So far, so Ulster. Yet if this warm summer day is like many others in Carrickfergus’s history, commemorating William’s “Royal Landing” at the harbor in the summer of 1690, look a little closer. There, amid the pomp of marching season, is a sight that many visitors might not be expecting: countless young people dressed in orange. There they are, the boys in collerettes and sneakers, the girls, grouped together, swapping the traditional bowler hats for skirts and tights. All walk in lockstep, breaking composure briefly to wave to school friends watching from the outdoor seats at McDonalds. Their lightweight sashes, more sparsely strewn with pins than those of older members, flutter in the breeze.

These youthful cohorts stand in stark contrast to their fellow bandsmen, and what many regard the Orange Order to be: a social club for old men to relive the sectarianism of yesteryear. Yet as the province gears up for “The Twelfth” — the anniversary of William’s final victory over his Catholic enemies on 12 July 1690 — it remains unclear if a more sprightly Order can truly salvage Ulster Unionism.

The Orange Order started life around a century after William’s landing at Carrickfergus. In the 1790s, sectarian violence stalked both Ulster and Ireland as a whole. Drunken brawls were commonplace, fights that often descended into armed conflict, especially as the tensions unleashed by the French Revolution crossed the Irish Sea. In September 1795, following one particularly vicious battle, the victors founded a Protestant defense association: the Orange Order.

Two centuries on, the Order has an international membership body of over 1,400 lodges. Members commit themselves to upholding Unionism, loyalism, broadly conservative beliefs — and, of course, the Protestant faith. Yet despite these long-held values, as well as provocative marches through “contested” neighborhoods with large Catholic populations, membership is surging: particularly among young Protestants. One young member, Tristan Morrow, says that his generation has brought a huge spike to membership of his local lodge. Living in a County Fermanagh village, local numbers have swelled from just 10 in 2002 to over 50 two decades later. Internal figures from the Junior Orange Order show a similar rise: since Covid, they have opened 26 new lodges, with membership increasing by over 70% in the four years from 2021.

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This comes as somewhat of a surprise to outsiders — myself included. The dominant account of Ulster Unionism, repeated ad nauseum in local media and Irish Nationalist politicians, is one of inexorable decline. With the 2021 census in Northern Ireland revealing, for the first time, more Catholics than Protestants, and with Sinn Féin becoming the region’s largest party at the last general election, some suggest that Unionism in Ulster is “dying out”.

In the broader culture, too, the Order has a reputation of being a drinking club for bitter old men, like a working-class equivalent of the Cavalry and Guards Club, albeit for paramilitaries rather than hussars. For people unfamiliar with the organization’s parades, certainly, it’s difficult to distinguish between the Order and the more rowdy, paramilitary-adjacent pipe bands; they all get tarred with the unfortunate brush of drunkenly emptying bladders on the wall of whoever’s house is nearby, or else snorting drugs in full view of bystanders.

Watch the Order in action, though, and things look rather less sordid. Two weeks before this year’s reenactment of the Royal Landing, over 2,000 young members of the Orange Order paraded through Donaghadee, another pretty coastal town not far from Carrickfergus. These young people, many of whom don’t look old enough to have left primary school, marched in jackets and ties. One lodge’s shrunken lambeg drum, processed near the front of the parade, seemed far more manageable than the adult alternatives.

For Joseph Magill, grand master of the Junior Grand Orange Lodge of Ireland, this enthusiasm is partly social in nature. “I think the growth we have seen in recent years is largely down to the range of experiences available to boys through the Junior Orange movement,” he says. “Our members take part in competitions, educational initiatives, charitable activities and social events, bringing together boys from across our jurisdiction.”

In a world where so much interaction now happens digitally, these activities are strikingly offline — and old-fashioned. Magill highlights the popularity of lecturing, where young people are taught to recite questions and answers from memory. Given working-class Protestant boys are by far the most disadvantaged demographic in Northern Ireland, these activities have the potential to be useful far beyond the lodge.

