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.
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?
We didn’t mean for this blog to become a travelogue, nor do we intend to continue boring you with castle after castle. It’s just that castles are pretty much what there is around these parts and to be honest, Jack has a hard time passing up anything with more than two standing walls, let alone a tower.
Back at the Giant’s Causeway we ducked into a small gallery to admire the work of local artists and were intrigued by some photographs of the same subject, a pretty round building situated on a high cliff overlooking the ocean. We found the name, marked it on the map and promptly forgot about it.
After Dunluce Castle I was searching for a quiet parkup where we could hide out for a day or two and catch up on life chores when I found an unusual spot right behind a static caravan park but adjacent to a National Trust site. A static caravan park is what we’d call in America a trailer park, but more like a summer home condo community. The caravans are mostly all the same and they’re packed in like sardines. I don’t know if this is an economical way to have a vacation home but they’re very popular along this coast judging by the hundreds and hundreds of units in many different sites.
So this small car park lies just over the fence from the top end of a huge sloping static caravan site. Over the tops of the caravans we have an ocean view, and in the other direction is the entry to the National Trust land which just happens to be the location of the pretty round building we saw in the art photographs.
It might have been easier to just park in the official National Trust car park but you can’t stay overnight there so we set off overland to see the pretty round building. The trail from where we parked led us down into a ravine called the Black Glen and back up the other side, occasionally scrambling for footing on steep paths, picking our way toward where the map showed the pretty round building.
I was the trailblazer and I’m pretty sure I heard grumbling from behind but once we achieved the summit all was forgiven. Up high is where Jack likes to be. Up high with a castle is even better.
First we came upon a belvedere, then we followed the path along the cliff overlooking the beach until we found the pretty round building from the photographs.
It’s called the Mussenden Temple and it’s part of Downhill Demesne, the 18th century estate of Frederick, 4th Earl of Bristol and Lord Bishop of Derry, known for short, thank goodness, as the Earl-Bishop. The Temple was built as a library and it’s easy to imagine what a beautiful library it must have been inside although I’d have put in a few windows to take advantage of the sea view.
Further back from the cliff lie the remains of Downhill House, the whimsical over-the-top sometimes home of the Earl-Bishop, said to have been decorated with frescoes, statues and paintings by well-known contemporary artists.
There’s not much left of the place. It was built in the late 18th century, damaged by fire in 1851 but restored, and continuously occupied until the 1920s. During World War II it was used to billet RAF servicemen and women, then dismantled by 1950 because the cost of upkeep was too high.
I don’t really understand why you’d dismantle a huge mansion rather than sell it. Maybe the Earl-Bishop shouldn’t have saddled it with the name Downhill House.
We retraced our steps across the estate, past the belvedere, down into the Black Glen and back up the other side. We were dragging our feet by the time we got back to Escape Velocity. That’s enough for one day.
We found a particularly fine parkup that’s touted as a perfect view of the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, one of the must-do stops on the Causeway Coastal Route. And it is indeed a glorious view. You can see the bridge swinging 100 feet above the sea, connecting the mainland with a small rocky island used for centuries as a base for salmon fishermen. In our car park there’s a constant stream of buses and cars bringing hundreds of tourists to snap the photo; then after a few minutes they leave to drive down the road to the National Trust car park to walk back along the shore to the bridge. By five o’clock we and our fellow campers have the place to ourselves.
We’re mostly content to look at the bridge from afar and use the parkup while we explore other places, like the Giants Causeway and nearby castles. We like the view.
There are a couple of reasons why we’re reluctant to add the rope bridge to our itinerary. For one thing, it’s expensive. They want £15 each ($18.50) just to walk over the bridge to the island. That seems excessive to us. We decided to go down to the coast anyway and walk along the sea, figuring we’ll enjoy the views just as much even if we don’t walk across the bridge, which is short by rope bridge standards. We’ve been on others, longer if not as high, in Costa Rica and New Zealand.
Then we discovered that the powers that be erected a height barrier at the beginning of the access road leading to the official rope bridge car park to keep tour buses out. It also keeps out campervans but there’s a phone number you can call and someone will come and open the barrier. The problem is there’s not enough space to stop while you call and wait. The barrier is at the top of a hill and on a curve and we don’t feel safe with cars and buses zooming by. They sure don’t make it easy to visit a popular place on the Game of Thrones tour.
Our solution is to walk down from our car park following a route in the AllTrails app which suggests a shortcut nearly straight down to the rope bridge. We set off on a perfect day, early enough, we thought, to avoid the inevitable crowds.
