Author Archives: Jack

We’d had Escape Velocity straining up this mountain for quite some time now. But finally as we crested the summit, and just as Marce said, we found a long strip of a roadside parkup leaning on this side back down the mountain, and on the other side down the mountain the other way. However, balanced at the very top, were a few precious level spaces, occupied. As an RV driver I’ve learned that you can’t reconnoiter for long without offending the populace so I pulled into the first available space. Now we wait.

To pass the time I decided to climb the last bit of the mountain and to my amazement I found myself in Rio de Janeiro with Christ the Redeemer towering above us.

It was my own Twilight Zone moment. You can imagine my confusion. As I scrambled (age adjusted) up the path things started to come into focus. It’s definitely not the world famous 98 foot tall Art Deco Christ the Redeemer statue. We’re not in Rio de Janeiro, and this is not Sugarloaf Mountain. But what is it? Turns out it’s Manannan MacLir, regarded as the Irish Neptune.

It seems in Celtic times it was widespread practice to make votive offerings to deities like the Sea God of Lough Foyle. In 1896, two ploughmen stumbled across the accumulated precious offerings which became known as the Broighter Gold Hoard. To this day if the weather gets up on the Foyle sandbanks between Inishtrahull and Magilligan, the locals say, “Manannan is angry today,” while reaching for a trinket or two, at least something shiny.

My goodness, the views from this place are staggeringly beautiful and it’s easy to see why the massively eccentric Earl-Bishop always wanted to use this route to travel to his home at Downhill Demesne.

We found a path down the face of the summit that led to an observation deck and alternately a path to something called Hell Hole which I’m going to guess had nothing to do with the other Hell Hole in Russell, New Zealand. Further exploration revealed nothing more than a lumpy field chock-a-block with sheep poo. On the other hand, in New Zealand, Hell Hole was once filled with lonely sailors, and is one of the few places in New Zealand not chock-a-block with sheep poo.

Where was I? Oh yes, I think it’s time for photos.

Sweet dreams from high above Lough Foyle.

Dunluce Castle was established early in the 1500s by the MacQuillans as the center of power for their Gaelic lordship. In the mid 1550s the Scottish clan, our old friends the MacDonnells, ousted the MacQuillans; we can only guess how but bloodshed was probably involved. What followed was near constant conflict with the surrounding families in burgeoning Dunluce Town. Sorley Boy MacDonnell, in a tug of war with the English Crown and Ulster Gaelic Chieftains, lost Dunluce in a prolonged seige, gained it back, then lost it again to the even more notorious Cromwell. Let’s just call it an actual Game of Thrones.

Our task this morning is called the Game of Parking, or GoP. It was a tragic lack of imagination that Sorley Boy MacDonnell didn’t plan for the crush of buses and automobiles that would need a little real estate to visit his old family home. Buses take up 50% of the paltry few parking slots so the hot tip is to go early. We went early. What a joke.

Marce suggested passing the parking strip and coming in from behind. That’s something Sorley Boy would try. As we pulled in, a small van was pulling out and I snuck right in behind him. A frustrated bus driver came over with his finger wagging and wanted to kick us out but another driver said no, no, just pull in close to the stone wall, which was exactly what I’d planned to do. We were squeezed into the impossible-to-find parking place. I thanked my new best friend and smiled at Mr. Grumpy. We are the Notorious Escape Velocity!

Dunluce Castle is beautifully situated on top of a basalt promontory jutting out into the Irish Sea.

After an obligatory trip through the gift shop, you stroll down through an expansive walled-in domestic section with stables, brewhouse and guest lodgings.

Suddenly far off in the distance you see the bridge to the gatehouse and its majestic twin towers. It’s really an awesome sight.

There’s an elegant masonry arched bridge in place of the original drawbridge.

The gatehouse has Scottish style corbeled corner turrets that are quite familiar to us.

A reinforced curtain wall has two openings that face the mainland with cannon rescued from the Spanish Armada vessel La Girona which sank near here.

Opposite is an unusually elegant feature called a loggia, a row of columns holding up a roof to cover a walkway. Definitely a southern Europe influence .

The remains of a fine Jacobean mansion, built by Randal MacDonnell by 1620 was the main residence.

We took to the stairs to see an underground cave which in calm water was the only handy landing from the sea.

There comes a time in every adventure when you’ve got to go home. We found our home mired in a sea of vendors of sausage baps, fish & chips, and Mr. Whippy soft serve. In other words, a real circus. We eased EV into line and crept forward behind exiting buses loaded with funseekers.

