"For I am running to paradise; and all I have to do is wish . . ."
- W. B. Yeats, from Running to Paradise
I had dragged my feet for over a year about visiting Northern Ireland. No one talked about going there as a tourist, the BBC had too many stories about riots and bombings, and the bus, train and flight arrangements always seemed too difficult. But my daughter essentially ordered me to buy a ticket, and my friends in Belfast were insistent. So at the very last minute I went wild and arranged to go.
I only had a vague idea of what I wanted to see in Northern Ireland, just some on-line suggestions, so my good friend Michelle suggested we drive along the coastal road of County Antrim. It turned out that the three things I had wondered about seeing are on that route, the first being Carrickfergus Castle on the north side of Belfast Lough.
We were reconciled to rain--the usual weather in Ireland at this time of year, but we were all fine with that, including the three youngest boys who wanted to come with us.
The brochure had read, in part, that "Carrickfergus Castle is a striking feature from land, sea and air." [I had seen it when flying in!] "Steeped in over 800 years of history, it is sure to impress its visitors with its strength and menace. It has survived attacks by Scots, English, Irish and French [and probably the Welsh, my Newfoundland stock] and even served as an air raid shelter for the people of Carrickfergus during WW II. In 1928 it was placed into state care and is now managed by the Northern Ireland Environment Agency."
The Keep was built in 1177 by John de Courcy. With my pose beside the Gatehouse, which I have posted on Facebook, I explained that it was built 1225-1250, and among other things mentioned that it had "murder holes." So I defined them for an inquisitive Facebook Friend as "holes in the roof of a passage through which defenders could pour hot oil or shoot arrows at the attackers." My sister-in-law replied with succinctness: "Deep fried and skewered!"
Originally, Carrickfergus seemed destined to become the principal city in the area, but that base shifted to Belfast. In fact, the name Carrickfergus Lough was changed to Belfast Lough. Here is part of the coastal port beneath the Castle.
Across the water on a clear day, we should see Bangor and Holywood. Today it rains.
Carrickfergus Castle seems well maintained and we all agreed that while there is a certain gimmick to providing life-size models of archers (and riflemen) on the ramparts and a modern interior core to the Keep, these things are needed to persuade tourists--especially with children--to come and pay the admission prices and purchase castle "gifts." Kids love to see trebuchets!
Large board games in the "great hall" in the Keep entertained the boys.
Another world next to the Castle in the harbour: a class in "sailing."
We drove along the coast and finally stopped for photos and sandwiches at the roadside near Glenarm, where signage explained that these are Upper Cretaceous Limestone cliffs.
And that the beach consists of limestone and basalt debris from the cliffs above. The rain has eased, at Carron Point across the bay, it looks like the mists are lifting.
As we drove further, we came upon the village of Carnlough across the water.
There truly is a mystical quality to this countryside, lush and green. I recall lines from a poem, somewhat apropos, by Seamus Heaney:
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.
Arriving at Glenariffe (Waterfoot) looking towards Cushendall.
Then, as we followed the Loughareema Road, through Moyle, the skies began to brighten.
Moments later, as we arrived to look down at the town of Ballintoy, the sun broke through and for the rest of the day we enjoyed glorious skies.
W. B. Yeats, in Those Images, wrote:
What if I bade you leave
The cavern of the mind?
There's better exercise
In the sunlight and the wind.
East of Ballintoy is a remarkable place to visit: Carrick-a-Rede Island in Larrybane Bay.
Carrick-a-Rede may mean "the rock in the road," the "rock" referring to the main isle in the group and the "road" a reference to the sea route of migrating Atlantic Salmon, for it is the fishery of these Salmon that has made the island famous, the fishery running from 1620-2002. In 1962, the fishermen were still catching 300 Salmon per day; today there are none. The migrating Salmon would go around the island into the nets attached to the rocks and stretched to the east. For over 100 years these were Scottish-style bag nets.
To keep boats away from the nets, the fishermen devised an ingenious method for crossing from the mainland: the famous Carrick-a-Rede Rope Ladder.
The first rope bridge here was mentioned in 1755, and for 150 years it had only a single hand rope to hold to and was much lighter. Visiting in 1784, naturalist and clergyman Rev. Dr. William Hamilton wrote:
"I went a short way off the beaten track to see a whimsical little fishing rock, connected to the main land by a very extraordinary flying bridge!"
The custom for the fishermen was to remove the bridge at the end of each season, and that same schedule is adhered to for visitors: The National Trust hires Rope Access Specialists to dismantle and reassemble the bridge for tourists from April to September. Today, up to 130,000 are coming each season to Carrick-a-Rede, and many are crossing the bridge, which is strung 30 metres across the chasm, rocky and sandy at low tide.
