about the swimming pool only when we were steps away.
And yes, I kept it a secret on purpose.
Because anticipation, in her little hands,
can quickly become impatience.
And sometimes, the best gifts are the ones that bloom without warning.
A surprise, soft and sudden,
like the first sight of sunlight after rain.
That’s what this trip was:
not just a journey through streets and museums,
but a quiet rediscovery.
A reminder of what it means to see the world
with eyes still full of wonder.
Through her, I remembered:
A city doesn’t have to shout to be heard.
Its magic lives in unexpected places—
in yogurt shops tucked behind market stalls,
in laughter shared on a cracked bench,
in the way a child trusts the moment without question.
We weren’t collecting sights.
We were weaving something far more delicate—
a tapestry of firsts and quiet joys,
stitched with soft hands,
tied together by love and the hum of a city that let us
just be.
And Belfast, with all its quiet charm and sudden bursts of color,
became our canvas.
Titanic off we go
She was mesmerized. The shimmering panels, the shape of a ship— to her, it was all part of a game. She wanted to play inside it. She might’ve thought it was a toy not a vessel that carried hope and sank with it.
I wanted her to understand, to feel the weight of what this place held. I wanted to tell her how lucky she was to walk those halls where memory still whispers. But I hadn’t told her anything, really— not the history, not the sorrow, not the sea. So, I let her wander. Let her see, touch, look up in wonder. I watched her move through that space, light in her steps and joy in her face was a sight to behold.
But if I’m being honest, she probably would’ve preferred to be back at the hotel,
playing with her toys—her own stories, her own tiny world in which things never sink. But still, she was happy to be there. Happy to be with me. Happy to be on a trip that carried no real destination, just motion, discovery, and love.
She reminds me of my mother sometimes.
My mother loved car rides—windows down, silence filled with the rhythm of the road.
And Lyra? She loves the bus. Top deck, front seat, eyes wide, hands gripping the railing
like she’s steering the world itself.
A Café for Little Dreams
We ended the day earlier than planned, and found our way to a little playhouse tucked at the far edge of the city. It felt like a spontaneous adventure
So, we boarded the bus. Top deck, front row—her favorite place in the world.
It was a long ride—an hour across Belfast, thirty-nine stops that ticked by like slow magic. But she didn’t mind. The city unfolded beneath her feet, and she watched it like a movie only she could understand.
We were heading to a role-play café—a tiny world where children can become anything:
doctors, bakers, firefighters, shopkeepers. I didn’t book as I wasn’t sure we’d make it in time. So when we arrived, and they told me it was fully booked…my heart sank.
Her face fell. Her eyes filled. And then came the storm – A meltdown.
Full, fierce, and honest—as only a child’s heartbreak can be.
I could feel her pain—sharp and wild and real in that moment. I knelt beside her, held her hand, explained to the kind woman at the counter that we had come so far, that we were just visiting, that this was her dream.
The owner was gentle. He smiled kindly, and told us we could return after they tidied up— they had just finished a session.
I turned to tell her. But she had already begun to glow again—just a flicker at first. Then frustration came back. She thought she could play now.
I was caught somewhere between sadness and a smile, half aching for her,
half amused. How beautifully intense their world is— where joy is immediate, and disappointment is infinite, until it isn’t.
There’s something sacred in that— how little it takes to make them happy, and how large their sorrows feel when that happiness is just out of reach.
Hey, We’re Back!
The rain had only just stopped— the grass was slick, the slides still damp,
but none of it mattered she played anyway at the nearby playground. She understood when I said we’d return after an hour. She asked no more questions.
And when the hour passed, we made our way back and as soon as we stepped inside the café, she didn’t hesitate she marched straight to the counter, eyes bright, voice ringing “Hey, we’re back!!!”
The owner smiled. And just like that, the world opened for her.
For the next hour, she lived in a place where fantasy was real— where she wasn’t a visitor in a strange city, but a chef, a shopkeeper, a mother, a vet. Where every tiny costume was a doorway, and every prop a spell.
I watched her float through those little rooms as if she’d always belonged there—
a child at play, a heart at home. And in that hour, nothing else mattered. Not the rain, not the bus ride, not the earlier tears. Only joy. Only the magic of finally getting what her heart had hoped for all along.
Through the Noise, We Moved
That night was not kind to me.
A new guest arrived—loud, relentless, her voice piercing through the walls as she stayed on the phone into the small hours. I lay awake, tension curled in my chest, worrying it would wake Lyra.
But she, my beautiful sleeper, drifted past it all. When she sleeps, she sleeps.
Unafraid, undisturbed.
The storm outside her dreams never touches her.
She had no idea what I endured while she rested. No idea I stood in the hallway,
whisper-fighting with a stranger who accused me of yelling at my own child— as if protecting her peace was a crime.