After a few hundred meters along the road the app points toward the sea but we couldn’t see an obvious path. What we did see was a house and a “Private Property” sign and a fence. We knew from the map that we were directly above and adjacent to the bridge. If we can’t find the path the alternative is to walk a mile further along the road, then down the height-restricted access road to the official car park at the bottom, then double back along the coast for a mile to the bridge. We were deflated. We looked at our map. The path starts here. We looked at the house. No path. In a burst of age-adjusted rebellion we whistled past the “Private Property” sign, climbed over the fence and spent the next 20 minutes picking our way through as much sheep poo as any random field in Scotland as we snaked our way down to the bottom. Along the way we both agreed that what the heck, we’ll pony up the £30 and walk the damn bridge.
Near the bottom we left the private property and looked back toward the high promontory where we parked.
Then we looked for the ticket office. What we found instead was the gated entrance to the actual bridge, and two young park attendants.
“Do you have a booking?” they asked.
“No.”
“Do you have a ticket?”
We explained that we’d walked down from the road above and pointed to where our van was parked and that we didn’t pass the ticket office. The attendants looked up at our steep overland route and back at us. I wasn’t sure if they were thinking we’re mighty adventurous for a couple of old folks or merely foolish. Silence.
“What do you suggest we do now?” I ventured. There was no one else about. They hemmed and hawed. Then I had an idea.
“I have this,” I said, and I tapped my phone to show our National Trust membership card, which expired a few days ago.
“Oh, you’re members! Go ahead!” They said, happy to be relieved of a decision. They stepped aside and we stared down the steep steps to the bridge.
Now I have no problem with rope bridges, even when someone jumps up and down in the middle as some idiot did on a long and jangly number in Costa Rica. What I do have a problem with is heights. And this bridge is high.
Nevertheless, it’s as sturdy as you can make a rope bridge and they let hundreds of people traverse it every day, so who am I to let a little palmsweat keep me from crossing to the other side? And the views are absolutely worth it.
They say there’s been a rope bridge here for 350 years, strung up every year for the salmon fishing season. The fishing boats were lowered into the sea then hauled up to safety again with the catch. It’s seems a hard way to make a living.
An old cottage still remains, along with part of the structure the fishermen used to winch the boat out of the water.
Carrickarede island itself is interesting for its geology as the largest volcanic plug in Northern Ireland. We spent the better part of an hour sitting on a rock at the end of the island, surrounded by wildflowers, looking out at the sea.
When more tourists started showing up we made our way back over the island to the bridge.
By this time there was a queue on either side because everyone wants a photo of themselves crossing over and we all waited patiently for our turn.
When we climbed up to the path we had a decision to make. Should we muck our way back through the sheep meadow and the private property? Or take the official path to the National Trust car park, a much longer but legal route?
We opted for the straight and narrow and enjoyed even more spectacular views of the coastline and Game of Thrones filming locations.
It was a long steep walk back up to the cliffs and along the road to our van. I’m pretty sure tomorrow will be a recovery day.
We are masters of off-season travel but in a break from our usual approach we find ourselves in peak season at the most touristed places in Northern Ireland. Even at the beautiful parkups where we enjoy peaceful sundowns and quiet nights, midday brings a confusion of large and small tour buses and family cars from all over Europe. It’s madness but we’re learning to get up early, do our touring before the throngs arrive, then retreat to the van for lunch and to read or write or nap until the car park empties out and we can stretch our legs again.
The biggest draw on the Causeway CoastalI’m Route is the UNESCO listed Giant’s Causeway, which has been on my bucket list for decades. We need to pick the right time to visit: sunny weather, a weekday, and early enough to beat the crowds. The weather gods smiled on us and we began our assault.
On the advice of some other early risers we initially walked past the causeway itself and followed the trail until it ends at the “Amphitheatre.” (You know you’re in a heavily touristed area when geological formations get cultural names.)
The trail is steep in parts and took us to the Organ Pipes and along the ridge until the path ends with a view of even more basalt columns.
We turned around and followed the path back down towards the sea, and as we approached the actual causeway, it was clear that the tour buses had started to arrive. Maybe we should have gone there first.
Luckily, most of the tourists don’t venture too far onto the rocks.
We picked our way to the front of the pack, and under the watchful eye of a park guide whose job it is to keep people off the slippery bits, we sat for awhile watching the sea and its relentless assault.
The place was filling up and we exhausted the possible photo ops. It was time to start the mile-long slog back up to the car park.
At the top of the cliffs, we found two benches with glass and ceramic medallions embedded in the wood. The work was done during and in response to the pandemic. I found these artistic expressions of something we all lived through, separately and as a whole, very moving.
