Back To The North

We were knackered when we got home from Sligo around 6ish on Sunday August 18, my 70th birthday. I’d spent late morning and early afternoon on the beach at Strandhill on the northwest coast combing through slimy piles of seaweed and scattered algae-covered rocks looking for fossils and anything else interesting. I’ve always loved treasure hunting in this way and I’m seldom disappointed. This day was no exception.

Strandhill

We were so lucky to have found an overnight parking space the night before at this local and tourist hotspot, thanks to an App that shows unpublicized camper friendly lots. We were overlooking the beach and watched a gorgeous sunset as we ate our dinner from the Bard. 

The pub we wanted to visit was a kilometer away from the hubbub of cafes and shops by the water. Dixie remembered it from decades ago when he played there during a festival in town. We found three old lads just inside the door playing a gig of classic folk and soft rock. We sat by them, got quickly acquainted, and sang a few songs of our own. I thought it was around 11:00 when we left but it was actually 1:00. Sheesh that went fast!

Great music in the Venue Pub

Earlier that day we had driven down from Malin in Donegal, the northernmost county in Ireland. We made a stop at Rosses Point which is a scenic peninsula we’d wanted to explore.  So far, we have done most of our camping in spring and autumn and on weekdays. It was a little disconcerting to find mobs of people overrunning and contaminating (it seemed like) the natural beauty. The commercial campsite was full so we moved on… gladly, and landed in Strandhill which wasn’t far away.

Rosses Point Beach with Benbulbin in the background

In Malin, the night before, we had parked up in a lot by a stunning 10 arch stone bridge on the Ballyhoo River. It was erected c.1760. That’s just three years before my great great great…. grandfather, James Johnson, was born in Limerick, Ireland. He would, of course, never have seen this bridge but it’s fun to fantasize about the times and places back then that harbored bits of my DNA. 

The 10 Arch Bridge is 2nd largest in Ireland

James came to America as a young child and later fought in the Revolutionary War. He was captured by the British and taken aboard a prison ship in Charleston. The conditions were so egregious that several of the men planned to jump overboard and swim the three miles or so to freedom. Three of them went first and seemed to have been successful. 

A few nights later James was preparing to jump when he noticed something floating by in the water. It was the body of one of his comrades who had escaped earlier. James, being the smart and rational ancestor that he was, decided liberty could wait. 

James was freed at the end of the war and bought a farm. When he was 63 and too feeble to work, he learned to read, starting with the alphabet. It is written that when he died, at the ripe old age of 93, he was “well and extensively read, particularly in Methodist theology.” 

Interesting to note that my mother and both my grannies also lived to be 93. I imagine when I’m 92 I’ll be getting nervous.

I like the feeling of being a link in a family chain. Since my mother died five years ago my brother and I have often found ourselves pondering our childhoods and speculating why our parents did certain odd things the way they did. Like us, they were surely the products of their times, and I’m certain my children will (and probably already do) speculate about Greg and me. It’s just what children do, right?

We had come to Malin from farther north, Malin Head, which is the farthest point north in mainland Ireland. When we were tootling around Donegal during Covid, we never made it up that far and resolved to come back. 

It took four years to find a few days when we were free and the weather looked decent. Every night when we watch the forecast on TV Dixie mourns, “Poor Donegal”. It seems it’s always cold and rainy up there. But Siobhan, the weather lady, called it right this time and we had not even a fine mist all weekend. 

Malin Head

Malin Head itself is a giant outcrop at the tip of the Inishowen Peninsula, overlooking the northern Irish islands. It was extremely windy but with temps in the mid 60’s we took our time walking the trails along the water and savoring the views. 

Earlier in the day we had hiked the short distance to the Glenevin Waterfall just a few miles away. The story goes… an American woman named Doris Russo bought the property and a rundown house in the 1990’s, hoping to open a B&B. It wasn’t until she moved in that she discovered the waterfall nestled among the trees and undergrowth. With community support she made the site accessible to the public so everyone could enjoy it. Gotta love those American women that emigrate and make things better for all!

We had begun the day at Fort Dunree on Lough Swilly which was built to protect the area from a French invasion in the late 1700’s. Beautiful site and loaded with history including the tragic story of the shipwreck of the HMS Laurentic during WW1. It had been a luxury passenger ship but was recommissioned as an armed merchant ship for the war. It struck a mine and went down very quickly. There’s a very tasteful memorial there with the names of the lost crew.

Around Fort Dunree

We went straight to the fort from the ferry at Rathmullen where we had spent the night on the pier. There was a sandy beach there also and the ruins of Rathmullen Priory which was built in 1508. No trip is complete without some good old church ruins and graves.

This was Thursday, our first day out, and I wagered Dixie that within 48 hours he would have found a social, familial or historic connection with a stranger. It always happens. It was actually less than 24 hours later that he struck up a conversation with an Englishman. He discovered the man, a professional photographer, remembered photographing Dixie’s father, known in hurling circles as “the Rattler”, in Manchester in the 90s during an award ceremony. SMH 

You may have noticed that the events of our weekend camping trip are written in reverse order. That’s because I’ve just turned 70 and I don’t really want to get any older. So I’m declaring that from now on everything goes backward… like with Benjamin Button. I know this will work, right???