Monthly Archives: June 2023

We’ve been watching the weather and timing our progress because we want to visit what most travel sites consider the #1 destination in County Donegal: Slieve League (Sliabh Liag), a nearly 2000’ (600m) mountain that forms some of the highest sea cliffs in Europe, much higher than the more visited Cliffs of Moher.

There are two approaches to the cliffs, a rough and rocky hike that sometimes traverses knife-edge ridges, and a less challenging but still steep walk after a nail biter drive up the other side of the mountain. Either one ends in a dramatic view of the sea cliffs, so there’s little point in going if the weather promises wind and rain. For you armchair thrillseekers, search for “Slieve League Pilgrim’s Path” on Google Maps and choose Street View and you can virtually hike the trail. Hats off to the energetic person who wore the 360° street view camera rig so less adventurous folks can share the experience.

The day after next looked like the best we can hope for, some sunshine but still a little too windy to feel comfortable doing the longer cliffside hike. We settled on an early assault to the mid-mountain car park, then the hike up the rest of the way before the weather turns foul again. I found us an abandoned harbour parkup nearby where we can spend the night and be within a few miles of the mountain.

We turned off the usual 1-1/2 lane road onto a narrower single lane leading down towards the water. As we approached our turnoff we could see that the entrance to the harbor was completely blocked by an enormous piece of road equipment. Closer still we saw the entire intersection blocked by a paver, a compactor, and a couple of dump trucks. My heart sank. I wanted so much to spend the night on the old wharf and I had no plan B.

The machines were idle but as we approached — there was nowhere to turn around — a couple of road workers appeared and I jumped out of the van to meet them. They told me they were resurfacing that bit of road and would be done in a few hours. I told them we wanted to get down to the concrete wharf to spend the night. In unison they all turned to look down at the abandoned harbour.

“You want to spend the night there?” one of them asked, incredulous.

“Sure,” I said. “Why? Isn’t it safe?” I was wondering if they knew something about the tidal range or upcoming weather.

“I don’t know,” our informant said skeptically. “There was a murder here last night.”

I chuckled nervously, thinking they were pulling my leg, or more likely, that I had misunderstood the strong accent.

“No really!” he said, and they all pitched in. Apparently someone died at Slieve League, but to be honest, I couldn’t be sure if it was a murder or if someone had jumped or fallen off the cliffs. Eventually they all agreed that we would be perfectly safe down on the wharf overnight and they guided Jack into a small space next to their gravel pile while they maneuvered the giant paving machine away from the entrance to the old harbour so we could squeeze by. They warned us we’d be boxed in until they finished their work but that was ok with us. We got settled and by dinner time we were alone in this quiet corner of Donegal with a view of our goal tomorrow.

I spent a few minutes online trying to find the story the road crew shared and found a brief mention on a news radio website, and a press release from the police asking the public to report if they’d seen anything suspicious. Apparently the authorities didn’t know if they were dealing with a murder or just a missing person. There was no body.

It was windy and rainy overnight but we were mostly sheltered by the steep hill beside us, and our only concern was whether the rising tide would sweep over the rocks in front of us. It didn’t and the next morning brought a little sunshine and blue skies, as we’d hoped.

We always seek out these old harbours and would love to have stayed longer but we want to take advantage of the good weather and knock Slieve League off the list. We topped up our water tank with a tap on the dock and headed toward the mountain.

Just as we turned onto the mountain road we were stopped by this sign. There was no roadblock, no police standing guard. Just the sign. We pulled over to reassess and I popped online for answers. As I looked for local news sources we watched a half dozen or so vehicles skirt the sign and continue up the road only to return a few minutes later, presumably turned back by the Garda.

Online news sources were limited to a few sentences, most just copying the initial press release from the Garda. I figured the police didn’t want to alarm the public so I resorted to social media where I found all kinds of info about suspects arrested then released, a house in a nearby town searched, a blood spattered car, an anonymous phone tip, and the ongoing hunt for a body.

While this kind of news barely breaks the surface in America, it’s completely unheard of here and most of the lurid details I found on social media weren’t reported in the news. This is an area largely dependent on tourism and nobody wants to frighten away the visitors.

Until they either find the missing person or a body, the mountain will remain closed. We figure it’ll be a day, maybe two, so we rejiggered our tentative route, and plan to circle back when the dust has settled. We are nothing if not flexible. And we hope for a good outcome to the search.

