A wee castle
I had not slept well. The night before, my king sized bed had split in half in the night and tried to eat me. I dreamed of being slowly constricted by a snake only to wake up suffocated by 600 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
So I was tired and grumpy and sleep deprived. Even so, I was happy to be exploring the coast. I stuffed a scone down my gob and slurped down some scalding coffee and lugged my suitcase to the van and got in and pulled the hood of my hoodie over my head and hoped nobody talked to me. I’m not a morning person under the best of circumstances, and this wasn’t it. I was surrounded by morning people and talkers. I was on a group tour, it was small, but it’s not my favorite way to travel.
My guide, Victoria, was cheerful and she prattled on about the history of Northern Ireland, and America’s many links to Ulster, including a large chunk of our Presidents, and many of our actors and singers. She talked about the history of the road we were driving on, and how it hadn’t existed until relatively recently. (Which meant about a hundred years ago.) As we drove along, and as I looked out the window, and as the caffeine kicked in, my spirits improved. The scenery was stunning: craggy rocks, lush mountains, including what Victoria felt to be the face of Elvis, but I thought resembled Conan O’Brien, looking up into space. Supposedly that same rock inspired the Irish writer Jonathan Swift when he was writing Gulliver’s Travels.
As we left Belfast and its religious Troubles behind, we entered a land of druids and fairies, and as we drove through a tunnel Victoria suggested I make a wish to whatever fairy’s jurisdiction that tunnel belonged. (It seems doubly tragic that a country should suffer so much strife based upon religion when its people are making wishes to fairies.)
We were really close to Scotland now. In fact, before the road I was on existed, most people in this part of Northern Ireland crossed the sea to Scotland for their needs. “Hey honey, I want some ice cream, let’s cruise over to Scotland…” This closeness has given the region its own unique accent, a rather sing songy Scots-Irish-English-Other sound that is none of those and all of those and really hard not to emulate. The voice is hypnotic as it goes up and down and then up and down again in its uniquely harmonic way. (I found myself recording it from time to time, because I knew when I got home I would miss it.)
The coastal road sort of reminded me – slightly – of driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, in California, albeit without the American cheese: no billboards or fast food restaurants or ancient Greece-inspired gated retirement communities could be found—but the mountains and the lush greenery and the blue water off to the right reminded me of Cambria or Morro Bay.
We passed through fishing villages and lots of steep mountains filled with lots of sheep and horses. Dapper old men with finely quilted wool caps walked spaniels and border collies along the side of the road.
We were driving through the Glens of Antrim. I just love that name. It sounds so old and otherworldly; a place out of a J.R.R. Tolkien novel. In fact one would not be surprised to run into a Hobbit walking through one of the amazingly lush green valleys.
A wee castle
GLENARM
We came to Glenarm, to check out the Walled Garden. Glenarm is home to Glenarm Castle and the MacDonnell Clan, who are quite big in these parts, even today. Our guide is Adrian, and everything he says, every story he tells, are amazing and hilarious and bring tears to your eyes. Unfortunately, they all end with, “of course, ya canna be telling tha’ to newbody. Tha’s our wee secret, tha story.” This is unfortunate, because my notebook is filled with one great off the record story after another. (Adrian is not a guide so much as he is the estate manager, so his stories are so much of the behind the scenes kind.)
We were on our way to Giants Causeway, a place I knew nothing about. And I’m glad I was so ignorant. For all I knew we were on our way to see some new interstate convergence. We were also on our way to Carrick-a-rede rope bridge; and based upon how badly Victoria and the driver were working the thing up – “they call it the bridge of death!” – I fully expected to be disappointed. Victoria went on and on about how much she hated it, but there was a twinkle in her eye, so I figured it was all for show.
CARRICK-A-REDE ROPE BRIDGE
“It’s blowing pretty bad out there. It’s about 40 knots and climbing. If you want to cross the bridge you better do it soon,” the guy who handed Victoria the tickets said. I wasn’t worried. If it was remotely dangerous there wouldn’t be a huge line of geriatric tourists lined up to cross it. Nobody would be lined up to cross it, if it was dangerous. The bridge was originally built by fisherman, who crossed the wooded bridge to check their nets. Thankfully, today the bridge has two railings instead of just one.
It’s really windy, not that you can tell.
It was a warm day and I wasn’t sure I needed a jacket, but 40 knots is a lot of wind, so I took it. I’m glad I did. Once I got off the bus and passed the gift shop and started on the path to the bridge, the wind stormed up the steep slope from the sea like an angry beast. The coast here is wonderful and full of turquoise blue and aquamarine and the kinds of emerald and jade greens I have always associated with Ireland.
It’s very picturesque, and so I took lots of pictures. I walked around a jagged grouping of rocks and started walking down and there was the bridge. It’s not a long bridge, but it does look a little on the rustic side. There was a guy with a walkie talkie and an official looking red jacket warning all tourists to be careful.
“It’s not a day to be taking pictures out there. Just cross the wee bridge and use both hands when you do. The wind is quite lively.”
Whatever. You would think I was getting ready to cross a tightrope. I walked down some steps and then I was on the bridge. And I immediately felt myself tossed around and found myself holding onto the rope handrail very tightly indeed. The bridge had its own weather pattern, and the wind here was shrieking mad. I leaned into the wind that beat about me in blustery gusts and made my way across. On the other side was an island of green grass, and more wind. I found myself wondering why fisherman would need to come over here. It was a just a tiny green mound of angry wind and sheer craggy walls down into the frothy sea below. (There was nobody to ask, and, if there was, they wouldn’t have heard my question anyway. Even if you yelled, the wind took whatever you were saying away from you and out to sea.)
On the return trip I walked with more confidence. I’m a quick learner apparently when it comes to rope bridge walking. It was over. The bridge of death. Hardly. But the fresh sea air was certainly exhilarating. It was like a natural spa treatment, being in the face of that wind. In the bathroom next to the gift shop I noticed my face was the color of freshly boiled lobster.
To Be Continued…
