Antrim Coast on four wheels

The morning we left Portstewart, Susan discovered she had a flat tyre (the first, and thankfully the only of the whole trip). Patched and loaded we heded along the Norhtern coast line towards the Giants Causeway. Along the way we made a stop in the village of Bushmills, famous for their tequila we think? We wandered the premises of the distillery and departed after a relaxed sipping of product. Another hour of riding found us at the Causeway.



Literally as we parked the bicycles against the wall, the skies above opened up, again. We quickly swaithed ourselves in impermeable layers and hiked down to the fourth greatest natural wonder of the United Kingdom. As we set foot on the trail the rain halted and we received many snickers from passers by. Yet it was us who laughed last for the rains began again with even more force and less mercy. The formations were fascinating and we explored in depth for hours. Once top side we nestled in for a hot pot of tea and smuggled in supplies for guerrilla sandwich-making. We hoped to bypass the rain but it only grew stronger as the day became evening.



What Alex deems the worst ride of the trip, and Susan the most beautiful we pushed on to Ballycastle. We passed on the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, closed due to inclement weather and rode between a thick, white fog and a slippery black-top. On clear days this route must have taken one through magnificent coastal vistas. Today was not such a day. On the outskirts of Ballycastle was myriad of cookie cutter homes; in the skirts of Ballycastle, a wealth of misinformation and no vacancy signs. With puddles in our shoes and chilled to the bone, we rang several unresponsive B & B's and used up the rest of our sterling in a phone booth pleading for accommodation's. Our prayers were answered when a black SUV stopped in the round-about, rolled down the window and motioned us over. "I'm with the Hostel. You called for a room? Follow me". We followed her to the hostel with a no vacancy sign in the window and were provided shelter for the night in a private dormitory.



With the forecast continuing it's onslaught, we packed up and continued on down the Antrim coast. The morning brought on a hill climb that found us once again in the clouds. We traveled through dense forest regions and past several lakes. A long descent found us riding along just above the ocean. The shoreline was composed of millions of chalk white and onyx colored stones made round by millennia of Northern tides. It was along this coast where Alex stopped and removed the plastic protective cover of his bikes head badge, christening his trusty steed the Liam.


Nearing evening we arrived in the port/ferry town of Larne. We dismounted and followed misdirecting signs to an elusive tourist information center. During this search, it became apparent how devoid the city was of any central lodgings. After walking the town in circles, we stumbled upon the information center after posted hours.It was lodges discreetly between the freeway entrance and a mega super store. Cold, wet and tired we stood dumbfounded, waiting for a sign from the heavens. Just then the door opened and a late working employee invited us in. She made phone calls to numerous B & B's all booked for the evening. Alas a vacant room was found. A bridal suite that was offered at regular price... we took it. Sure enough the B & B was found on the peripheries of town along the bay where the super ferry to Scotland made it's comings and goings. An aristocratic Irish woman let us inside after providing lodging for our bikes and we climed the ornate saircase lined with needlepoint relics and tapestries up to our suite. Greeting us was a queen size four post canopy bed, leather couch, off set tea room, plasma television, and a bathroom divided by mirrored doors...our finest room yet. Needles to say it was where we spent our luxurious and lazy evening. After several pots of tea and many dunken digestives we wondered out in the fog to find some first class chips and a pint. Alexander with a heaping pile of curry chips and Susan with a chip buddy in hand we sat royally upon the couch watching into the mirror the reflection of a T.V. program depicting Ewan McGreggor ridding on motor bike through Mongolia into Russia following Lenin's infamous trail of bones. Truly a welcomed mindless indulgence.