We knew that finding a place to park at the touristy Narin beach might be chancy but sometimes you just have to try. When I spotted a car leaving the next to last spot in a long row of parked cars I went for it, somehow squeezing Escape Velocity straight in. What would it be if you didn’t even try? You can’t plan for luck like that, you just stick out your racket and something good might happen. It was far from level and extricating EV out of here will not be fun but I decided to worry about that later. In the meantime the broad expanse of beach in front of us was truly beautiful.

It’s on a scale of beaches in Australia except this strand is filled with shivering Irish families covered up under their expensive Dry Robes, instead of lobster-red nearly naked Aussies baking in the sun. Suffice it to say it’s on the blustery, nippy side here in the Emerald Isle but they’re determined to have fun amidst the general beach brouhaha, and they really do.

The racket coming from the little cafe, across the narrow lane right behind us was shouting “party” but on further inspection was quietly found to have linen tablecloth prices, a strange juxtaposition for a beach vendor. You can drop a lot of coin for a burger and chips here at Narin beach.

It turns out we are going to have to wait until 3:30pm for low tide. What happens at low tide you ask? That’s when the water recedes down to the level where you can wade across Greebarra Bay to Inishkeel Island which features ancient monastery ruins, giving you something to wade to, so to speak.

Most conversation that day went something like, “Is it low enough?” “Not yet, Marce.” I’d seen a couple of people get bowled over in the swirling frigid current so I saw no reason to push it. The water level seemed to drop at a glacial pace all day until suddenly it looked like the beginning of the wading window was at hand. The receding tide exposed so much more sandy beach that now it was quite a hike just to get to the water.

As we entered the bay, we could immediately feel the cold current tugging at our legs.

Small waves that wrap around Inishkeel Island from the left and the right meet in the middle of the sandy bar creating a standing wave.

Gaining ground we negotiated some rocks hidden by seaweed and pressed on to a sandy cove where a handsome sloop was anchored.

At the end of the beach, high on a bluff overlooking the cove, we could see the ancient ruins of St. Connell church and St. Mary’s church, built in the 13th century.

There really wasn’t a path so you just have to force your way up through the overgrown weeds.

For a change we knew who they were and what they were doing there.

It certainly is picturesque.

The breeze is really freshening and the tide is swiftly swirling in, so we have a change of plans and quickly make our way down to the crossing bar.

We may have left it a little too long because the current is stronger and up to our knees this time.

The tide may be rising but it’s still a long walk up the beach to Escape Velocity.

Spent but happy describes this sunset.

Marce was in need of some quiet time away from the beach hub-bub which we found in spades the next day at the Ballyiriston parkup.

There were some nice walking trails through the hills. EV is up there somewhere.

Peace to you all.

The Donegal coastline is ragged and rugged and there’s a calendar-worthy lighthouse on nearly every headland. The one at Fanad Head looked like a winner with a car park that can accommodate larger vehicles, but we discovered when we got there that to get any closer to the lighthouse — in fact to get on the grounds at all, even for a photo — would cost what we consider a hefty entrance fee. “It’s worth it!” the clerk in the gift shop told us. We passed.

There’s a photo op around every bend along the coastal road they call the Wild Atlantic Way, and while neither of us is a beach person we do like to be near the sea. In this corner of Donegal we notice the color palette has changed to more muted blues and greens, reminding us of tropical places, except for the brisk air temperature.

Old harbors are some of our favorite places to stay overnight, the closer to water the better. After finding that our chosen spot is now posted “Strictly No Overnight” we made our way to another quiet outpost on Carnboy, an old pier that doesn’t look much used by boats but seems popular with the caravan and motorhome set.

Jack wrangled Escape Velocity up off the road to a grassy knoll just wide enough to accommodate us and where we had an elevated view of the boat strand and the sea beyond.

Again we were struck by the pale watercolor hues. The rocks are also different from what we’ve seen, more rounded, worn down, older looking. Between the rocks and the muted colors I’m reminded of the town of Bedrock in the 1960s animated TV series The Flintstones, and even now I refer to this spot as “that Barney Rubble place.”

We had fun clambering over the rocks, taking photos, imagining what kind of boats might have come here and from where. We were intrigued by the sign advising to prevent exotic diseases from entering Ireland by disposing of kitchen waste properly. This is normally a bio security function at an official port of entry, but there are no officials nearby and I couldn’t hazard a guess as to the nearest foreign port.