Ok, I was warned that the circuitous single-lane road down into Old Ballintoy Harbor was steep, narrow, twisty and busy. Which it was. It’s just that one has to experience how tight and how twisty before you can ask, “Is it worth it?”

Switching off EV I let out a heavy sigh of relief, looked up and said, “Wow, this is beautiful!” It really was. Before you ask, yes, several GoT scenes were shot here and many thrillseekers are here to pay homage.

Ballintoy stood in for Iron Island and we are definitely on the tour schedule. No buses are in evidence but with that twisty trip down the hillside I’m not surprised. Town council has welcomed us by blocking most of the car parks using the despised height barrier and plastering the lot with “No Overnight Parking” signs, which we read may or may not be obeyed.

On that happy note we began to explore the harbor.

In an effort to stay one step ahead of the law we regrettably decided not to chance staying overnight and that meant challenging the steep, narrow, twisty road back up again. Luckily we didn’t meet anyone coming down.

Marce found a quiet parkup high above Rathlin Sound in the clouds with Scotland, on a clear day, off in the distance. The main attraction for us is that it features a few RV services we’re in need of. You could say free toilets with a view.

For me, the fascinating thing about the view is an unmarked formation of rocks that I’d noticed before from other locations but, because of distance and the lack of elevation, I couldn’t really make sense of. Now, from our perch in the clouds we’re high above the rocks but clarity is another matter. These rocks so disturb the flow of the current that as the swell approaches, the water suddenly rears up into a standing wave whose break causes other waves from three different directions to tumble into the center, creating a frothy whirlpool in the middle of the maelstrom. And yet, at other times the rocks are under the surface and the sea around them is placid. As an unrepentant sailor I find the sea endlessly fascinating and this phenomenon really focused my imagination.

While sailing in the Caribbean we had occasion to sail right over “Kick e’m Jenny” an underwater volcano with dire warnings on the nautical charts to steer clear. Afterwards locals looked at us like we were either sailing gods or maybe just plain mad.

After servicing EV we noticed a trailhead at a back corner of the parkup and more significantly, a plaque describing native flora & fauna mounted right before the path turns a corner and disappears out of sight. This is a quiet backwater with a gorgeous seaview of Rathlin Sound and Island but with a more substantial parkup than you would expect. What are we missing here? It must be the trail but there are no clues from up here. It’s the kind of temptation that draws you further up a mountain, or down a set of stairs so long that you can’t even see the bottom. This time it turned out to be the latter. It’s a beautiful scene and we’re keen to find out where these stairs lead.

Slowly, every 50 feet or so, bit by bit, the story is revealed.

It took a while to piece together what we were looking at.

As we closed with the bottom of the stairs we found the ancient ruins of Kinbane Castle clinging to a rocky limestone outcrop reaching out into the crashing waves of Rathlin Sound.

What a special find! I just had to climb over a grassy knoll and found what was probably a fisherman’s cottage and a bit of rock art.

Kinbane Castle was built by Colla MacDonnell in 1547, younger brother of the notorious constable of Dunluce, Sorley Boy MacDonnell, during the height of MacDonnell supremacy along this coast.

It was besieged by the English but a garrison found hiding under the castle in a large sea cave — now called the “hollow of the English” — were trapped and massacred.

The castle was thought to be impervious to cannon fire due to the protection of the rocky limestone knoll to seaward. It was eventually damaged by English cannons but was soon rebuilt, and survived as a residence well into the 1700’s.

This is the kind of place where you just want to sit and soak all of this in for a while, especially when you consider all the stairs you’re going to have to lug the caboose up to get out of here.

You’ll be shocked to learn that Kinbane Castle in not on the GoT tour.

By all rights tonight’s parkup ought to be awful. The single lane access road bifurcates a public golf course which assures high traffic. After a sharp 90° turn to avoid a beach and the ocean, one finds a pie shaped parkup for maybe four reasonably sized RVs which means lots of people want your space and they’ll do most anything to get there first. It can be quite cutthroat and they’ll probably stay for the sunset. The narrow lane continues with cars haphazardly parallel parked against a stone wall for a quarter mile until several tiny cars could pull straight into a few spaces near the end.

Regardless it’s a lovely spot and somehow we shoehorned EV into a questionable spot to wait for a better one. It’s our superpower. We wait. We have some lunch. We take a stroll. We wait.

We walked out on the beach to a pier to visit some rocks with magnificent Fair Head in the background.

It’s funny that headlands were always good reason for extreme caution when we were sailing past them but now on land we find them quite beautiful, dramatic, and hard to resist.

