Ella Walker explores highlights of the Wild Atlantic Way and Northern Ireland's Causeway Coastal Route.
House martins and swallows are our constant companions, whether snapping up fluttering mayflies in the car park of Glencar Waterfall during a downpour, or swooping from the eaves of The Shandon Hotel overlooking Marble Hill Strand beach in Donegal, where linen-coloured sand slips into grey-green ocean.
It might have celebrated its 10th official birthday last year, but Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Highway has been used by generations of these nippy little migratory birds, who fly from the Sahara to spend their summers in the UK and Ireland.
And, clever things, they know about Northern Ireland’s Causeway Coastal Route too.
Aside from the 60 million-year-old natural geometrical marvel that is Giant’s Causeway, this 120-mile stretch of raggedy, bewitching coastline, which starts in Belfast and ends in Derry, often gets lopped off road trips.
But no more.
As part of the Shared Island initiative, which "aims to harness the full potential of the Good Friday Agreement to enhance cooperation, connection and mutual understanding on the island", Tourism Northern Ireland and Fáilte Ireland have teamed up to remind visitors that once you hit the end of the Wild Atlantic Way, the sea hasn’t run its course and the cliffs don’t peter out.
It is possible to do both stretches, from Kinsale, Cork up over the crook of the island’s north, to Belfast, over three to four weeks, but it’s surprising how much you can see in just a few days.
Although it would also be incredibly easy to stay put, wherever you end up. Like Paul Cole from the Whitehead Community Association, a "blow-in" who moved to the seaside town in the 1960s. He takes us on a gentle e-bike tour of the Blackhead Coastal Path.
"You can be born and never leave, but you can’t be buried here," he explains ominously, (it’s a town joke, there’s no graveyard) offering a paper bakery bag filled with Fifteens, a childhood treat made with 15 digestives, 15 marshmallows, 15 glace cherries and a tin of condensed milk.
Paul is a fierce champion of Whitehead, where you can have a cup of tea amongst hulking great locomotives at the Whitehead Railway Museum and watch house martins dance in front of a row of houses along the front that are as bright and multicoloured as a pack of brand new felt-tip pens.
He is devastated when we run out of time to pull a pint of Guinness* in his local Irish pub, but there’s whiskey to be drunk at Northern Ireland’s first whiskey hotel, The Harbourview Hotel in Ballymena.
Having paddled in swathes of seaweed while watching gannets dive bombing just off the shore at Carnlough Beach, I thought I was ready to warm up with some whiskey.
I should be, considering the recent boom in Irish whiskey (in 2012, there were just four distilleries; now there are 54), but drunk neat, it scalds my throat.
Adrian McLaughlin our host and co-owner of The Harbourview adds a pipette of water to my glass: "The water kicks the ass of the whiskey and says, ‘Get your flavours out there,’" he explains genially, and it works – suddenly it’s much more sippable.
My tastebuds happily don’t get a break whichever chunk of coast we’re on, as a rule, portion sizes are colossal, and the feeders generous.
At the Manor House on Rathlin Island (where Iolo Williams stayed while filming this year’s Springwatch), the decadent, moreish lobster Thermidor is the same fire hydrant red as the beaks of the puffins that bob about beneath the cliffs beneath Rathlin West Lighthouse.
"There’s a wee bit of chop," says our captain as I try to train my binoculars on the funny creatures. "You’ll be pleased to know we don’t charge you extra for the rollercoaster part of the trip."
At The Rusty Mackerel, a pub at the foot of Slieve League, the highest accessible cliffs in Europe – which on a damp, humid day are imposingly sheer and a-buzz with midges – the cheesy fish pie with a hunk of brown bread transports you forward in time to autumn, when the landscape is purpled all over with heather.
And at Willow and Lore a ‘fire, feast and folklore experience’, we slick Irish butter on crackers and potato bread so thickly that each bite leaves teeth marks.
No stop is as tasty as Derry though.
Much like its Peace Bridge, which elegantly bestrides the River Foyle, shaped like two hands reaching out to shake, Derry acts as a connecting, crossover point for the Wild Atlantic Way and the Causeway Coastal Route.
A roadside inn of a city, here you can eat well and rest up before embarking seamlessly on the next leg, whichever direction you’re travelling in.
Hannah Ramraj from Derry By Fork takes us on a tour that should come with a warning: do not eat breakfast first. The spicy, moreish Catanzaro sandwich – salame, ‘nduja with soft cow’s milk cheese and jalapenos in lightly crisped Tuscan schiacciata bread (from Italian deli Salumeria Mariuccia, run by Antonio Lovati), could power you through a week.
But to miss out on a pint of Dopey Dick on tap from Guildhall Taphouse – named after the orca that swam up the Foyle in 1977, would be a travesty.
As would skipping the fresh loaded nachos at Mexican street food joint Guapo, where there’s a queue out the door most days. Even owner Claire Mankoo’s daughter stands in line. "I tell her she doesn’t have to, but it’s all part of it. I don’t know if they’re checking out boys from the queue," she says with a laugh.
Coffee is vital too, preferably from Terra Bakehouse, where zero waste is fundamental; even leftover milk from the coffee machine is used to make ricotta.
I also managed to pull a pint of Guinness at O’Loughlin’s Irish Bar on Waterloo Street, just up from Peadar O’Donnell’s – an institution, which, on the night we sidle in, is packed with a crowd of all ages, singing, dancing and hugging – Paul would have approved.
By the end of a road trip, it’s easy to feel jaded, sick of living out of a suitcase, lugging around swimming costumes and rain macs that never seem to fully dry out.
A final dip in the sea completely eradicates that feeling, though. In Mullaghmore, big wave surfers are towed out to ride walls of water, but further down the coast is Strandhill, known for lapping waves that are consistently good for beginners.
However, it’s also notorious for its rip current.
You’re not allowed to swim, but there are three surf schools where you can snag lessons. Our instructor Zuhe Coronil, owner of Atlantic Surf School, is also a blow-in. Born in Venezuela, his mum taught him to surf as a toddler, then, while travelling in Spain, he met an Irish couple who told him he had to try surfing in Ireland.
"I came for six months and I’ve been here 12 years," he says contentedly.
He has us stretching out and practising our pop-ups – springing from lying on the board to standing – before wading into the spray.
He’s infectiously delighted by the water, whooping every time I stand up, giving inspired feedback, like, "Look up! You go where your eyes go," and, "Think about your ex and get angry paddling."
It makes me run back in, desperate to do better this time, and the next, until my armpits ache from scooping water and manoeuvring my board, and my face aches from shrieking giddily every time I catch a wave.
As we meander back to the surf centre, weary and electrified with adrenaline and salt water – very ready for the creamy baked crab claws and scorched, salsa verde-drenched sea bass at The Venue Bar and Restaurant – yet more house martins swirl overhead, their wings as oil-black as our wetsuits.
Follow the birds and the surfers, and you really won’t go far wrong.
How to plan your trip
For more information, visit the thewildatlanticway.com, ireland.com and failteireland.ie.