Talking of which, religion inevitably plays a role in youthful Orangeism too, though perhaps not in the way you might imagine. There’s a tendency among outsiders to view the Orange Order as reflecting a distinct kind of cultural Protestantism. Just as the general perception of being Catholic in Northern Ireland has morphed from having 10 children and eating fish on Fridays to advocating for abortion and the boycotting of Israeli quinoa, so too does Northern Irish Protestantism have its own stereotypes — mostly involving cheap booze and Rangers.

Yet if Christianity doubtless matters here, Magill sees it less as a politicized label and more as a genuine matter of faith. “Through my involvement I developed a deeper understanding of my faith and a personal relationship with God,” he says, “which has been a positive and important influence throughout my life.” Jay Basra, a young Unionist activist who joined the Orange Order when he turned 18, makes a similar point, noting that his fellow Orangemen help him live a Christian life.

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This, in itself, is striking. In England, the so-called “quiet revival” is usually seen as a Catholic phenomenon. But in Northern Ireland — by far the most religious region of the United Kingdom — young people are still active adherents to their Protestant denominations. Here, some 46% of people who identify as Protestant attend church at least once per month, with residents aged 18-24 much more likely to hold a positive view of Christianity than their elders. In other ways, too, Protestant belief is much more embedded in ordinary life than elsewhere in the UK. Hundreds of young people attend various Christian youth festivals each year, and it’d be naive to imagine that the Orange Order doesn’t play a role here.

Given all this, it might be tempting to see a correlation between young Orangeism and Unionist politics more generally. But, again, any link isn’t straightforward. “A lot of Northern Ireland’s young people are switched off from constitutional politics, particularly people of a similar age to me,” Jay explains. “Regardless if a young person is in the Orange Order or not, the onus is on political Unionism to engage with them. It is high time Unionism began to fully appreciate that it cannot take young people’s votes for granted.” That’s reflected more broadly: faith in Northern Ireland’s political institutions has hit rock bottom, especially for young people, with knowledge of how the government functions here lower than in any of the other devolved nations.

How to explain this gap? Just look at the news. Jeffrey Donaldson, a household name in Ulster Protestant politics for years, is now a convicted pedophile. Gavin Robinson, the current leader of Donaldson’s erstwhile Democratic Unionists, has admitted it’s “clear” that other figures in the party knew about the abuse but kept it secret. This recent scandal follows a never-ending succession of controversies that defines the incompetent Stormont Assembly, which has only functioned, in the loosest possible sense of the word, for around 60% of the time since the Good Friday Agreement was signed 28 years ago.

For young people keen to express their Unionist beliefs, but who find conventional politics too depressing a vehicle, the Orange Order offers an alternative. In the end, though, it’s hard not to return to the demographic question. As Sam* concedes, part of the reason that Order membership is growing is precisely because some Nationalists think they can secure a united Ireland simply by waiting for Unionism to disappear.

To be fair, the numbers aren’t clear cut. The 2021 Northern Ireland census showed a larger number of Catholics than Protestants for the first time, with 45.7% of the population coming from a culturally Catholic background. Yet this represents an increase of only 0.6% in a decade, casting doubt on whether a majority of the population will ever fit this definition — something proponents of Irish unity often tout as a trigger for a border poll.

Still, some young Unionists would rather not be complacent. That, of course, raises another question: is the Orange Order a political institution after all, albeit one you can’t cast your ballot for? Magill still doesn’t think so. “Boys do not join the Junior Orange movement because of political debates, and we do not exist to promote party politics.”

That’s the formal line. But for other young Orangemen, being part of a lodge is clearly about more than faith or lectures or even sticking it to the DUP. As Sam puts it: “Zoomers will not be the generation to fail Ulster.” And, whatever the numbers say, it’s institutions like the Orange Order that could offer Unionism some hope. Irish Nationalists don’t really have any equivalent organizations, even if their representatives are often as shambolic as their Unionist rivals.