In the evening while relaxing after dinner I sensed movement in the pie shaped RV section a quarter mile away. We had an Escape Velocity fire drill with Marce hoofing it down the road while I backed EV out and headed towards what we hoped would be an actual RV parking space. We barely made it to the vacated space in time and we may have disappointed a fellow traveler but I must say it made for a relaxed night’s sleep.

The following morning while sipping my first coffee something caught my eye just off the beach.

A square rigged barque hove into view.

You don’t see this everyday and with all sails furled we could see she was headed for the outer harbor. She rounded up into the wind and splashed anchor. Marce looked her up in Marine Traffic and she’s called Thalassa out of Troon, Scotland.

There was some breeze this morning and the swell began to surge in sending the barque into a wicked corkscrewing roll.

Well hidden, tucked deep behind a headland I’m sure she had every expectation of a calm night but it’s amazing how much the swell can wrap around a headland, as much as 30° is not uncommon. Boats have a diabolical predilection toward lying ahull in a sympathetic roll with the swell. It can really get nasty. Those sailors did not have a comfortable night and I’ll bet not many opted for breakfast.

Later we walked into Ballycastle in search of edible eggs Benedict.

What we found was honestly the most perfect cinnamon roll I’ve ever had in a bakery called Ursa Minor. To this day I rue the fact that I only bought two. Pictures? Surely you jest.

Things are not as obvious here in Ireland as Google Maps would have you believe. We crossed a charming one-lane stone bridge looking for today’s parkup and honestly, before I was ready I had to pivot Escape Velocity sharply right at a fish and chip shop onto a tiny alley which was unfortunately blocked by stylishly turned out young women and gents. As they reluctantly sauntered out of the way I couldn’t help but notice that many of the women had the same flowing cocktail dress on. I’m no judge but they seemed to be a little over-dressed for the afternoon and was it possible we were witnessing a remarkably awkward coincidence? Or was it a gaggle of bridemaids out for a smoke break? I vote for smoking bridesmaids.

Suddenly they all disappeared only to return in a remarkably short amount of time, and I’m going to guess here, post ceremony with bride in tow, for a rather longish photo session with three photographers: a young female to do the candids, a middle aged man to doggedly capture the mandatory familial combinations, and the old man with that all-important very long slimming lens who had to set up beside the RVs — including now us — in the parkup to do the top tier portraits. That long lens can only help. When the wedding party was released they hopped into odd looking, incredibly noisy little hot rod econo-boxes.

And with that, sleepy Cunshendun’s entertainment was over for the day. We strolled across the old stone bridge through the picturesque town.

In the morning we decided to take our personal entertainment into our own hands and hike over to the caves rumored to be in the area.

On the way we ran into Johann, Cunshendun’s grumpy looking bronze memorial to the last of countless goats culled during the terrible outbreak of foot and mouth disease in 2001.

It’s true that it wasn’t far but the beach was deep with what I imagine are millions of those rounded golf ball sized stones that are the devil itself to walk on.

Of course several scenes used in The Game of Thrones were shot in these caves, including that creepy shadow birth of Melisandre’s. Yes, it’s on the GoT bus tour.

We came to Cushendun for the nice parkup and the caves were a bonus, but the open road calls Escape Velocity.

Marce aced the park-up again. She found a large, free, nearly flat parking lot facing the Lough of Belfast in the middle of downtown Carrickfergus. Not an easy thing to do. The Irish, it seems, insist on their pound of flesh or simply install heavy height barriers that stop us from using many car parks. Not exactly welcoming. We’re not in Scotland anymore but at least several large grocery stores were right across the street and remarkably, tucked away in a corner of the lot, was a French style aire de service, expressly for servicing RVs. They hate us…then they love us.

However there was a disquieting presence that we both felt in this otherwise soft touch. Every so often, actually more than made sense, we would stop and glance up staring all the way across this large lot of parked cars at the hulking dark almost malevolent presence of Carrickfergus Castle. I know it’s supposed to look threatening, which it does very well, but we couldn’t understand why we didn’t feel protected or at least well defended by its over dominant feng shui. Maybe that’s all it is. That evening we decided on a bit of a stretch and inevitably, on our stroll, we were drawn to the dark imposing walls of the castle. You know, it’s a “face your discomfort” kind of thing.

Note to Carrickfergus town council: some cheerful lighting playing on the castle walls at night might be nice. There’s something just not right about this thing. We both decided this would be more fun on a sunny day especially before the crowds descended on us. Against all odds the next morning we got just that.

Begun in 1177, surrounded on three sides with rocky walls rising out of the water of the Lough of Belfast, the sturdy Norman style Carrickfergus Castle is indeed imposing.

