We are RBCA

The origins of RBCA are in the creation of practice that centres around adding value to business owners. When we set up in 2010 we provided 100% advice-based services for a number of years. Due to the demand from customers in 2013, we started to develop our compliance services around the preparation of accounts and tax returns. Our audit services followed shortly thereafter. Our journey has allowed us to build a full-service practice using the latest best-in-class systems and processes from extensive market research and the comprehensive knowledge of our leadership team.

Why Choose RBCA

We are excited to be working with high-performing businesses and help the government sustainably build economic wealth. We see RBCA growing substantially in the coming years as a challenger to the big guys and we would be delighted if you wanted to join us on the journey.


Our desire to continue to innovate and develop is at the forefront of what we do. We are researching products and solutions daily to enable us and you to develop. We are proud to be based in the centre of Belfast serving UK and Irish markets. We have lived through Belfast’s redevelopment as an emerging financial centre. At RBCA we are really proud to be building on building on Belfast’s industrial past. Based in an old flax building in Belfast historic linen quarter we are reinventing accounting in the way previous generations did with the pen. 

Seamus Heaney


“Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.”