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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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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’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.

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.

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.

We’ve got an Amazon order coming to Belfast and mail arriving in Kilkeel and while we wait for delivery we’re spending a few days acclimating to a new environment and especially to a new language and culture. Right away we discovered that here in Northern Ireland people need only a smile and hello to launch into a wide-ranging conversation laced with humor, peppered with stories, and always including suggestions on places we must see and a litany of where they’ve been in America. We feel very welcome.

We’re reminded again how small this country is and a few miles hither or yon reveals a completely different view. Our ferry took us north of Belfast and we’re delaying driving south into the city until we get delivery confirmation from Amazon. A friendly fellow at our first randomly chosen parkup nominated a more scenic location two miles up the road and wouldn’t you know it, the next day he knocked on the door to say he was happy we found the new place. Do we feel stalked? Not a bit. We had another easy conversation before he and his dog meandered back down the beach. “See you next time,” he said.

It’s time for laundry and we need an ATM so we drove to Whitehead where we can park overlooking the sea, do the laundry, get some cash and pick up a few groceries. We couldn’t find the ATM and asked a passerby for directions. He didn’t know but instead of wishing us luck he enlisted others nearby and before long the committee sent us off in the right direction. I love it here.

We awoke to thick fog but after sitting in the van for a couple of days we need to stretch our legs. The Blackhead Lighthouse cliff walk will shake out the kinks and we set off as the fog started to lift.

If you search Google Maps for Blackhead Lighthouse in Whitehead, Northern Ireland, and activate Street View, you can take the same walk we did along the sea wall.

By the time we headed back to the van the fog had nearly burned off and we got to see the lighthouse in all its sunny glory.

We timed our arrival in Belfast to the delivery of our Amazon order but I have other reasons for spending time here. Like many Americans in the Mid-Atlantic region, I have a lot of ancestors from Northern Ireland. The relevant genealogical records available online are spotty and I’m hoping the archives in Belfast will help me break through a couple of family history brick walls. I warned Jack that I’d be spending some time in front of a microfilm reader and he’ll need to amuse himself for a while.

The archive is a beautiful building and I registered for a visitor pass — valid for ten years! — then settled in to the main research room with a notebook, my iPad and a pencil in a clear plastic bag. I love the rules and rituals of an archive. A few other researchers and a librarian helped me get oriented and I set to work. After plowing through the search-only catalogue and a dizzying six hours reading microfilm of handwritten 18th and 19th century parish records I came to the disappointing conclusion that I‘m not going to experience the joy of finding the exact records that bridge the gap between Philadelphia and Northern Ireland. I’m going to need a new strategy.

Back at the ranch, we found a fantastic parkup right on the water where we can watch the comings and goings of boats large and small and, of course, have lively conversations with anyone who passes by.