Whistle-stop to Ballycastle

Kinbane Castle, Antrim

We leave Belfast on a hot, early summer’s morning. Our stay had been interesting, albeit short lived. And the most interesting part of the road trip had just begun: a winding drive along the coast of Northern Ireland.

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What to do on a May Bank Holiday? How about a 1,000 mile round trip to the edges of the UK? That’s how it happened, really. The blossom and opportunity heralded by late spring had rekindled a desire to get on the road. A desire for sun-kissed, deserted hills and unspoilt beaches, enjoyed without choking on Euro rates.  So the plan formed: get out of London, full steam ahead to Stranraer for the fast-cat to Belfast. Take battered Volvo, a boot-load of things packed with haste and without much thought (including tent, walking boots, sun cream and a good book). And be back in London within four days.

Fast-forward 450 miles. Within half an hour of setting off, Belfast’s central grid has given way to the winding roads of the countryside. The sea is flat and calm as we pass the old ship yard, famous for producing the Titanic a century before.  

The journey had been mostly motorway or darkness up to now; thus far the tour had been about speed and progress. But this changes as we turn Cloghan Point. The empty road curls around the sea-cliffs into the distance. The speed drops, windows are rolled down, sun glasses come on. We’re On The Road.

Through Ballygalley, Glenarm, Knocknacarry, the A2 follows the join of sea and cliff. Rough limestone rock threatens the road’s existence at frequent intervals; sometimes the spurs protrude so sharply into the sea the road has to cut through by way of a thin, chiselled arch like a gothic window. Linear fishing villages are tightly packed on the flat, appearing as solitary hamlets in the scenery. Often groups of bikers pass with patched jackets and trailing beards from a lifetime on the road. At least that’s how it seems to me.  

The A2 disappears inland to cut off the head of Murlough Bay. Here the Antrim Hills rise more steeply, and following the coast means continuing on roads barely wider than farmers’ tracks. The gradients increase, the engine strains. Small farmsteads dot the hills to a backdrop of yellow/auburn bracken and deep blue. In the distance, through the haze, is the Mull of Kintyre.

We reach Ballycastle late afternoon. The town is built on several steep hills and curves around a crescent bay of white sand, empty apart from a few families and lone figures dog-walking. The town itself hums to the chatter of tourists and locals from the surrounding areas, brought here by its small collection of shops and the Bank Holiday weather. It’s also known as the gateway to Rathlin Island five miles north, the Giant’s Causeway, and the Glens of Antrim. The place and landscape builds a picturesque scene.

But to delve into the town’s history reveals a bloodier past, blighted by medieval battles with the English and warring lords several centuries ago, and IRA attributed bombs as recently as 20 years ago. Now, though, the telltale burnt rubber marks of joy-riders on the country roads appear to be the biggest worry for local authority.   

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 A single-track road slips down the hillside to Kinbane Head. From here a secluded path steeply descends the cliff face to the bay below. Around a corner and the bay unfolds, revealing a rocky beach and dark caves surrounded by sheer limestone walls. In the centre, on a wild outcrop, stands the ruin of Kinbane Castle. Noble and desolate, it is slowly being claimed by the sea.

It feels like there is no one else here. Not just the immediate surrounding, but further afield. The sun drops behind the head and the sky ruptures into red and crimson. London, in time, distance, thought, lore, seems a million miles away.

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