To see the hotel rise and bare its face between the repulsed pillars of peace was a sight long savoured on my first return to Derry.
And never before had oxidised copper appeared so appealing - now the patina beamed like a
tarnished hat upon a goliath, urging me closer to the heart of the city.
Imposing, imperfect but effortlessly pretty.

Seeing Derry for the first time in weeks, it felt different.
Not like a new place, but rather a very old one with all prosperity frozen.
A place you visit because of how old it is - what has happened there, not what is happening.
There will always be a certain amount of charm to the city; whether it's derived from the aged
walls that watch your every move like wise, sentient snakes swallowing the old centre. Or
perhaps the people will charm you, as a wounded animal may.
As regardless of circumstance they always find a way.

An unfortunate breed, many of the Derry ones. A breath-taking city undoubtedly, but I
couldn't help feeling bad for those that couldn't get out. It's like quicksand - unique,
intriguing, beautiful in a sense, but if you linger too long it'll pull you in.
The second largest city in the North, yet we lay detached and divorced from the commerce of
Belfast - no motorway to link us with the Queen's city, for reasons known all too well.
More like purgatory though I've painted it like hell.

I always felt people here knew strongly what they stood against - but never for.
Knew what had happened to the city - but not what will.
An untapped pipeline of problems lays trembling beneath us all.
Issues that we can't or won't address.
I've known people two, three, four years my junior that felt the Foyle offered their only
escape. It's been that way for centuries - the Foyle let us out - in famine or fight the New
World awaiting through its mouth. A fast flowing river capable of washing it all away.
But now it was being used for a very different kind of release.
Not to find new shores, but perpetual peace.

In spite of this, it is my home and always will be.
And I love it for it has formed me.
Though I may sound wary or condemning, it is only because I hold it so dear.
The original beacon of the North, until usurped by Belfast after two hundred years.
A city of culture, known long before they told us.
But I must be careful not to rest here for much, one can become hardened
By pondering too long the citys song, a morbid tale and ardent.

The Hall's bell moans and wails, like a Siren baiting me with its soft appearance.
The light refracting through the stain glass throws obscene blends of colour over the city,
glimmering, undualting, and I am mesmerised.
A facade and cadence used to deceive, urging me closer to the heart of the city.
Imposing, imperfect yet even more pretty.