We thought maybe we could walk to the little island at low tide the next day but by morning the wind had kicked up and we decided to move on to a more sheltered spot. I know I say this about many of our parkups but this one really is one of my favorites so far. It was like living in a beautiful watercolor painting.

Escape Velocity had been laboring up this twisty, switchbacked, one-lane mountain road for some time now, but just when I began to think we’ve reached the summit it only revealed an even steeper rise.

Rounding a tight switchback — I really don’t know how high up the mountain we were — a viewpoint sign flashed in front of me and I reflexively turned in. Clinging to the mountainside was a tiny parkup with about as magnificent a view as I’ve ever seen. It truly took my breath away. I switched off EV and we just sat there, mesmerized.

We leveled the van with ramps, turned off the engine, turned on the LPG and called it home.

We had miles to go to get to our intended destination but we thought maybe we could linger awhile. As the light played across the hills in an ever changing palette I said, “I’m just not ready to leave this place.”

I took a stroll and stumbled onto an old story that took place right where I was standing. It seems the folks in Urris, which is the little village towards the sea, had a still in just about every back yard where they distilled an incredibly potent, potato-based spirit called Poitin.

Everyone was happy with this state of affairs until it was outlawed in 1760. The distillers simply took to the hills where a lookout could spot police or revenuer from miles away on the only road up.

You can just imagine tiny fires dancing all night, far off up on the mountain, thumbing their noses at the authorities. In protest of the fines levied for having stills, the community blocked the pass with huge rocks. This held for three years until the British swooped in and that was that. Today poitin is still made in Urris and many people swear it’s the strongest spirit made. Note to self: further research required.

We stayed two nights at the overlook but to get to the Grianán of Aileach, a mountain-top fort built in the 9th century, first you’ve got to summit this crazy Gap of Mamore and we could see the steepest section is right in front of us.

We still had to climb all the way up Greenan Mountain.

The nearly perfectly round stone fort is built on the bones of a prehistoric fort and has a commanding and beautiful view of Lough Foyle and Inch Island to the north.

Awesome fun fact that Yours Truly dug up just for you Escapees: This fort, or at least its ancient location is one of only five in Ireland mentioned by Ptolemy on his map of the known world.

With the return of the Irish rain we headed down the mountain toward a beach and managed to stumble into another strange story. We had a very beachy parkup with lots of extra family fun, but the thing that intrigued us was an interesting bronze sculpture of multiple figures with upraised jazz hands. Well, let it never be said that we Escapees ignored something like that, dare I say art?

Walking up to the large sculpture we found that it was in fact two sculptures in some strange relationship to each other.

It’s titled “Flight of the Earls” but it didn’t mean much to us at the time. Well it turns out its significance can not be overstated, so bearing in mind that I am not an accredited historian and half the time I’m just making this stuff up, I’m going to give it a go.

It seems that after defeat at the battle of Kinsale in 1601, Hugh Roe O’Donnell and 90 or so of his closest buddy Earls and their families, finding themselves quite diminished in power and authority, decamped and traveled to Spain with the expectation that King Phillip lll might help them reinvade Ireland. Of course they had no idea that in 1598 Spain had gone bankrupt, you know, belly up, come-a-cropper, insolvent, chapter 11, pooched the dog, so it was never in the cards. Suffice to say it didn’t go well. Of course this signaled the end of the old Gaelic order due to the vacuum left by the ancient aristocracy of Ulster going into permanent exile, clearing the way for the Plantation of Ulster and troubles for centuries thereafter.

Our mechanic needed the van overnight to do the service and repairs so we booked a night in a nearby cottage where we took long hot showers, did four loads of wash, and spent most of the day watching old movies on TV. It was a nice break from the van, and there was even a clothesline in the garden where I could dry the laundry in the sunshine.

John did a first rate job replacing the worn parts that were flagged in our MOT inspection, plus did a full service. He also gave us tons of tips on places to go in Donegal. He warned us with a wry smile that we’ll love it so much we won’t want to leave.

County Donegal is an interesting place. It’s part of the province of Ulster, most of which constitutes Northern Ireland, but since partition it’s also the northernmost county of the Republic of Ireland, or “the South,” as they say here. Partition cut the county off from Derry, its traditional economic and administrative hub, and geographically it’s also almost completely cut off from the rest of the Republic. It’s remote, wild and rugged. Their motto is “Up here, it’s different.”