By morning, I had made up my mind. We needed to go. Somewhere quieter. Safer. Softer.
So we packed. My hands were full— a backpack slung over my shoulders, a heavy grocery bag, and her small hand in mine. Crossing streets felt like navigating a tightrope. Every step was a prayer: Let her be safe. Let me not slip. Let us make it.
At the bus stop, a woman called out— “She dropped something.” Peppa Pig. That little plush toy we almost left behind. I didn’t want to leave her, not even for a second. So I brought her with me, darting back across the road to retrieve the toy as cars rumbled past and time pressed on. When we returned, I gently reminded her, “Take care of Peppa.”
Without a word, she tucked the toy into the side pocket of my coat— a quiet gesture, a shared understanding. She knew it mattered.
We boarded the bus, climbed to the top deck. She beamed.
But her heart lingered elsewhere. “What about the old hotel?” she asked again. I didn’t know why she missed it. Maybe it was the comfort of the familiar, maybe the warmth of routine. Four days is a long time in the world of a child. Four days can feel like home.
I told her gently,
“This one is more fancy.” She nodded, but I knew it wasn’t about the luxury. It was about the space we made for ourselves in that first room, the laughter we tucked into the corners, the way we belonged— even if just for a moment.
Uphill Wonders
It rained that morning. We stood outside our next hotel, bags in hand, but it wasn’t yet time to check in. Too early. Too wet. Too tired.
Frustration settled over me like the clouds above, not because of the wait, but because she was with me. She looked fine, really— content, even.
But as always, my heart braced itself against her discomfort, even when she didn’t seem to mind. Thankfully, a sister hotel nearby offered to hold our luggage. A small mercy. A little space carved out of a tense moment.
And so, with the day still new and the sky softening, I took her to Belfast Castle.
We had time to fill, and I had promises to keep.
We wandered the gardens, green and wide and soaked in mist. There, we met a group of Filipino tourists from Bournemouth— strangers who felt a little familiar in a city that wasn’t ours.
For the third time, I took her somewhere that was more for me than for her. Castles aren’t built for little feet, but still she ran— around fountains, over stone paths, her joy found not in the history, but in the movement. She posed for my camera, gave me smiles wrapped in patience.
“I’ll take you to the zoo after,” I promised. And that was enough. Her faith in my words remained unshaken. I had thought the zoo was just around the corner— a short walk, as a friend had said.
It wasn’t. But the bus ride was easy, and soon we were there, where wildness was carefully kept behind fences.
It was a lot of walking— as expected. And I worried, as I always do, that it would be too much for her. She didn’t say it was. She just walked beside me. Only once did she sigh,
catching her breath, her cheeks pink with effort.
“Mummy,” she said,
“walking uphill is a lot of work!”
We both laughed. And then she kept walking.
I think she was tired— a little quieter, a little slower. She didn’t say so. She rarely does.
She simply carries on. And if I’m honest, I think I might’ve enjoyed it more than she did. The sights, the air, the quiet thrill of seeing wild things.
But still, she had her moments. Her eyes lit up for the zebra and the giraffe— for the sea lions, too, especially when I told her they came all the way from San Diego, California. That made her smile.
A Bed to Call Our Own
By the time we returned, the sky had already dimmed to deep blue— the kind of blue that means bedtime is near and the world is winding down. We finally stepped into the new hotel, and at last, she saw it.
Her eyes lit up.
She has always loved hotel beds— something about their neatness, the way they seem to welcome her with soft arms and a bounce just right for little feet. She climbed up right away, giggling and jumping, again and again, as I quietly prepared her dinner. The room filled with her laughter, a sound I never tire of, especially after a long day of walking, waiting, and holding it all together.
She still asked about the old hotel—just once or twice. Curious, not upset. As if her heart hadn’t quite finished saying goodbye. But she was happy here, too. This new place— clean, calm, ours for the night. Later, with dinner done and pajamas on, she curled into the blankets, face glowing in the light of the screen as she chatted with her daddy.
She told him everything— about the zoo, the castle, the rain, the Peppa Pig rescue, and how she’d walked so much, even uphill. Then, like always, sleep took her gently— no resistance, no delay. When she’s out, she’s out. And as she slept, the room grew quiet in the most peaceful way.
Stone Giants and Little Promises
Today was long.
I had booked an all-day tour to see the Giant’s Causeway—one of those places you don’t want to leave a country without seeing.
A part of me felt guilty— I knew it wasn’t her kind of day. She wouldn’t care for basalt columns or windy cliffs. She’d want stories, playgrounds, color.
