Orlock Point

Doug on the rocks at Orlock

I'm afraid I have very little information about the walk on Thursday, 24th May 2012 to Orlock Point near Donaghadee except to say that everyone appeared to enjoy themselves immensely on what could only be described as a glorious summer's day. 15 travelled by train to Bangor - well done! And special congratulations to those who walked the full distance to Donaghandee - nine miles and not six as stated in the song. Pictures were supplied by Millie, to whom thanks.

Gathered on the beach
Gathered on the beach
Dorothy's gutties
Dorothy's new gutties.
Orlock
Orlock.
Gabby's food bar
Gabby's good food bar
raises a laff.

Northern Ireland definition of gutties: cheap trainers your mother forced upon you when you were young, ONLY used for PE. Would've been a source of embarassment but everybodies mum bought them. Made from canvass and vulcanised rubber.

You - "But Mum I don't want gutties, I want proper trainers."
Mum - "Proper trainers'll cost £15! You'll make do with gutties."

Or for those who prefer the Ulster-Scots:
Gutties is gowf baws or wee saft shuin that's maistly worn by weans at the schuil. The wird comes fae gutta-percha, a kin o rubber tree.


This is your party piece for communal singing on Thursday!

It's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee.

In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon,
Where many the ructions meself had a han'in,
Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade
And all of us thought him a stout orange blade
On the twelfth of July as it yearly did come
Bob played with his flute to the sound of a drum;
You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute
But there's none can compare with the old orange flute.

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee.

Now Bob, the deceiver, he took us all in;
He married a Papist named Bridget McGinn,
Turned Papish himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
Now, the boys of the place made some comment upon it
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connaught;
He fled with his wife and his fixings to boot
And along with the latter his old orange flute

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee

At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds
Said Paters and Aves and counted his beads
Till after some time at the priest's own desire
He went with the old flute to play in the choir.
He went with the old flute for to play for the mass
But the instrument shivered and sighed, oh, alas,
And try though he would, though it made a great noise
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys".

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee.

Bob jumped and he started and got in a flutter
And threw the old flute in the blessed holy water,
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound
When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down".
Now, for all he could whistle and finger and blow
To play Papish music he found it no go;
"Kick The Pope" and "Boil Water" it freely would sound
But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found.

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee.

At the council of priests that was held the next day
They decided to banish the old flute away.
They couldn't knock heresy out of its head
So they bought Bob a new one to play in its stead.
Now, the old flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic
'Twas fastened and burned at the stake as heretic
As the flames soared around it they heard a strange noise
'Twas the old flute still whistling "The Protestant Boys".

Toora loo, toora lay
Oh, it's six miles from Bangor to Donaghadee.