One buys one’s ticket in the gift shop and you’ll soon find yourself watching a helpful orientation video.

A massive keep dominates the interior space.

Some of the largest caliber guns we’ve seen.

Looks like it’s time to go.

We’ve whinged about the difficulties collecting mail without an address, let’s just say, more than once. Today’s story starts as we wend our way down Northern Ireland for a long overdue visit with an old cruising friend who is also functioning as a dead drop for our international driver’s licenses winging their way from America. Now we’ve never been asked to produce our International Driver’s Permits for anything, ever, and the powers that be couldn’t have made it anymore difficult but, like a lot of things, the conventional wisdom says, “Don’t leave home without it.” We dutifully mailed the forms and photos to Marce’s sister, our other dead drop, who valiantly wrangled the IDPs from AAA and entrusted USPS and RM to get them to DD II in NI. The system worked.

Marce found a convenient park-up at a lough on the way down, disappointingly sloped but free, and with toilets. With EV up on ramps, we will abide.

In addition to the view, not far away we saw a small castle on an island with causeway access. A nice way to stretch one’s legs.

We even found a path that circumnavigated this charming island.

There is always something special about an island.

The following day by mid afternoon we pulled into a suspiciously rough looking farmhouse that Google insisted was the address where our friend Alan lives. Of course we hadn’t a clue of the name of the family he lives with but I can attest that this didn’t smell like what we expected. While I worked on the geometry of extricating EV from this tiny courtyard, Marce hopped out to try and find Alan. I got the bus turned around then went looking for Marce. I found her approaching the Royal Mail van just as it pulled in.

Marce was asking, “Does Alan Pridham live here?”

“Oh no, he lives at the top of the hill,” he said, and he pointed further up the road.

And before you know it we were in the kind of freewheeling conversation we’ve come to expect here in Northern Ireland. Marce told him we met Alan ten years ago while we were traveling by sailboat, and he knew all about Alan’s sailing adventures. We probably stood outside the stranger’s farm for 20 minutes before we got more detailed directions to the right house. Not only that, but the postman also told us that Alan was home.

Bear in mind that we could understand only about 10% of what he said. It went something like “just go up past those curious brown cows that’ll be wonderin’ what you’re all about in a contraption like that. Don’t pull into the modern house with the new macadam driveway. You’ll be wantin’ the two old white gate posts with trees all about.” Maybe.

We were past it before we realized that it was meant to be those old white gate posts but it was just as well because we’d have never shoehorned EV between the posts going up hill. Luckily there were no cars on the road but entry was a matter of millimeters.

It’s a quiet place and oh so lush and peaceful inside those walls. This must be the place but there was no one about and it wasn’t clear which door to approach. Suddenly Alan popped out of the lush vegetation as if to say, “Dr. Livingston I presume.” It has been a very long time yet almost like yesterday.

We met Alan at the very beginning of our sailing journey. He had just crossed the Atlantic single-handed in his boat Snow White and we spent months sailing in company along the US East Coast before parting ways when we sailed to the Caribbean.

We entered the home and met the absolutely charming family that Alan’s been living with for years. They welcomed us warmly, offered showers and laundry, a place to park overnight and invited us to dinner. It’s easy to see why it works so well when the whole crew got together for a wonderful barbecue.

I guess we’re still on sailors’ hours because we wandered back to EV early, tired beyond any explanation.

The following morning in alternating sunshine and rain Alan took us on a tour of the family’s ancestral estate where they all lived until 2013 when it was nearly destroyed by fire.

The estate has a long and storied past and if you’re interested you can read more about it here and here. It’s the stuff of fantasy, the kind you only read about . The sense of loss is palpable when you’re surrounded by the devastation. The feeling of what it must have been like and now its loss is hard to take.

We were invited to stay longer or park ourselves on the grounds of the old estate but we Escapees recognize a velvet trap when we see it. For now the open road calls and every traveler faces the same dilemma: wonderful friends and conversation vs. the next horizon. Sometimes it’s harder to leave than others.

I’m not sure what I expected of Belfast. Any city with titanic ambitions you would naturally assume to be of olympic size. Belfast is not that. Don’t get me wrong, Belfast was always a go-getter when it came to things nautical. Major rope walks, massive linen industry and woodworking grew with its ship building dreams, but it is by no means titanic in size.

I have to be honest that when RV friends said they were going to something called the Titanic Experience I was a little dubious. Let’s just say there are no surprises in this “experience.” I mean, the ship sinks in an almost bizarre collection of human faux pas, killing most aboard. Nice that the band played on but really wouldn’t the short time left be better spent looking for something that floats? Anyway, we never go to anything that bills itself as an “experience.”