Still, I went. And once again, I made her a promise. Tomorrow, before we fly back to England, I’ll take you to an indoor playground. She smiled. She always does when I offer her joy in advance. And that’s how we carry each other— me with my promises, her with her trust.
To make the day easier for her, I paid extra for the front seat. The view was beautiful— rolling hills, quiet towns, Game of Thrones filming sites, and miles of coastline whispering their ancient stories.
She loved the view for a while. Then sleep found her—as it always does— and she rested quietly beside me as I watched the world for both of us.
“Hey Bus, Come Back!”
We made our first stop at Carrickfergus Castle—
a seaside gem in County Antrim, its old stones looking out over the quiet northern shore. Fifteen minutes to wander, stretch, and of course, use the loo before the long ride ahead.
Somewhere between restroom breaks and camera clicks I lost track of the bus. Not where it parked, but which bus it was.
And then, panic.
I saw a bus pulling away, and convinced myself it was ours. No second thought. Just instinct—wild and stupid.
“Come on, Lyra!” I cried,
and we ran.
There I was, dragging my child across the castle car park, yelling like a madwoman,
“Hey bus, come back! Hey! Come back!!!”
And beside me—her little legs pumping— my daughter joined in. Her tiny voice echoed mine: “Hey bus! Come back!”
To this day, I can still hear her calling,
full of urgency, full of trust. Inside my head, I was scolding myself.
What are you doing, Effe? You’re chasing a moving bus with your child in tow— like that’ ever going to work. You know better. You know buses don’t turn back.
But fate has a sense of humor. The bus did stop. The driver turned. And as we reached it, breathless, he looked at us, puzzled. And that’s when I realized— this wasn’t our bus.
Half of me melted with relief that our actual bus hadn’t left.
The other half? Mega ultra embarrassed.
I couldn’t stop laughing— not even while apologizing to Lyra, who stood beside me, red-faced, eyes half scolding, half amused. I said sorry for dragging her, for not paying attention,
for making a scene. She looked up at me,
her voice soft, her words perfectly clear:
“Don’t do that again, Nanay.”
And I won’t.
Probably.
But between the castle and the chase, we added another story to our book— not the kind with perfect pictures, but the kind we’ll laugh about forever.
“Here we are finally”
We reached the Giant’s Causeway at last. It was every bit as magical as I’d imagined—
strange and wild and wide. But I couldn’t enjoy it fully. Because I was holding her hand the whole time, watching every step, calculating every risk. I couldn’t take a single photo of her alone— there was never a moment I wasn’t thinking about her safety.
You can see it in the pictures: me, beside her, never far away. Later, when her dad asked, “Did you enjoy the Causeway?” I said honestly, “Just a little. I was too busy making sure she was okay.” And that was the truth. The kind of truth only parents know.
Still— there were moments.
At the hedges, where kings and queens once rode in fantasy, a kind stranger offered to take our photo. And just for a heartbeat, I stood still beside her. Not chasing. Not guarding. Just… there. That photo means more than the whole tour.
We met another group of Filipinos, this time from North Carolina. They were charmed by her too. Lyra has that effect— her quiet confidence, her wide-eyed calm.
And then— just as fate would have it— we saw the same Filipino group from the day before,
from the castle grounds. They recognized her immediately. “She’s the little girl from yesterday!” Lyra smiled, that shy, knowing smile that tells me she, too, is weaving her own version of this journey.
The Day That Was Hers
At last— the sixth day. The final page of our Belfast story. And this one, this day, was hers.
A promise kept. An indoor playground just for her. Wee Playhouse— a place that didn’t quite match the glowing reviews, but none of that mattered to her.
She wanted me beside her, close enough to hear her laughter, close enough to join her world. So I did. We played. We made stories. I teased Moana for forgetting her knickers— and Lyra laughed so hard, it sealed itself in her memory. She still brings it up, with that same mischievous grin.
The toys were few, the space modest, but her imagination filled the gaps.
She played with whatever was there, and I—her co-star, her narrator, her silly, storytelling Nanay— made it all come alive.
When our time ended, we still had hours to spare. So we wandered to a nearby outdoor playground, where the air was crisp and the ground still wet from last night’s rain.
There, beneath the Belfast sky, we met another Filipina— a mother with her young son. They had just moved back from London, preparing for the arrival of their second child. We talked, played, watched the kids chase each other across the green. It was a simple, easy kind of meeting— the kind you find only when you’re not looking.
And when the play was done, we ended the day with pizza— her favorite kind of meal.
A soft reward. A warm goodbye to Belfast.
There wasn’t much left to say. Just full bellies, tired feet, and hearts a little heavier,
but happy still. We had done it—six days, just the two of us. And in between all the bus rides,
castles, chaos, and quiet walks— we had found something beautiful.
Effe moves to the UK 