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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.