Of greater commercial importance was Larrybane Head, which was quarried for chalk from the 1930s. By the mid-1950s much of the head had been destroyed including an ancient Iron Age fortress from AD 800. Quarrying ended in the 1970s and the National Trust purchased the site in 1978, removing most of the quarry buildings (except for the giant kiln) and creating scenic and safe pathways and stairs along the cliff tops. Earlier, hard black dolerite had been quarried above the headlands, from the 1870s. Almost no visible traces remain, and it seems to me a good reclaiming of the land for a new purpose, tourism and conservation.
This is a magical coast. One of its most poignant tales is recorded in the booklet I purchased:
"The Children of Lir were cursed by their stepmother and turned into swans for 900 years. They spent 300 years of this banishment on the stormy Sea of Moyle, which is the name for the waters around this part of the coast. When they finally regained human form, Christianity had arrived in Ireland. Just before they died, the Children of Lir--now old and frail--were blessed by one of St Patrick's followers on the island of Inishglora off Ireland's west coast, where they had spent the last years of their exile."
"For the boiling breakers are ever dashing themselves madly
between the rocks hundreds of feet beneath,
and the rope bridge is thrown about by the wind like a fabric of thread.
Few trust themselves upon this airy fabrication but Mr Wilson and I
for the honor of Old Kentucky,
braved all its terrors--and passed to and from the rock."
--Excerpt from a letter written in 1851 by Charles Leonard Thomassan, Kentucky, a visitor to Carrick-a-Rede.
I know exactly how he felt, but for the honour of Old Nova Scotia (and refusing to be shown up by three boys aged 5-10) I braved the bouncing ropes and crossed over, even smiling.
But that wasn't the end of it. Once across the bridge we had to climb a rocky path to the summit.
I confess to being more than nervous. There is nothing to hold on to except a flimsy rope marker!
Once there, I managed to stand up long enough as we posed for a photo. Behind us is Rathlin Island, which includes the Ballyconogan Nature Preserve (and only 70 people). It would be well worth the boat trip to see. Apparently, on even clearer days, one can see the two Scottish isles, Islay and Jura. I also posed for a photo with Bird Island in the background.
The water is beautifully clear and turquoise to blue-green. The bridge crosses the gap at right.
Unfortunately, there is only one way back to the mainland--the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge. I was far more nervous returning and my vertigo was not helped when some young adults following me decided to jump up and down. I was too frightened to be angry. I purchased a certificate to prove that I had crossed the bridge and had returned! (I was also tired after all this: it required a 2-km walk to complete the mission.) However, it was warm and sunny and the boys seemed to love the adventure!
"Legend has it that an Irish giant, Fion mac Cumhaill (Finn MacCool), built the Causeway to reach Scotland to fight the Scottish giant, Benandonner."
I knew something about The Giant's Causeway, just west of Ballintoy. In 1986 it was awarded Ireland's only designation of a World Heritage Site. The reasons, of course, were not based on legends, but on geology: It is "a classic locality for the development and weathering of features associated with basaltic lava flows, and, in particular, is noted for its magnificent columnar structures." When we first approached, after another 1.2-km hike, I was underwhelmed. But then, as it became more obvious what phenomenal natural forces had created this landscape, I felt more and more impressed.
In a sense there are two sections to the Causeway--the Grand Causeway rises from the sea and widens to a platform that then narrows as it rises towards the mountain above. Like stepping stones, the columns of basalt seem each to be separate but are massed together like segments of uneven parquet flooring.
The Middle Causeway has what seems like a mound in the centre, called the Wishing Chair.
Despite the presence of dozens of visitors, this young woman seems very much to be sitting alone, and I realized that as I stepped from stone to stone I could suddenly look around and see no one--that I could feel solitude.
I am questioned about how I manage photos of crowded places without revealing the humans milling about. My glib answer is that it takes patience. Point the camera and wait until no one is in the frame. Only once did I actually ask a person to leave the frame.
This seems an isolated spot, but there probably 50 people standing behind me.
Science explains that the columns were created when the lake of volcanic lava that was spewed here cooled very slowly, like mud might cool, and cracked. The cracks ran from the top to the bottom of the lava pool, forming columns. Horizontal cracks in the columns gave rise to ball and socket joints with concave and convex surfaces. There are 38,000-40,000 columns, most being 6 or 5 sided, but some have 4, 7, or even eight sides. The tallest are about 12 metres in height.
Only one other person ventured out this far and after they took my picture they moved out of the way so that I could show the Grand Causeway stretching to Scotland.
As Finn crossed the Irish Sea on his causeway, he saw that his Scottish adversary was much bigger than he was, so he fled back to Ireland. Benandonner gave chase. Finn's wife, Oonagh, saw Benandonner approaching in the distance. She hid Finn by dressing him as a baby and putting him to bed.
