Merry Derry and awesome Antrim
 By
Malcolm Rogers
Derry conjures up a variety of images. A lot of them, it would have to
be said, are connected to the Troubles, which got underway here some 400
years ago. Always ahead of its time, Derry.
But the area’s melancholic reputation is, thankfully, receding and
today Ireland’s most northerly area is seen as a place of craic
& roll.
Few parts of Ireland can boast a greater sweep of history and culture
— the area which spawned not only The Town I Love So Well and Bushmills
whiskey is also the home of Danny Boy — a joint project between
an Irish Catholic fiddler, a piano-playing Presbyterian schoolteacher
and an English songwriter.
Phil Coulter, Seamus Heaney and Brian Friel are also local boys, and Percy
French was educated in Derry.
Shaped by events both ancient and contemporary — from St. Colmcille’s
settlements in the sixth century to the turmoil of the Bogside during
the Bother — this corner of the island has a history for which the
word chequered barely does justice.
As the wife of the recipient of a bishopric from James I put it: “So
strange Derry: I pray to God it may make us all merry.”
Draughty round the Sperrins
When the Four Citizens of London came to the north west of Ireland in
1609, their guide was under instruction from the Lord Deputy to keep quiet
about the Sperrins. The London government was trying to encourage merchants
to set up shop in this outpost of the Empire, and it was feared that the
sight of this untamed, boggy wilderness would put potential investors
off.
As it happens it didn’t, Derry gained its baleful prefix “London”
and the rest, as they say, is Irish history.
Killarney’s Lakes and Fells may be more famous, the Mountains of
Mourne more lauded in song and Macgillicuddy’s Reeks harder to spell
— but the Sperrins have a charm of their own.
They may not be high, but they’re excellently stage-managed.
Threaded by streams and small boreens, the main expanse of the Sperrins
is bounded by the towns of Strabane, Dungiven and Draperstown, with the
northerly fringe crossed by the Glenshane Pass, regularly closed in winter
because of snow showers (spreading to most parts of Ulster by mid-afternoon).
Neolithic notions
The first tenants of Ireland landed near Torr Head in Antrim sometime
during the Bronze Age, making their way along the coast to Portrush and
thence to the Sperrins.
These pre-Celtic, pre-Christian, pre-Just-About-Everything hunter-gatherers
made their first settlement hereabouts, paving the way for stag parties
to our shores ever since.
At Mount Sandel Visitor Centre (hard by Coleraine) you can find greater
elucidation on this subject.
But we’ll hurry on to the seaside resort of Portstewart, itself
a throwback to another era, although not quite to the stone age —
more like the genteel era of the 1950s.
Little has changed since then, or even earlier — indeed you might
imagine that time has stood still since the novelist Charles Lever, a
resident of Main Street, entertained Thackeray here. The English writer
was much impressed by the town, although with a few reservations about
traces of ‘sanctimoniousness and sabbatarianism’.
Further round the coast towards Derry city stands Downhill Castle, built
in the 18th century. This was the Earl-Bishop of Derry’s palace.
Set in extensive landscaped grounds containing lakes, ornamental gardens
and neoclassical buildings this is a place redolent of the lost world
of the Anglo-Irish.
The most famous landmark of the castle is the eccentric Earl of Bristol
and Bishop of Derry Frederick Hervey’s library known as the Mussenden
Temple. The Temple of Vista in Rome was the inspiration for this classical
temple which has a domed rotunda and sits perched on a cliff providing
breathtaking view of Downhill strand.
A local legend persists that a former monument stood here in honour of
a local gentleman called Conal Cearmac or Conor MacCormac. This wrestler
and swordsman was from nearby Dunseverick and happened to be plying his
trade in Jerusalem on the day Christ was crucified.
The legend goes even further — a drop of blood fell from Christ
on to him, and thus emboldened he helped roll away the boulder guarding
Christ’s grave. I tell you — you can’t keep a good Derry
man out of anything, including the Bible.
Having said that, it’s worth noting that Derry is one of the oldest
Christian sites in the world outside of the Biblical lands and Dunseverick
Castle was the seat of the first King of Dalriada, an ancient site frequented
by St. Patrick.
Dunseverick is a place which could easily support an entire postcard industry,
even apart from any connections with the Bible.
Part of a tower is all that remains of the castle, which was destroyed
by a Scottish army sent in 1642 under the command of General Robert Munro
to put down the rebellion initiated by Rory O’More, Lord Maquire
and Sir Pheilim O’Neill in 1641.
The ruin which remains today dates back to the mid 1500s and was probably
built by the MacDonnell clan, who had established a power base on the
north coast at that time.
From turf to surf
In general, Ireland has some of the finest beaches in the world —
it’s only the horizontal rain which keeps most people off them in
the summer time.
Derry’s Atlantic coast is no exception — not overly famous
for its sun-drenched beaches. At the northerly most point of the coast
lies Magilligan Strand, with not even a tree between it and the North
Pole.
But this splendid six-mile beach is one of the finest in Ireland, stretching
from Downhill to the narrows of Lough Foyle, with Donegal lurking nearby.
With a bit of luck you might see a brace of swans wheeling their way over
to the Inishowen Peninsula.
Fairway to heaven
North Derry is home to three of the finest golf courses in Europe.
Castlerock is a handsome links course adjacent to Benone Strand, and is
said to have been built by God to get his handicap down. For people (like
most amateur golfers) who shout “fore” and take 14 and write
down three, this is an ideal destination.
Royal Portrush is included in every list of the world’s top 20 golf
courses. The club hosted the British Open in 1951.
Royal Portstewart, founded in 1894, has scenery which offers terrific
compensation for your gigantic score. And if you think you’ve lost
your bottle — seamless link coming up — Bushmills Distillery
is just down the road.
I hear Doctor Fact knocking — he wishes to come in: the first electric
tramway in these islands (Portrush - Bushmills) was opened here in 1883
and only closed in 1947.
Whether the Track of the Century was to facilitate Portrussians on a pub
crawl to the distillery I’m afraid Doctor Fact is mute, and the
local museum similarly has nothing to say on the subject.
If you have a one-track mind, so to speak, head for the Foyle Valley Railway
Museum, Foyle Road Station, Derry. The city was once the meeting point
of four railway systems, and relics from the heyday of railway travel
are attractively displayed. All aboard now!
Have we got views for you
The view across the Atlantic from the Derry/Antrim coast towards the Inishowen
Peninsula is little short of mesmerising. Look out to the north and on
a fine day you’ll see Rathlin Island and, weather permitting, the
Mull of Kintyre — Scotland is only a few miles away. All together
now: “Mull of Kintyre, Old mist rolling in from the sea…”
Actually, although Paul McCartney’s song seems an obvious choice
— some of the more imaginative amongst you may even try imitating
the sound of the bagpipes — another song claims the soundtrack.
Jimmy Kennedy, a prolific songwriter from nearby Omagh who made Portrush
his home, wrote Red Sails in the Sunset.
Jimmy had moved from Omagh to the Antrim town and one evening watched
as a Portstewart boat, The Kitty Of Coleraine, put out to sea.
The sails of the boat were white — it was only the sunset which
made them appear red — etched out in silhouette against the Inishowen
Hills of Donegal.
Incidentally, The Kitty of Coleraine is to this day moored in Portstewart
harbour and the sun still sets red over the Inishowen Hills.
You have to go there — it might waken the lyrical muse within you,
and who knows what you might create? But don’t blame me if you imbibe
too much of the Bushmills and all you end up with is something like the
Hokey Cokey.
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