From a man who set fire to the White House to an upside down lighthouse: Explore the hidden gems around Northern Ireland
Along the road between Rostrevor and Warrenpoint stands a particularly impressive monument, an obelisk that reaches 30m into the sky, which was erected in memory of a local man, Major General Robert Ross. He was first noted as a commander of a British force that, with their allies, the Russians, helped to defeat the Dutch Batavians in 1799. He also fought against Napoleon at Alexandria in 1804, at Heida in 1806, at Corunna in 1809 and in the Pyrenees in 1813. He then went west to America to take part in the 1812–1815 war between the British and the United States. There, in 1814, he was involved in the defeat of the US army at the Battle of Bladensburg, which has been de- scribed as 'the greatest disgrace ever dealt to American arms'. The panicked disorganised retreat of American forces, including President Madison and the rest of the federal government, became known as the Bladensburg Races. The American defeat resulted in the taking of the city of Washington and the setting fire to the White House by Ross's men. The Library of Congress was also destroyed by the British. Later, during the Battle of Baltimore, Ross was killed. His body was preserved in a barrel of 129 gallons of Jamaican rum and shipped to Nova Scotia, where he was buried. This obelisk was erected in 1826 in his honour, on the site where he and his wife had planned to build their home.
It was cold and overcast on December 31, 1909 when a small group of people in a meadow in Hillsborough Park watched 25-year-old Harry Ferguson sit into an elaborate contraption of wires and spruce frames covered with linen, mounting a 35-horsepower engine. Outside the town of Hillsborough, opposite his former home, today you will find there the Harry Ferguson Memorial Garden. It features a bronze statue of the man standing at a farm gate with a spanner in his hand: a very low-key memorial for a true Irish genius.
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Before I was born, they were forced to flee in 1948 and we became refugees. Despite this, I had a happy childhood with my parents and older sister. Throughout it all, hummus was a staple. In fact, we'd have it as a family every Friday as part of a breakfast ritual. Mum would make it from scratch and we'd sit around the table sharing it. When I turned 18 and started driving, I'd bring home plates of it from different places we called 'hummuseries'. With loud music and windows down, it felt comforting to have a warm hummus plate on the passenger seat. My mother would critique them all, comparing it to hers. And I was inclined to agree – hers was the best of all. It wasn't until I moved to the UK in 2013 to pursue a Master's Degree in Renewable Energy that I began to see hummus through a different lens. In supermarkets, I was stunned: all different types of hummus 'fusions' – many without chickpeas at all. The thing is, the word hummus literally means chickpea in Arabic. 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The reason I felt so shocked in that supermarket aisle was because I was lamenting what had become of my culture. My hummus. To me, hummus isn't just a recipe; it's an identity rooted in the Levant, long before modern political borders were drawn. Once I realised how far hummus had been taken from its roots, I turned to a Lebanese-Palestinian friend of mine and asked for his mother's recipe because I heard from him how legendary it was (I had never needed to make hummus before this because I could have easily got it from local sources in Jordan). My friend obliged. So I made it and eventually perfected it. Now I try to share my authentic hummus with anyone and everyone I meet – and they love it. In Brighton, where I live, café baristas, flower shop owners, food critics, and even fellow amateur theatre actors have all tried it. They all listen to me when I tell them about the history of hummus, what it means to me, and what it means to my family. I have even made huge pots of it and brought it to pro-Palestine marches with me. Whenever I offer my hummus to people, they often ask me: 'What's your secret?' 'Palestinian love,' I reply with a smile. Soon enough, people started calling me the 'Hummus Guy'. So I've embraced it – and my mission to spread authentic hummus across the world. Hummus shows up at every Levantine breakfast table. It tells stories across generations. When it's commercialised without context or origin, something sacred is lost. It feels that hummus is colonised, butchered, brutalised – even the pronunciation of the word itself feels foreign. These 'hummus fusions' aren't inherently evil — they're just mislabelled and misguiding. If it's a beetroot dip, call it a beetroot dip. When heritage is repackaged and resold – especially while communities tied to it are struggling – it becomes an insult. It's not just hummus; it's history, belonging, and pride. More Trending If I can protect this one small piece of culture, I will. At the end of the day, I would like supermarkets to be true to actual ingredients and local recipes of hummus. Stop the cultural appropriation. I can make sure people know where it comes from. And that matters. It matters to me. View More » So yes, I'm on a mission. I'm here to free the hummus. Do you have a story you'd like to share? Get in touch by emailing Share your views in the comments below. MORE: Self-care and wellness are worth trillions – but they are becoming toxic MORE: People say it's stealing, but I'll never stop using my holiday breakfast hack MORE: My wife told me to pull my car over – then gave birth Your free newsletter guide to the best London has on offer, from drinks deals to restaurant reviews.