All the while, it’s clear that young people, of both communities, want stability, order, and a basic sense of normalcy in their politics, after decades of violence then decades more of sclerosis. It’s partly for this that people are flocking back towards the moderate embrace of the Ulster Unionist Party, the oldest political party on the island of Ireland, and whose new leader Jon Burrows has shot to the top of opinion polls. And it’s for similar reasons, perhaps, that young Protestants are joining the Orange Order.

Back in Carrickfergus, the parade ends in the late afternoon. Old men, exhausted, remove their dark jackets and wipe sweat from their brows. Their coaches, parked along the main stretch of road leaving town, provide the first seats they’ve sat on since the early morning; several fall asleep before the journey home even starts. Across the road, though, a group of young Orangemen have met up with their friends. They laugh and run back towards the site of William’s landing. For them, the day is still young.

*Name has been changed.

Most weekends, these merry few come together to experience hunting. Some are active participants, others remain on the sidelines. As one gentleman tells me, half-joking, half-nostalgic, it’s not an old man’s game to get out in the fields. Yet they’ve all been coming out for years to hear the hounds, and see parts of the country they otherwise wouldn’t know.

At midday, the hounds take off, flanked by men in green hunt coats. At first, I watch from the roadside, but soon we’re all clambering through brambles and over rusty barbed wire in search of the elusive hare. We traipse for hours across muddy sheughs, with the last remaining beagle pack in Northern Ireland. And soon, it could all be gone.

If the rumors are true, a total Northern Irish ban on all forms of hunting with dogs could be proposed this side of Christmas. John Blair, the Alliance Party politician who instigated a public consultation earlier this year, last tried and failed to spearhead a successful prohibition in 2021. For the moment, Northern Ireland remains the only part of the UK in which hunting mammals with dogs remains legal. Hare coursing was made illegal in 2011, but the region generally enjoys fewer restrictions than on the mainland.

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Though any proposed ban in Northern Ireland would come as a Private Member’s Bill, it’s intriguing that the anti-hunting lobby is backed by a representative of a party set on “bridging the bitter divisions in our community”. After all, there are few cultural activities in Northern Ireland which enjoy such cross-community, cross-border support as hunting. Indeed, that’s one of the key reasons it’s survived.

The soft border between Northern Ireland and the Republic encourages a fluid culture, with people traveling across the divide for everything from work to grocery shopping. Nowhere is this clearer than in the rural way of life, with Northern Ireland alone hosting 11% of the United Kingdom’s entire agricultural workforce. People travel all across the island to purchase new farming machinery, for instance, or else attend agricultural shows and livestock auctions. They get to know each other, and form relationships without being held back by politics.

The same is true of hunting, with enthusiasts frequently visiting packs in other parts of the island, spending a day or a weekend on an outdoor staycation. And why not? Legislation north and south of the border enjoys many similarities, with both still permitting hunting with dogs. It perhaps helps, too, that liberalization of the sort to transform the Anglosphere over recent years is proceeding much more slowly in Northern Ireland.

Then there’s the question of class. In England, likely to soon be hit by its own proposal for a ban on trail hunting (the hunting of scents laid by humans, rather than the genuine article laid by animals), the practice has long been stalked by accusations of snobbery. “The hunting ban in England and Wales was passed because, in the words of Labour MPs, it was ‘class war’,” says Tim Bonner, chief executive of the Countryside Alliance.

Yet in Ireland, both north and south, the same divisions don’t really apply. Northern Ireland, especially, doesn’t have the kind of regional upper crust you might find in Lincolnshire or Devon. That’s largely because aristocrats have historically been reluctant to settle here, with smallholdings still the general rule. As for the south, the old Anglo-Irish elite has long since departed, with the IRA systematically burning around 275 “big houses” between 1919 and 1923.