The border between the North and the South, though it’s nearly invisible, reminds me a bit of the Iron Curtain that once divided Germany along idealogical lines. When I lived in Berlin it was inconceivable to me that Germany would ever be reunited yet less than five years after I left the Berlin Wall was torn down with sledge hammers and a groundswell of frustration. I know the two situations are completely different but I often wonder if there will ever be a united Ireland.

We’re eager to start exploring, and as usual, have no planned itinerary. We’re continuing our counterclockwise coastal approach, which seems to be working for us so far. Our daily decisions rest as much on the need for food or fuel and where we can stop overnight as what we want to see. And of course, we usually gravitate toward the water.

It’s funny that we never even heard of Martello towers until we visited our first one in Hoy last year and now we check out any that we see on the map. We just add them to the list of things that attract our attention along with megalithic sites, castles, old harbors, wood fired pizza, and any café with eggs Benedict on the menu.

We made our way slowly up the west coast of Lough Foyle then turned northwest to Culdaff Beach and one of the most scenic little libraries we’ve ever come across.

This memorial plaque was on a bench overlooking the sea. My Morse code is a bit rusty but eventually I made it out. “Don’t piss in the bidet Darling x”

Good advice.

We like to alternate a parkup at sea level with a higher elevation view, which also gives Jack the opportunity to pretend he’s driving a Porsche over the twisty mountain roads.

Then it’s back down to sea level and a peaceful night along Trawbreaga Bay.

Our good weather gave out along with our supplies and after stocking up at a local supermarket we took shelter in a cozy café for eggs Benny.

We spent the afternoon working off the calories hiking through a charming community park. We’ve both noticed how kid-oriented and family friendly Ireland is. There are playgrounds everywhere, public toy bins at the beaches, and this park even has little play houses at each picnic site complete with a table and chairs.

We ducked back to Derry for a day to retrieve an order from Amazon and while we were there we took care of something we both take very seriously — voter registration. Because we live outside the country we need to submit paperwork each year in order to receive our ballots. In a bit of a clumsy analog-digital mashup, we have to print the forms, fill them out and sign, then scan and email them back. Now that I’m a member at Libraries NI it was easy for us to duck in to the Derry branch and use a public computer to print the forms.

It was story hour behind me, and I did my work while listening to the same nursery songs my kindergarten teacher mother sang to us when we were little. Some things never change.

We haven’t seen much in the way of megalithic sites since we shipped Escape Velocity and ourselves off in the ferry to Ireland. So when we found ourselves near an almost mysterious plain, filled with an overlapping series of circles we said, “That’ll do.” Then again, I suppose they’ve all been mysterious.

We found the official parkup to be a nondescript level lot out in the middle of nowhere. We had some dinner and while washing up I noticed soft golden light filtering down in rays angling out of the sky, what I call the Holy Ghost. Golden hour is always good for photography. We hopped out and hiked toward the fields.

Of course no one knows why these fields were considered such an apex of interest. Three pairs of circles plus a bonus seventh well peppered with dragon teeth, stone alignments, 12 cairns, some of them containing cremated human remains, all in these fields. It’s an incredible concentration of thought, energy, and organization.

The info plaque said the fields were originally partially covered in hardwood trees with cultivated open areas. Peat began to encroach and eventually covered the site from the first millennium BC onwards. The site remained lost until it was discovered in the early 1900s during peat cutting. Archaeological excavation started around 1945. Like most of these sites, no one knows who they were or what they were doing there.

Meanwhile we’ve managed to wander a good distance from John’s repair shop but our van parts have arrived so we’re off to set Escape Velocity right.

Derry/Londonderry is a walled city and also a divided city. We know there are tours with strong political commentary but we chose to take a short walking tour of the city walls that we hoped would be neutral. As outsiders everywhere we go we often ask people we meet if they like their government, and it’s always interesting to hear how the grassroots perspective compares to what we read in the international press.

Northern Ireland is different. We learned right way that 25 years of negotiated peace has not dimmed the ancient conflict that still simmers just below the surface. I was having a friendly chat with the parking warden where we overnighted and casually asked if she’s originally from Derry. She stiffened, nearly imperceptibly, and said, “Yes, but I’m from Waterside,” letting me know she’s Protestant and I knew I should have said Londonderry, not Derry. It can be a linguistic minefield.

From atop the city walls we could see the high fence surrounding the last remaining Protestant enclave in the majority Catholic west bank of the city, where the curbs and streetlight poles are painted in the colors of the Union Jack and there’s no doubt which side they’re on.

