The Omagh bomb draws a line under the long years of the Troubles. That's it, now. That's the end. But it is only the end of the big violence. Even if, as I firmly believe, there is never another bomb on Irish soil, small violences will go on day by day, because history has created in Northern Ireland a society full of grudge and disdain.
It is a society that does not yet like itself enough to relax its sectarianism. And my impression is that it does not feel liked. A small but very bitter aspect of the Omagh atrocity is that it dirtied the name of Northern Ireland worldwide, even though the people of Northern Ireland had nothing at all to do with it, except to grieve for their dead.
Last January, when I was going to live in Belfast for a while, I talked about how I felt about that on the Gay Byrne radio programme. Now, I have a date with the show to go back soon, to talk about how the little experiment went. And the first thing I've learnt is to respect the very wounded sensibilities of Northern people.
I hope to talk differently, not to assume that an underlying seriousness will be understood no matter how flippant the surface. I identify much more now than I did then with Northerners. I can hear now the smug received opinions in other people's voices when they talk about Northern Ireland. I can hear, here in the South, how at ease everyone is with remarks about the North full of a contempt and revulsion. We forget that the people who live there belong there, and have as much need to be proud of their own place as we have to be proud of ours.
An atrocity like Omagh is so huge that it dictates the terms in which Northern Ireland, or indeed the whole of Ireland, is thought of. It wipes out the ordinary, peaceful, daily experience of 99 per cent of the people. That goes unreported. Yet there are many ways of experiencing Northern Ireland which are not only normal but delightful.
Take the lovely coastline, all the way around the north-east from near Derry to near Larne. You could drive for miles and miles through villages and small towns and well-kept farmland and seaside resorts and upland bog and ravines full of woods and you'd see no sign of the Troubles because all this corner was hardly troubled at all.
If you got out where a beautiful sweep of hay meadows goes down to cliffs and little coves, opposite the bulk of Rathlin Island, you'd be in the village of Ballintoy. If you probed a little bit under the tourist surface you'd find that the area is half-Catholic, half-Protestant. It is in Ian Paisley's constituency. But apart from the odd bigoted individual, it is a contented place with a strong sense of community.
Talk to any old farmer there. "We turn the hay for each other and we always did," they'll say, Protestant or Catholic. A Catholic says: "There's a wee Orange band there but you'd never hear it play a bigoted tune. The whole village turns out to see it on the day." Similarly the whole village, in the shape of the community council which is chaired by a Protestant, is involved in a scheme to train the kids in Irish dancing. Everyone takes an interest in the hurling.
People intermarry, go to each others' funerals, drink together. They don't need integrated education because they aren't fighting with each other. It is true that one of the village pubs was blown up some years ago, but that wasn't because of tension in the village, because there is no tension. The place is turning from farming to tourism. It has a little harbour and a little beach, an excellent hostel, two cafes in cottages with fine home-baking, pubs, and B&Bs.
The fate of places like Ballintoy has been in the hands of people with bombs and guns. Its people have had to cope with the kind of ignorance that leads my own people, here in the South, to continually say to me, about living in the North: "You're very brave to go up there. I wouldn't do it." It is a very hard thing to belong to a decent and friendly, if two-sided, Northern community and know that you are judged by the worst that happens in your country, not the best. Particularly when the passions that have animated violent republicanism and loyalism are unfelt.
The motivation for an atrocity like Omagh is actually much clearer in Dublin than in Ballintoy. "It is people from the cities who do all that," they say about the Troubles in Ballintoy.
But when you drive away from Ballintoy you re-enter a more normal, edgy atmosphere. It would be untruthful to just concentrate on the Ballintoys. There are also places you can't go to if you have such-and-such a name. All along the east coast of Co Down, for example, there are caravan parks covered with loyalist graffiti.
These are holiday places. They're for enjoying yourself in. But a Catholic couldn't venture in to those places. That's true, and it is a measure of the North's abnormality.
What is more, it is almost impossible to imagine the day when Catholics will be at ease there. And this is in spite of the fact that the last six months have been a time of the most inventive peacemaking. The caravan park is as much part of Northern reality as Ballintoy. Still, the sectarian basis of the Northern state is everywhere evident.
What can we do to help? Well, we can approach the subject of Northern Ireland with more care and more humility. We can make a better effort to understand the place. I was privileged enough to be given the opportunity of learning on the ground. It has changed the cliches in my mind. But I know I only barely scraped the surface of the assignment. It was too big. Even if I were young, starting out as a journalist, I don't know that I would be subtle enough and patient enough to commit myself to Northern Ireland. Yet the fact is that Northern Ireland has been the most important thing about Ireland in my lifetime.
Living there for a while was a right thing to do. When I heard about the Omagh bomb I thought "Oh, poor Northern Ireland!" among the first things I thought. I didn't have that perspective before.
I take what I've learnt about Northern Ireland, good and bad, with me with thanks, now as I go on extended leave. I'm going to see if I can write something that is not an opinion column, something with people in it, and a plot.
All around me there is change. I'm going to try to change myself. It may not work; but the thing about trying is that at least you move on. You start again in a different place.