Marce was striking out at digging up long dead relatives at wherever she disappears to, so when it was suggested that we get experienced, always the team player, I acquiesced. Of course experience never comes cheap and this will be no exception. A cold but short walk later found us entering a modern building built in the shape of the White Star line logo, directly over the bones of the Harland and Wolff shipyard.

At least they didn’t insist that you enter via the gift shop.

Along with pricey admission we opted for the value added optional audio tour. A short walk on the second floor was like a dive into a rabbit hole Time Machine, emerging in early Belfast’s bustling past with old photos and film. It was well done and showed a skillset made to order for ship building. White Star was in competition with the Cunard Line for the biggest, fastest, most luxurious ships afloat. These ships were the Space X of the turn of the 20th century.

Things got fascinating in the drafting offices with thousands of engineers.

Before long we found ourselves in a line, waiting for what, we hadn’t a clue. Turns out it was a remarkably compact monorail fun ride that scissors your car up or down showing what it was like building the world’s largest ship.

It’s impossible not to be impressed with the massive size of these two vessels being built side by side, staked out in the slips where they were built. Titanic was in #3 to the left and Olympic to the right.

Next was the chilling timeline of the actual sinking and the dunderheaded foolish mistakes that were made that night. A great number of changes were instituted to safety regulations due to this tragic night. In fact SOLAS (Safety Of Life At Sea) regulations were adopted after the investigation. Next came the butchers bill.

There are artifacts from the Titanic in glass cases, including the famous violin found floating in the North Atlantic

in this last section, standing on these glass panels, underwater footage of the final resting place of the Titanic slowly passes beneath your feet as though you’re sailing over the wreck. Chilling.

Turns out we really did have a Titanic experience and we didn’t even get wet.

No one is ever 100% ready to embark on a sea journey. If our boat had any kind of a mechanical issue the first thing we’d always ask is, “Will it keep us from sailing?” The next question is, “How much will it cost and how long will it take?”

We have two irritating problems in our campervan that have followed us to Stranraer, Scotland, after chasing a tiny refrigeration temperature controller all the way to Carlisle, England, and back. We hung around in Dumfries for five days unaware that the Royal Post had refused delivery of our package even though they assured us to just have it sent to them to be held for pickup. Luckily the shipper called us to say the post office refused delivery and asked, “Do you want this thing?” I suggested cutting the Royal Post out of the equation and we drove to the depot to pick up our tiny package. It’s a small country.

The back story of the refrigerator temperature control is that even on its lowest setting everything stays extremely over chilled, but it seems to run continuously. We’re hoping to lower our very expensive LPG habit. There are no discernible leaks but we go through more than our share of gas. Time will tell if the new thermistor works.

Information about LPG fittings and accessibility in Ireland is scarce at best so we considered switching to a refillable system rather than a bottle exchange swap, which will have to be done before we travel to Europe, regardless. These details will be sorted on the fly as usual.

It’s time to shepherd Escape Velocity through our first MOT, the annual safety inspection. When and where is the question and until the refrigerator controller was sorted we weren’t sure where or when that might be best done. After a half dozen attempts to find an MOT service that wanted to or had the time to fit us in, or had a high enough garage door clearance or a low enough inspection pit, we found one in Stranraer, right near Cairnryan which is where our ferry departs from to the port of Larne, Northern Ireland. Escape Velocity passed the MOT so she’s good to go for another year. Sometimes the stars align.

We’re old hands at this ferry deal by now but this one had a new twist that had us creeping up an incredibly steep ramp to the second parking level in the ferry.

These things are remarkably capacious but still things can get a little cozy.

Bear in mind that we still haven’t a clue if we can get LPG into our van in Ireland.

We’re off without drama and as we pop out of the ferry, and like a line of circus elephants we slowly lumber down a steep ramp in Chaine Harbor.

Things tend to happen quickly at this moment but Marce navigated us to a hilltop overnight parkup with a view of the harbor and the Irish Sea.

We found a strange little grassy knoll on top of our eagle’s nest parkup surrounded with what can only be described as a fancy spiked ceremonial fence. Turns out it is a burial mound where Larne’s great benefactor, Mr. Chaine, is buried standing upright in his Full Monty yachting regalia.

Once again we find ourselves lollygagging, hanging around a new area waiting for packages to catchup to us here in Ireland. Now the plan is to shuffle our way towards Belfast using a Covid-inspired Amazon pickup point, cleverly circumventing the Royal Post. We’ll let you know.