The day after our city wall tour we walked to Bogside, the Catholic neighborhood that was the locus of the beginning of the Troubles, from the Battle of Bogside in 1969 to Bloody Sunday in 1972. Here the streetlight poles are painted in the colors of the Irish flag.

Walking along Rossville Street had a cumulative sobering effect and I couldn’t help but wonder how much of the partisan fervor seeps into the consciousness of the children who live here. As much as I understand intellectually the nature of the political dispute, I’m at a loss to fully comprehend the depth of the hatred and distrust of each side for the other, framed as it is in sectarian terms. The five-part documentary series Once Upon a Time in Northern Ireland (available on PBS or BBC iPlayer) captures the complexity and sometimes futility of the conflict, and the lingering after effects on those who were directly or indirectly caught up. It’s at once a vivid retelling of events and a thoughtful reflection on the fragile truce of today.

We turned to walk up William Street where a historical photo shows what happened on this spot fifty years ago, and more recent graffiti reminds us that the struggle for human rights isn’t over.

We walked up toward the walled city and back to Escape Velocity parked along the river, the dividing line between ideologies and for us, we hope, neutral territory.

Lately we’ve been running into nice little parkups only having to slam on the brakes when trying to enter due to height restrictions in the form of a heavy pipe suspended at about 2 meters across an entrance gate. Marce found a rare golden parkup in the center of downtown Derry, a level park-like setting within spitting distance of the River Foyle, including a nice cafe, all for a couple of quid a day, paid by a proprietary phone app which I left in the capable hands of our IT department. There’s even an aire for full RV service; that’ll cost you, but good to know it’s there. In this idyllic setting it was sobering to look out the windscreen and see three large block letters of painted out graffiti on three stone pillars right in front of us.

As a matter of fact I’ve been warned that my habit of calling this location Derry may elicit something less than the friendly response in which it was given. Some prefer Derry/Londonderry (“Derry stroke Londonderry”) or some waggish blokes just call it Stroke City. I’m not ready for that but point taken: mind yer P’s and Q’s. There’s simply no avoiding politics around here. We opted for a pleasant afternoon walk along the Foyle.

Before long we had another brush with fame. I haven’t a clue what purpose this thing served but the Derry Girls frequently hung out here hatching their next hair-brained scheme.

In the morning we decided to walk the city wall. Derry (just find it in your hearts to forgive me but I’m not typing all that out) is a walled city. Built in 1613-1618, it’s the last remaining completely walled city in Europe. Not far from our parkup we ran into this popular crew. If it’s not GoT it’s the Derry Girls.

It’s easier to find the stairs up to the wall from inside the gate.

This is a well armed medieval city wall.

Roaring Meg siege cannon

The walled inner city has maintained its medieval layout.

The Royal Bastion featured a 100 foot tall pillar with the 9 foot heroic visage of the Reverend George Walker on top until 1972 when the IRA put paid to the monument with a 100 lb bomb. The plinth was restored and left to represent in a less conspicuous fashion.

A large war memorial dominates the square in the center of the old city. All four main gates can be seen from this square.

By this point my feet were telling me that our adventure ought to be over but I felt that they still had a walk across the Peace Bridge left in them. Just think of it as a structural handshake.

Well they say there’s always room for one more hopeful gesture and this handshake was spotted on the way home.

Like my grandfather always used to say, “there and back in the same day.” I never knew what he meant by that.

Our Magilligan Point beach parkup is quickly becoming one of our favorites. Unlike most beach locations, it’s small, quiet, level, and close to the water, and although we’re right off the road there’s very little traffic.

During the day cars stream in and out of this tight squeeze on the beach. Sometimes people just take a few photos, but some visit with the people in the motorhome that was already here when we arrived. We are out of the way so it doesn’t bother us, but we wonder if we’re intruding on a designated meetup spot of a group of friends or family.

In the afternoon another motorhome arrived and the driver looked us over as he squeezed past us to where the dirt road gets rutted and potholed and a flat and level parking spot is harder to find. He got settled, then walked up to the resident motorhome, confirming our suspicion that this is a regular gathering of friends and we had plunked ourselves right in the midst, claiming a prime spot. We wondered if we should vacate the premises.

We’re always mindful that we’re guests in any country or community that we visit, and we want to be both friendly and unobtrusive so as not to wear out our welcome. This is especially important traveling in the campervan because we’re parking on public land, not paying for a hotel or B&B, and we know that an influx of tourists in motorhomes can overwhelm the resources of small communities. We needn’t have worried.

