Tag Archives: Wild Atlantic Coast

Making way while the sun shines

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Ballintoy village from Carrick-a-Rede cliffs

We never had any intention of walking across the rope bridge at Carrick-a-Rede, so we almost skipped the sight altogether. Heights are not our thing, especially on a 66-foot length of flexible surface suspended between two large rocks 98 feet above the North Atlantic. But we thought we’d stop by to watch others take the challenge. We had walked out to the Giant’s Causeway that morning, and then had a nice lunch in the town of Bushmills. (No, not a liquid lunch.) The sun was still shining gloriously when we emerged from the restaurant. We needed to be outdoors.

Sheep Island

Carrick-a-Rede (pronounced Carrick-a-Reedy) is from Scottish Gaelic, Carraig-a-Rade, meaning “rock in the road,” the “rock” being a plug blown out of a volcanic vent 60 million years ago and the “road” being the sea route for Atlantic salmon on their westward journey past Carrick Island off the northern coast of Ireland. 

Carrick Island

Over 350 years ago fishermen began to set their nets in the salmon-rich waters around Carrick Island, but they needed a way to check on them without having to launch a boat into the turbulent Atlantic each time. So they strung a rope bridge across the gap between mainland and island to give them access to their nets. (Though I can’t imagine crossing a flimsy bridge during hazardous weather conditions on the North Atlantic any more than I can imagine taking a boat out in it.)

Rathlin Island on left, near background; Scotland on right, far background

Fishermen no longer use the rope bridge, as there is no wild salmon in this part of the Atlantic anymore, so the bridge has become a tourist attraction—of the extreme sort. One source has it that there are some people who cross it once, and refuse to walk back across it. They have to be rescued from the island by boat.

Rule #1: Never partake in an activity where a defibrillator may be required.

The walk out to the bridge (on solid road) was spectacular—some of the best weather we’ve experienced lately and some of the most beautiful landscape. The Antrim Coast is every bit as gorgeous as the western Atlantic coast of Ireland. 

today’s rope bridge is substantially stronger than past bridges

Great day to be outdoors. Great day to watch crazy tourists get their adrenaline rush for the day.

in the far distance, Fair Head, the northeast corner of Ireland

Slipping over the border

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Horn Head

The day promised to be wet and windy, like 25 mph windy. But despite the horizontal rain we had in the early morning, it was relatively calm and dry as we checked out of our Airbnb and started our trek to Northern Ireland. We thought we’d squeeze in a sight or two, as long as the weather held. Our first, Horn Head, was only ten miles north, on the northern coast of Ireland, but by the time we got there the wind had picked up again. Or maybe we were just more exposed on this cliff 600 feet above the Atlantic. I was afraid to stand too near the edge, the wind was that strong. And then the rain started. I opted to shift my vantage point to the warmth of the car.

Lough Swilly with Inch Island midstream

An Grianán, one of those cool, circular Stone Age forts on a hill overlooking Lough Swilly, was our second stop, an easy forty miles closer to our destination. Lough Swilly is another one of those Irish fjords [Irish fjords], this one much longer and wider than Killary Harbour.

The wind at the top of the hill was ferocious. Jackets whipped liked sails in a tempest. Hair plastered to faces making it difficult to see. The temperature plummeted. I watched tourists trying to take photos in the elements. I just didn’t have it in me to get out of the car. Marcus found a parking spot overlooking the lough, and that’s where we enjoyed our English picnic. [Going local] One of the best views on a picnic so far, and no chasing sandwich wrappers and napkins across the car park.

As we drove down the hill from the fort, I entered the address of our Derry Airbnb into the SatNav (car navigation system). ETA: 15 minutes. What? That can’t be right. We’re still in Ireland. I looked up and saw a line on the road about fifty feet in front of the car, where the pavement was darker and smoother. I laughed. “I bet that’s the border.” Sure enough. No border control, not so much as a sign, just more cow pasture and white cottages. The few cars we encountered on this little slip of a farm road now had UK plates. 

“Welcome to the United Kingdom!” I said to Marcus.

Anti-climatic? Not at all. I hope that’s as much of a border as there will ever be between these two countries. And is it too much to hope that one day there is no border at all, physical or otherwise?

Downpatrick Head

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Downpatrick Head, a cleft in the far cliffs

Downpatrick Head. In the far northern reaches of County Mayo. Not too far off the main road. A simple walk from the car park. Only fifteen minutes required to take it all in, if you’re in a hurry. But don’t be; it’s breathtaking.

