I knew I’d been bewitched by back-country Antrim when I caught myself waving
to pedestrians from my car. No rational reason for this – just waving like
an imbecile at random passers-by.
I think it had something to do with the region’s peculiar sequestered
atmosphere. Until the 1830s, when the first coast road was chipped into the
chalk cliffs, this was bandit country, cut off from civilised Ireland by the
hunchbacked Antrim hills, and superstition and magic still inhabit everyday
parlance here. Never mind leprechauns – there’s the vindictive pooka, the
hirsute grogoch and the watershee, a sort of mythic Katie Melua who lures
travellers into the bogs with her somnolent singing, then devours their
souls. In days past, strangers in the district would tie a hazel wand to
their horse as protection against fairies.
This weekend itinerary couldn’t be more straightforward: two days, one road –
the marvellous A2, piped into a narrow groove between the mountains and the
shore. The first day is leisurely, across the ice-gouged estuaries of the
nine glens of Antrim, pausing only to skim stones on red curls of beach,
sniff the fragrant blue peat smoke, or idle on harbour walls, wondering if
the fishing boats ever come and go. The second is jam-packed with
exhilaration, along the Giant’s Causeway coast, with its show-off geological
effects. Prepare for a visual assault course of giddying rope bridges,
foaming ravines and clifftop fortresses.
Strap a hazel twig to your bumper, and off we go.
DAY 1
Ballygalley to Cushendun
10am: Ballygalley is just up the coast from the ferry port at Larne – and a
properly Irish place to start, since it can’t decide how to spell its name.
The road signs say “Balleygalley”, but, like the post office, the Ballygally
Castle Hotel (028 2858 1066, www.hastingshotels.com;
doubles from £145, B&B) declines to have an “e”. And who’s to
argue? It’s by far the oldest building here.
The hotel is a 17th-century “tower house”, built by Scottish clan chiefs, and
has plenty of baronial ephemera: suits of armour, bog-yew thrones. Call in
for coffee so you can slink off to find the “ghost room”, where Lady
Isobella Shaw was imprisoned for failing to produce an heir. Her petticoats
are on the peg, and there’s a chamber pot with authentic-smelling slop, as
if she’s just popped out for a quick haunt. 11am: surge north along the A2,
under sea stacks and rocky archways, to visit a series of drowsy fishing
hamlets, dropped like drumlins at the foot of the glens. The best comes
early: Glenarm, with its spick-and-span street of Georgian cottages painted
in party-frock colours. Don’t miss Christina Steenson’s jewellery workshop
(028 2884 1445, www.thesteensons.com),
housed in the teak-lined counting house of an antique village bank, where
you can watch the whitecoated craftsmen snip, solder and fine.
12.30pm: after lunch (I can recommend the home-cooked ham sarnies at the
Londonderry Arms, in Carnlough), crack on north and divert inland along the
A43, tunnelling between hedgerows of wild fuchsia, full of red fairy lights
in summer.
Soon you’re at the top of Glenariff, the bonniest of all the Antrim glens.
Park at Glenariff forest park (£4 per car, www.forestserviceni.gov.uk),
break out your sturdiest footwear and follow the blue arrows to Essnalaragh,
a multistorey waterfall fizzing through a bosky black gulch.
As two-mile afternoon ambles go, this is a world-beater: a mad labyrinth of
twisting timber catwalks dodges in and out of the cascade, flecking your
cheeks with spray, until you feel yourself completely swept away by it. 6pm:
on to tonight’s lodgings, at Mary McFadden’s homely B&B in
Cushendun (028 2176 1554, www.drumkeeringuesthouse.com;
doubles £50). Mary is a complete star, and she’ll fill you C rick-up with
gory stories about supernatural Antrim and an artery-stiffening “Ulster Fry”
breakfast – that’s with black and white pudding, potato bread and soda
bread.
First, though, you need dinner. Try the Guinness pie at Mary McBride’s (028
2176 1511), which claims to have the smallest bar in Ireland. It measures
9ft by 5ft – just big enough for two stools, a counter fortified with
spirits, and lots of press cuttings about how it might be the smallest bar
in Ireland.
DAY 2
Cushendun to Bushmills
10am: this morning, the road becomes a rampart, spinning away from the A2 and
clawing along the clifftops of Fair Head – an eerie tableland where buzzards
hover, seals bark and (very probably) the watershee wails through the sea
mist. That distant glimmer of tartan is the Mull of Kintyre, slowly rolling
into the sea.
Two essential stops here: first, the ruined coastguard lookout on Torr Head,
shipwrecked on a rocky pinnacle where you can scramble up a rusty ladder and
look for minke whales snorkelling offshore. Next, Murlough Bay, which might
be the most beautiful abandoned colliery in the world. Spoil from the
miners’ cottages scatters the beach, and kohl-eyed lime kilns stare spookily
out to sea, like Easter Island totems. Prepare for windswept wonderment:
this is where you may start waving to pedestrians. Noon: Ballycastle returns
you to your senses with a jolt. We’re back on the A2 now, in a faded seaside
resort with bowling greens, all-weather tennis and a marina. In August, the
town stages Ireland’s most famous Lammas fair, but otherwise there is little
to detain you – except, perhaps, for Morton’s chippy, on the quay, primed
with just-caught cod from its own fishing shed. It’s the only chip shop I
know that serves fresh scallops (£3 for six). 1.30pm: eat up – you’ve now
turned the corner onto the B15, the Causeway Coast road, and it’s a drive
fit for heroes.
First stop is Carrick-a-Rede, where you pay £2.70 for the privilege of
teetering across a rope bridge above a chasm of churning surf (028 2076
9839, www.nationaltrust.org.uk).
The bridge seems to comprise 10 builders’ planks knotted together with
fishing net, and, while not very long, it is 100ft high and inescapably
wobbly.
For maximum fun, time your return crossing to coincide with the arrival of
small children, so you can whisper “Hope you make it” as they pass. 3pm:
beyond Carrick-a-Rede stretches White Park Bay, where Bronze Age burial
mounds bulge among the dunes. Then, climactically, we’re at the Giant’s
Causeway itself (028 2073 1855, www.nationaltrust.org.uk).
These 38,000 columns of basalt bizarreness have been perplexing travellers for
centuries. Depending on whom you believe, they were created either by
splintering volcanic lava or by a local ogre, Finn McCool, in a colossal
feat of crazy paving. Even if you visit after a tasting tour at the nearby
Bushmills distillery (028 2073 3218, www.bushmills.com;
£4.50,), they still don’t make sense.
The causeway often gets overrun by school parties playing 3-D hopscotch, so
your best tactic is to dodge along the quiet cliff path and sneak up on the
site from behind. Descend the Shepherd’s Steps, walk to the eyrie above Port
Reostan, then stand still – you’ll now hear something rather terrifying.
That guttural gurgle is the sound of the cliff face slowly cracking. 5.30pm:
best make tracks before the whole lot collapses. Fortunately, the Bushmills
Inn (028 2073 3000, www.bushmillsinn.com;
doubles from £138, B&B) is just up the road, and provides an ideal
hideout – in my book, it’s the snuggest hotel in Ireland. Check in, find a
peat-fired nook and toast your cockles over a chunk of hissing turf and a
16-year-old single malt.
Airlines flying to Belfast include Flybe (0871 522 6100, www.flybe.com),
Jet2 (0871 226 1737, www.jet2.com),
EasyJet (www.easyjet.com) and BMI Baby
(0871 224 0224, www.bmibaby.com). For
more information, call Antrim Tourism on 028 7032 7720 or visit www.causewaycoastandglens.com