It was a beautiful day and we had our door open to the sea as we drank our morning coffee. The driver of the new motorhome came over to chat, found out we’re American, and before long we were welcomed and included in the circle of friends.

We continued to do our thing, which included another walk to the point and the Martello tower, then back along the beach where luckily no red flag was flying.

Later we saw a line of classic cars drive toward the ferry and we hustled down to the dock to see what was up. It was an Austin Six club on their way to Donegal for a few days.

One of our motorhome neighbors spent 25 years as a policeman in America, then retired back home to Northern Ireland and now drives an ice cream truck most days at Downhill Beach just for fun. He has two trucks, a classic pink Mister Whippy and a newer Mister Softee. We told him we’ve enjoyed several ice cream trucks along the coast but we hadn’t been to Downhill Beach to visit his.

We were savoring an afternoon coffee at home when Mister Softee drove right up into the parkup and Sean’s wife Patricia served us all an ice cream cone. Now that’s what I call home delivery!

Our other motorhome neighbor and one of the frequent visitors had gone fishing for the day, and our Mister Softee friend shared a photo they sent. Turns out the fellows caught a 5’ shark and we were all abuzz waiting for the heroes to return.

Where’s the shark? we asked. They told us they dropped it off at the restaurant across from the ferry dock to be butchered into steaks for the grill, then motored across the Lough to a pub in Donegal to celebrate their good fortune. By the time they returned to the campsite they were three sheets to the wind which only enhanced the elaborate detail in the telling of how they caught a shark on a line meant for smaller fish and how they wrestled it into their small fishing boat.

Later, in the course of conversation, we asked if anyone knew a mechanic nearby who could address a few issues in our van. Within an hour a mechanic showed up with a diagnostic computer and all the menfolk were crawling around the van, peering at the engine and offering advice. John, the mechanic, is the nephew or cousin or something to one of our parkup neighbors and we liked him immediately. In no time we concocted a plan. John will order parts and let us know when they’re in, and Jack and I will explore the area until we get the high sign.

This has definitely been one of the best parkups ever. Beautiful spot, daily entertainment and a warm welcome from a group of friends, free ice cream, and a bonus mechanic. What more could you want?

Now it’s off to Derry/Londonderry for us.

Kettle on in the slanting morning sun, I popped outside just to checkout Escape Velocity, having vaguely remembered being awakened last night, but not sure if I had been dreaming or not. I had not. Two egg bombs were splattered all over the back of the van. Coffee will have to wait because the sun is heating up the van and you do not want that stuff drying on the paintwork. With the cost of eggs these days, giving up two could be considered an honor. Sometimes a totally futile gesture is all that’s called for. First they love us, then they hate us.

Compulsories out of the way we began our rapid descent down the mountain towards the checkerboard alluvial plains of Magilligan Point.

Once at sea level we couldn’t have changed altitude more than a few inches as we traversed the entire pancake like plain, but we sure started to dogleg around every farmer’s whimsically shaped fields. Eventually we gained the coastal roads bordering Lough Foyle and our crack activity director mentioned that she’d found a more natural parkup in the low grass covered dunes adjacent to the Foyle.

We passed a large complex that had the feel of a high-walled, rusty barbed wired prison and then a military live firing range that takes up most of the rest of the peninsula. The red flag means they’re firing today. What could go wrong?

We passed up several spots that I judged a little too natural and when I saw that we were nearly out of parkup I turned hard to port, finding us in the neighborhood of dug-in camper with awnings, wind breaks, fire pit, you know, the full Monty. No one in evidence. I’m thinking they must do the entire summer here.

It’s usually not a good idea to interject oneself into the middle of an established community, but what are you going to do? We found a nice level spot, switched off and called it home.

After lunch we walked down to a small ferry dock and watched people crossing the Foyle from Donegal, Ireland to Magilligan Point, United Kingdom. A voyage of not more than 10 minutes but another country. It’s more of a pretend border but we bristled at the £9 fee per international passenger. I imagine it would be €10.48 on the way back.

After watching a few cycles of the international ferry ply the Foyle back and forth, we thrillseekers set out for more adventurous activities, and sure enough, we found a Martello Tower hidden in the high grass-covered dunes.

This one appears to not be oval shaped and an interior tour of the facilities were not on the offing.

Nice touch with the corbels though.

What sets this adventure apart from some others is that it’s a short walk back to Escape Velocity and her peaceful parkup.