It was barely a mention in Fodor’s Essential Ireland, but it called to me. I knew that despite it being a wee bit off the beaten path, I had to see it. My instincts were right. It is one of the most stunning visuals I have yet to experience on this beautiful island. But then, I always have been a sucker for a sea stack.

rapidly eroding cliffs and subsidence risks
dangerous blowhole, but well marked

As we crossed the field on our walk up to the cliffs, we encountered several blowholes where the rock has eroded from underneath as a result of the Atlantic’s relentless barrage. You can look down into these holes—100 or more feet deep—and see ocean. One day our solitary sea stack may have company.

While Marcus was walking the cliffs, he heard voices but no one was nearby. Intrigued, he walked in the direction of the voices and discovered this blowhole, without so much as a warning sign near it. Good thing he was watching where he was walking—thanks to the many sheep that had recently visited the field. He peered into the yawning hole and saw people below swimming.

this one, not so well marked

Downpatrick Head, or Dún Briste (Broken Fort) in Irish, was once a part of the mainland. It now stands 262 feet offshore. The rock that once bridged the gap was gradually undermined by the wild Atlantic and finally gave up the ghost in hurricane-force winds in 1393.

It’s recorded that “several families” were isolated on the stack as a result of the collapse and had to be rescued with ropes. From 164 feet above the sea. In the 14th century. We’re not talking helicopter rescue here. Ay, yi, yi! Just the thought makes my knees ache.

Almost as impressive as this beautiful sea stack is the vegetation that grows on the cliffs. I have never seen or felt anything like it. It grows in soft, spongy mounds that made me want to spring from one to the next like a kid on a trampoline. The foliage is compact with pliable, yew-like “needles” rather than leaves or blades. Wee pink flowers were just starting to bloom on the surfaces. I think they may be sea pinks or thrift, as it’s called in Ireland, an indigenous wildflower often found on sea cliffs. I’d never realized foliage could be so much fun!

sea pinks?

Downpatrick’s Head was an incredible find. So glad I’d stumbled across it in Fodor’s before our trip, or we may have missed it.

Sing it, Lionel!

I got a chuckle out of the sign on this food truck at the car park. Can’t you just hear Lionel serenading tourists as they pass by?

Blown away

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We were having lunch in a pub on our first day exploring Killarney when I overheard snatches of a weather report on TV:  Storm Hannah…drenching rains…hurricane-force winds. “Here?” I asked Marcus. I know it rains a lot on the Wild Atlantic Coast, but hurricane-force winds? We checked it out online when we got back to our cottage in Kenmare. Sure enough, the next day was going to be a good one to be indoors. Sounds like a day off.

the unspoiled Beara hills

When you travel for three months, you need to take a day off from sightseeing at least once a week. Laundry needs to be done, bills need to be paid, yoga needs to be practiced, and, if we’re going to continue to enjoy our travels, downtime needs to be savored. Every now and again, you just need a break.

the Wild Atlantic Coast of Beara

One of my tasks for the day was to map out the weather for the next few days. I had three day-trips in mind, so I checked the forecast for each location. Two of the three were going to be ugly the following day, so by default the Beara Peninsula was our next destination.

Eyeries

There are three fingerling peninsulas that jut out into the Atlantic on the southwest Irish coast. From south to north, they are the Beara; the Iveragh, where the ever popular Ring of Kerry is; and the Dingle, which is growing rapidly in popularity with tourists looking for a little less traffic than Iveragh offers. There wasn’t much in the guidebook to recommend Beara, but it started popping up in conversation with the locals we’ve talked to about our itinerary. “Are you going to visit Beara then? Ah, it’s grand. Very unspoiled and quiet.” I began to sense that it’s where the Irish travel to get away from the tourists. After spending Easter Week in the resort town of Cobh, Beara sounded refreshing. But most importantly, on the day after the storm it was the only place on the west coast where the sun was expected to shine.

as the Greeks would say, many sheep upon the water today

Hannah ushered in a cold front, and the day after her visit the temperature as we left Kenmare was 40 degrees. No sweat (literally), as long as it’s not raining. We drove down the north side of the Beara peninsula, along the Kenmare River—a collection of cute little fishing villages linked by the longest, windiest road in Europe, so they say. The river is more like a long bay between two peninsulas. We could see the Iveragh Peninsula across the way. I could imagine all the Ring of Kerry tourists, climbing down off their tour buses and gazing back at us from the other side. I waved into the haze.

the southwestern tip of the Beara Peninsula

But the most amazing views of the entire drive were at the far end of the peninsula. We rounded a bend in the road and descended a steep hill toward the village of Allihies. Nothing but mountains, farms, and the Wild Atlantic. We were blown away.

Beara farm