When Bennandonner arrived, he yelled, "Where's Finn? Where is the coward hiding?" Oonagh told him that Finn was hunting and invited him to wait. When she showed Benandonner the 'baby,' she whispered, "Be quiet, or you'll waken the bairn!"
Peering at the child, the Scottish giant got quite a shock: if the baby was that big, what size must his father be! Benandonner took fright and fled back to Scotland, ripping up the Causeway as he went so Finn could not follow.
Although warning signs about possible waves are posted, I ignored them and walked out towards the water, getting wet, and ignoring how sloppy I looked while asking for someone to take the picture.
My sister-in-law recently visited Scotland, and she went to Bennandonner's end of the Giant's Causeway, at Staffa in Scotland. The similarities are fascinating and the legend is wonderful.
[Three photos from Staffa, Scotland, May 2010 by Brenda Sheppard.]
The cliffs rising above the waters and beaches at the Giant's Causeway are accessible; some people choose to follow the paths along the top of the cliffs. They can climb down to the Causeway via the very steep Shepherd's Path--all 102 of them.
These basalt columns across the water (Port Noffer) have been named The Chimneys. Below, I point out to one of the lads the columnar structures in the cliffs.
These are called The Organ.
The Grand Causeway rises towards the mountain, called Aird Snout, which shows the eyes, nose, mouth and chin of Finn MacCool's face.
The folks standing on Finn's "nose" have taken the upper pathway; they can climb down here by taking the Shepherd's Path, down the cliff to the left.
The Middle Causeway also runs out under the sea, but there is no indication of how far. I am standing with my back to the Wishing Chair whilst a lively family is sharing wishes right behind me.
The Giant's Causeway is the most visited tourist attraction in Ireland, but it was not crowded. My initial lukewarm reaction evaporated as I stepped from rock to rock and pondered the marvel of its creation 60 million years ago. As a World Heritage Site, it will not be ruined. In fact, this whole Causeway Coast appears to have as a focus the preservation of the natural beauty and formations, and its fish, birds and wildlife. As tourism develops in Northern Ireland it will get busier, but the Causeway Coast Road is excellent and the road is not lined with tacky tourist traps.
Walking back to the parking lot and gifts shops, toilets, etc. we passed the cove called Portnaboe, and saw the formation called The Camel Back. The "camel" looks toward The Brenther Slip.
Not far down the road, between Portballintrae and Portrush, is Dunluce Castle, but it was closed for the day when we got there. Still, a worthwhile spot for some photos.
Dunluce Castle was build by Richard Óg de Burgh, 2nd Earl of Ulster, in the 1200s, and is now in ruins. Some might recognize its image from the 1973 Led Zeppelin gatefold in their album Houses of the Holy or from the movies Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure and Charlie Chan's The Medallion, where it made a pretty decent villain's lair.
The distillery at Bushmills was also closed for the day, so we began the hour-long drive back to Belfast. I wanted to drive past Ballymena since the only Irish forbears I know about likely came from here. Our birth certificates state that our heritage is English/Irish/Scots/Welsh, but Pop may just have been having fun. There are lots of Newfoundland Irish, but all the families we have traced are either from the South of England or from Wales.
Still, on my mother's side, I have an Irish great-great grandfather, Thomas McHenry, born in New Brunswick, but whose father William was a soldier born in Ballymena in County Antrim in 1789. Since Ballymena is essentially a Protestant area (with strong Scottish connections that explain his marriage to a Scottish woman named Barr), I need to further research the Catholic McHenrys. My mother told me her great-grandfather was a "denominational man" and he certainly he was not Catholic when he married her great-grandmother, Mary Ann Bill, daughter of the well-known Baptist Pastor, the Reverend Ingraham Ebenezer Bill. After Mary Ann's untimely death, and the birth of my mother's grandmother, Thomas remarried, this time to a Catholic woman. He is buried in the Catholic Cemetery in St Andrews, New Brunswick.
This was not a genealogical research trip, and Ballymena in 2010 bears little resemblance to what it was like in the early 1800s, so we bypass the town. Yet this is the countryside that my great-great-great grandfather left behind to come to Canada, and it is nice to have at least driven through here.
We arrive back in Belfast and sip an excellent Belfast beer, HARP, whilst Justin cooks a gourmet Chinese dish that I will rave about for a long time. We all talk well into the night, sipping on a good bottle of wine, planning for the next day. Michelle had suggested Downpatrick south of Belfast to trace the story of St Patrick, but I have decided we should stay in Belfast and learn about its regenerative growth in the past decade, and about The Troubles, the tragic sectarian turmoils still facing this country.