Shortly after we arrived in Northern Ireland we got an email from my sister’s husband’s colleague, their friend for nearly fifty years and by extension mine too. She told us one of her cousins in Northern Ireland married into the McBride family who’ve farmed the northeast corner of the island for 300 years. Their land includes the rocky cliffs of Fair Head which, like so many places along this coast, was a location for Game of Thrones, and the family welcome hikers and climbers with a car park and a field for tent camping. We marked our map.
At the car park I was dropping coins into the honesty box when a car drove slowly out through the open gate. On a chance I called out, “Are you Sean?”
The driver stopped, then reversed to where I stood. He looked friendly enough and he smiled and said yes, he was Sean. I told him my sister’s husband’s colleague is his wife’s cousin, and he paused for a minute to think about that, then asked, “You mean Margaret Mary?”
“Yes!” I said. “I’ve known her for nearly fifty years.”
“Well, come in and have a cup of tea,” he said and he welcomed us into the house where we had one of those Irish conversations that feel like you’re catching up with an old friend. He told us all about the family here and about the branches who emigrated to America, and he regaled us with stories about the filming of Game of Thrones.
We could have talked for hours, but we were eager to get to the cliffs while the weather was clear and sunny. Sean walked us out and pointed past the family’s ancestral home to the start of the trail, then showed us the various optional hiking routes through the property.
We couldn’t have picked a better day. The air was chilly and there was a fresh breeze but Sean assured us that even on the cliffs if wouldn’t be too windy.
Most of this coastline is columnar basalt culminating in the famous outcropping of the Giant’s Causeway. But even here you can see the long columns that make up the cliffs and see the shapes which can be pentagons, hexagons or octagons.
This is about as close to a cliff edge as you’ll ever see me. “Not too windy” is subjective when you weight 130 lbs. and it’s a land breeze. Let’s just say Sean is well-grounded.
We had the foresight to take along some refreshments and with plenty of convenient rocks to sit on we rested and marveled at this breathtaking scenery. There wasn’t another soul in sight.
We started up again following our blue route markers until right after this stile we lost our way. We doubled back, looked for the right trail marker, lost it again, went back, lost it again. In all we crossed that stile four times before giving up and heading overland. We could see the farm in the distance but not the trail we were supposed to be on.
We slogged our way through lumpy sheep meadows, climbing over wire fences and rerouting around rivulets and loose rock. Many times we thought we’d found an established path only to have it peter out. It was an exhausting and soul-crushing return.
When we finally reached the car park Sean asked how we did and we told him about losing the trail.
“You didn’t see the road?” He pointed up past the fields we’d plodded through.
“No,” we said, sheepishly. “We missed it.”
As we said our goodbyes something behind us caught Sean’s attention and with a quick wave he hurried off to help wrangle some unruly sheep into the barn.
After many days on the phone and plenty of rejections I finally found an insurance carrier who agreed to take us on for less than half what we paid last year. We have a few more restrictions as to coverage area but we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it.
Confirming that we are not yet a paperless society we need to print the documents, sign and rescan them before emailing back to the agent. We need to find a copy shop. Try as I might, I couldn’t locate one anywhere near where we are or plan to be.
We stopped for the night at a little town where we’d stayed before, went to a grocery store, then a laundry, and while Jack kept his eye on the wash tumbling in the machine I circled for a half hour through the convoluted streets until I found the tiny public library.
The librarian on duty confirmed that yes, I can print documents, and when she couldn’t find the visitor’s pass for me to use, she just signed me up as a member. I now have a library card for all of Northern Ireland. Take that, Edinburgh, who wanted a full personal dossier to even let me in the door and denied me membership because I’m not a legal resident of the UK, despite having a borrowed address. I know, rules are rules, but as the accommodating librarian today told me, it’s at the discretion of the librarian, and she obviously didn’t see me as a threat to the library’s holdings.
Access to the collections and services of archives and libraries is always of interest to me as a family history researcher. I don’t mind rules or fees, but I do like to hear a logical reason for denial of services. I’m reminded of my time researching in St. Thomas.
I found the 1820 record of my great-great grandmother’s baptism on microfilm at the Caribbean Genealogy Library. The film was very poor and hard to read.
The cathedral in the same town holds the original records and I went to the parish office to ask if I could see it. I was told I needed to petition the Monsignor in a letter, which I did. My request was denied because the records are “too fragile.” I asked what measures were being taken to preserve the records. None, I was told. So the records are deteriorating day by day in an unforgiving climate, and no one can see them. They will crumble into dust whether someone looks at them or not. I’m still angry about it.
I understand the difference between historical parish records and public library holdings but I strongly believe in access to information, whatever it may be, and however reasonably controlled or regulated.