This relative egalitarianism means hunting here is a far cry from cliches common across the Irish Sea. “The vast majority of hunting in NI is done on foot and generally [is] the center of local rural communities,” says Owen Mulcahy, secretary of the Irish Working Terrier Federation, confirming what I experienced during my afternoon in Armagh.

Not that hunting’s opponents care much about that, with many dismissing it as vicious. Typical here are the comments of Emma Reynolds, the current environment secretary in Westminster, who has said that hunting with dogs is “not humane and cannot be justified”. The truth, though, is that hounds spend most of their time out hunting puzzling out the scent. The dogs only chase the mammal — whether fox, rabbit or hare — once they see it. And, even then, a chase will rarely last more than a couple of minutes. These animals are fast, intelligent, and wily; they can, and regularly do, escape the dogs.

Besides, the time from catch to kill is seconds, and the escape of wounded prey is unheard of. As Roger Scruton observed in 1998, other less controversial methods of pest control, like shooting and trapping, “offer a fate far worse than the instant death that is administered by a pack of hounds”.

At any rate, it seems that class politics is now coming to Ireland, both north and south. Consider the fate of hare coursing; though banned in Northern Ireland, it’s still legal in the Republic. Tellingly, meanwhile, Sinn Féin, long the party of Left-leaning Irish nationalists, voted against banning “traditional rural occupations such as hunting and hare coursing” at its all-Ireland party conference in 2023.

In this regard, then, Sinn Féin arguably represents the island’s rural voice, which politicians like Blair seem hellbent on ignoring. Just like his latest efforts, the Alliance member promoted a public consultation ahead of the 2021 hunting ban bill. According to the resulting survey, commissioned by the League Against Cruel Sports, there was “strong support from the farming community to ban hunting with dogs”. Yet the Ulster Farmers’ Union (UFU), the largest democratic voluntary organization representing farmers and growers in Northern Ireland, wrote an open letter to the Northern Ireland Assembly lamenting that neither Blair nor his team had engaged with them.

Last month, meanwhile, the UFU unanimously passed a vote of no confidence in the Alliance-led Department for Agriculture, Environment and Rural Affairs in Belfast, citing “total frustration” with their conduct. Not to be outdone, a coalition of organizations and experts on hunting with dogs, named Northern Ireland Says Enough (NoISE), lately made requests about what risks a potential ban would pose to their lifestyles. Among other issues, they raised questions regarding alternative forms of wildlife management, loss of income, and mental-health detriments associated with a ban on hunting with dogs. According to the coalition, Blair’s responses lacked detail.

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I asked Blair about what impact he believes a ban on all forms of hunting would have on community cohesion in Northern Ireland. He reiterates that a ban “has received widespread backing” from across the community. “The aim of the legislation is not to undermine cross-community engagement,” he continues, “but rather to encourage activities that unite us without causing harm to animals.” According to Blair, there are plenty of other cross-community opportunities, “from sporting events to the arts” which don’t “involve the killing of animals”.

It perhaps bears mentioning that Blair is a keen fisherman, who argues for further support and development of angling in Northern Ireland. Why the killing of fish is to be championed, and the killing of mammals condemned, remains rather opaque. Is it based on a view that sea life is less able to experience suffering than mammals, or maybe that anglers have worked harder to reduce the suffering of their catches?

Or, perhaps, Blair is simply beholden to the culture war, and abhors hunting without the need to rely on evidence? Whatever the truth, and with a new ban looming, Northern Ireland’s hunters are worried about what comes next — not just to their hobby but to their wallets too. Mulcahy tells me the alternative usually proposed to hunting is trapping. But, echoing Scruton, each trap costs roughly £350 each, and that’s before you factor in the suffering faced by animals who then need to be gassed or shot. “It’s all emotional misconception,” Mulcahy adds. “Ireland’s wildlife [is] caught up in a game between the ignorant delusional armchair naturalists and practicing hard-working farmers and hunting practitioners with experience of humane and balanced control measures.”