None of this has anything to do with printing insurance documents except to say that the small town librarian who assisted me also gave me lots of information about where I might find records to help with our family history research. She was for access, not against it. And I nearly danced back to the van, printouts in hand, happy to have a few new leads to follow, and grateful to a local librarian who took the time to help a stranger.
Guided by a small mark on the map we parked along the coast road by a gate that opened to a gravel road leading up a steep hill. We know by now that such a setting is an invitation to the Escapees to put on our hiking shoes and see what’s up there.
We climbed and climbed, high above the coast road, around craggy outcrops and spongy meadows.
A half mile of thigh-burning hiking brought us to the hidden village of Galboly, a walled group of abandoned stone buildings left to crumble and overgrown with vines and wildflowers. It’s as picturesque a place as we’ve ever seen.
Lucky for us, one of the lineal owners of the village was tending his sheep and was happy to have a chat. Liam pointed out each building — this was Rose’s old house, that was Rose’s new house, this was Annie’s house, that was a shebeen. Liam explained that a shebeen (síbín in Irish) was an illegal pub where they sold homemade whiskey.
“My mother was born in that cottage,” Liam said, and he pointed to a crumbling building with a fine view of the sea. He happily obliged when I asked if I could take his photo in front of it, then regaled us with glee about the times visitors arrived boasting that their granddad or great uncle had lived there, not realizing that Liam was probably a long lost cousin.
Liam was particularly amused by the woman who told him her son was the first to discover the village. He said he asked her if the son was 200 years old and he howled with delight at the thought that his ancestral village was unknown before a young man stumbled across it.
We spent a good hour listening to Liam’s stories and taking photographs before starting the beautiful trek back down the mountain to the sea. The coast of Northern Ireland continues to deliver.
We collected our mail but there’s one more unpleasant task to be accomplished before we begin the drive around Northern Island’s Causeway Coastal Route: vehicle insurance.
Last year after jumping through hoops to buy EVII we discovered the bigger challenge is finding someone to insure us. The barrier is our US drivers licenses. It doesn’t matter that in 30 years we haven’t had an insurance claim and that we’re exceptionally low risk. Rules are rules, apparently, and we can only get insured by “specialty” insurers, and you want to read “specialty” as “extortionist.” Last year the campervan insurance cost more than our yacht insurance while we were crossing oceans. I’m determined to find a less unreasonable alternative and that means long uninterrupted hours in a quiet place with good cell service.
Of course sitting on the phone for hours every day doesn’t mean we can’t also appreciate our surroundings. With too many gorgeous routes to choose from we opted to drive back through the Mourne mountains. We would have stayed and hiked some but the cell signal was unstable so we moved on after one night.
Tollymore Forest Park looked like a good way to spend an afternoon. Tollymore was the first state forest park in Northern Ireland on land that was part of a historical estate dating back to the 12th century. The park is huge and beautiful, with several Gothic follies built in the 18th century, along with many stone bridges, stepping stones, an arboretum, walking trails and picnic areas.
We generally prefer wild areas to developed ones, but strolling through any park on a sunny day is good for the soul.
Jack spotted this bracket fungus, called “chicken of the woods” and I was tempted to pick some for dinner. We’ve eaten it before, gathered from Frick Park in Pittsburgh, but it looks so pretty on the tree that I decided not to disturb it.
The arboretum wasn’t as nice as Mourne Park, and I didn’t have Alan to identify all the trees for me, but this overgrown and out of place cork tree looks like a survivor, and it’s always good to see where our everyday materials come from.
On another day, as we retrace our route back north to our starting point, we stopped at Dundrum Castle because what’s a day without a castle?
This is another 13th century Norman construction with a spectacular view of the Mourne mountains and the bay. And like most of the castles we visit, much of it is closed. Still, it was fun to walk the grounds and we had the place all to ourselves.
The view from the car park was beautiful and we would like to have stayed but it was posted “no overnight” and we are nothing if not rule followers.
Down the hill we found a free municipal car park along the waterfront with a view almost as good and ice cream right down the street.
We got the word that our mail has arrived and we figured we ought to take a quick turn around Belfast before we leave. It’s been great parking overnight on the waterfront but we haven’t really explored the town. As Jack said, there’s not much to it.
We walked to Victoria Square which I thought would be a charming historic town plaza. It’s a mall. A nice one, granted, but not what we expected. It does have one unique feature, a very nice rooftop deck with a panoramic view of the town.
The historic market is small in scale but very nice in variety of produce, baked goods, fish, cheeses, fancy deli items, and prepared foods.
We were thrilled to see cheeses that aren’t cheddar and splurged on a good selection of old favorites and new-to-us local non-cheddars.
With some pastries, a loaf of sourdough, and a bag of cheeses we felt prepared to leave this mini-metropolis and hit the road heading south.
