Land of wonder

Author: By Tommy Makem, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, March 22, 1998

Page: M1

Section: Travel

John E. Boyle and I set out on an April day of gold. Sun shining as if it had found a rich, early blooming garden, all fresh and newly sprung in vivid colors, on which to lavish its bounty. The ancient port of Larne, tidy and shy in its Victorian staidness, flowed out of the rear-view mirror like tape from a dispenser. As we left the town, the well-tended lawns and shrubberies gave way to a few trees, among them an exotic palm behind a white wall.

Suddenly, as if a skirt was flicked to reveal a flash of shiny blue petticoat, out of the corner of the right eye the sea winked in the sunlight. Moving leisurely along the white, lazily winding road, we found the lack of noise a pleasure. Nothing to disturb the hush but the soft purring of the car engine. Up ahead, a limestone ridge tumbling from the hills on our left to the sea on our right, would have been a short, steep climb blocking our way had not a road-builder with the eye of an artist and the mind of a poet carved a way through it. Not a tunnel, nor a bridge, but a magic doorway to the Land of Wonder.

Emerging at a snail's pace from that strange portal, we were bedazzled. Sweeping in from our right, the sea was suddenly in front of us, compelling us to take notice. The road cleverly swerved to the left, following the rim of the sea. It stayed close enough so that the eye and mind were filled with the blue seascape rippling with gold until it was lured into a light haze away in the distance.

Following the curve of the road, the eye was drawn to the left where sheep punctuated the green top of gray-faced cliffs that drop suddenly to the roadside, their feet guarded by large boulders, some of them surprisingly white. Around the next bend there were boulders on either side, guarding both the cliffs and the sea. Passing Ballygalley, the Maidens lighthouse tried gallantly to wink to us, but the brilliance of the sun was too strong. With the road swerving left and right, the vista kept changing, like slides dropping in a projector. A green headland kept appearing and disappearing. Around a left-hand bend, Glenarm was rushing to greet us with a sandy swerve of bay reaching to enfold us. This was the Sweet Carnlough Bay I'd heard about in the song.

Cold winter was howling o'er moorland and mountain,

And dark were the clouds on the deep rolling sea,

When I spied a wee lassie as

daylight was dawning

She was asking the road in to Sweet Carnlough Bay.

With the mind sweetened by all the beauty since we had entered the magic door in the rock, the inner man was striving to say that a break for lunch would give us time to reflect and fill his needs as well. So, Carnlough seemed to be the perfect place.

Carnlough was indeed the perfect place to stop. Old World charm in the mahogany lobby and lounge of the local hotel was matched by the very pleasant, efficient service. The staff moved silently through the cool shadows with a hint of sunlight peeping through. Nothing disturbed the air of peace and calm but the basso-profundo pontifications of a burly man from Cork proclaiming his worldly-wise philosophies to some reluctant, well-mannered diners who did not want to be the center of attention but were too polite to say so. He continued to pontificate in what we thought was an unwitting, on his part, imitation of a certain clerical politician, but with a decidedly different accent. Both of us had to admit that we agreed with a lot of the things he said, but when he bade his large, red-cheeked, smiling farewells, even the walls and the shadows heaved a palpable sigh of relief. With peace, calm, and quietness restored, the delicious aroma of our lunch filled the air.

Chicken, floury potatoes, carrots, and peas, all perfectly cooked, complemented by an absolutely delicious sauce, was followed by apple tart with hot custard and delightful hot sweet tea. With beautiful Irish harp music filling the air and a complete feeling of fulfillment coloring the memories of what we had experienced in our morning travels, it was very difficult to drag ourselves out into the sunlit street of this sleepy, picture-perfect village.

Across the street by some shady trees, some artistic soul had filled a yellow rowboat full of flowers. Climbing a few steps to a higher elevation, we found that garden seats provided a perfect place to photograph the bay and the headland behind, holding it in. Turning to come back down the steps, we were looking down on the little harbor. Many colored boats lay at their ease. Four or five men were sitting on the harbor wall, caps pulled forward to shade their eyes and their laughter ringing through the warm air like a noisy rookery. Forcing ourselves to move on, we started the car and continued slowly to follow the shore road northward.

Rounding Garren Point, we approached Glenarriff and Waterfoot. The allure of the Glens was everywhere. At Waterfoot I remembered the story of a young man from Glendun called McCambridge. He set out from his home on his way to the sea where he hoped to get a boat to take him to the Mull of Kintyre in Scotland. On his way he started to think of all he would be leaving behind when he emigrated. He thought of his family and friends, the little streams, the heather, the singing birds, the gatherings and good times, the smell of home earth, the music in the air. As he walked he started to sing to himself, and words kept tumbling through his mind and forming themselves into a song. By the time he reached Waterfoot, he had finished the song. It affected him so much that, overcome with emotion, he turned and went back to spend the rest of his days in his beloved glen. The song embodies all the yearning and longing that emigrants must feel for their native place, especially one as beautiful as any of the Glens of Antrim.

The Quiet Land of Erin.

By myself I'd climb the Heights of Chuan,

Where the mountains stand away,

And it's I would let the Sundays go,

In the Cuckoo's Glen above the bay.

Chorus:

Agus ach, ach, aer lighus O,

Ar a londubh as O

Oh the Quiet Land of Erin.

Oh my heart is weary all alone,

And it sends a lonely cry,

To the land that sings beyond my dreams.

And the lonely Sundays pass me by.

(Chorus.)

I would ravel back the twisted years

In the bitter wasted wind

If the God above would let me lie

In a quiet place above the whins.

Cushendall lay ahead with its turreted house keeping vigil over the activities of the busy crossroads at its door. Turning left, we parked and took a walk to savor the atmosphere of this lovely place. Having imbibed the quiet and grace, we proceeded on our journey.

Up in the mountains outside Cushendall is Tievebulliach. Ancient stone axes were made from local rocks by the Neolithic people who lived in this area. These axes have reputedly been dated to somewhere around 5000 BC, making these Stone Age inhabitants the earliest known human settlers in Ireland. Their prehistoric ax factory must have been very well known, because Tievebulliach axes have been found in many parts of Ireland and also in England. They were recognized by the properties of the stone, which is, apparently, peculiar to Tievebulliach.

On the slopes of Tievebulliach also, there is a megalithic court cairn that is called by some the grave of Ossian the poet. Ossian was the son of the legendary Finn MacCool, the leader of the band of noble warriors called the Fianna.

Outside Cushendun, instead of staying on the main road, we took the smaller road to the right at the fork. Our magic chariot, as we now regarded our car after all the glorious sights to which it had already taken us, bore us upward to even more wonders and delights.

The mystical road took us ever upward, then dove steeply down a short hill with a sharp right-hand bend at the bottom, climbing steeply again to another height, where it swung to the left and down another steep little hill that again followed another right- hand bend to climb to yet another height. More diving, twisting, turning, climbing was followed by more of the same almost dizzyingly.

Our journey took on all the unreality of a roller coaster that twisted left and right, and one that had been set down in a seabound garden of tranquillity and exquisite beauty. Tidy, white, flower-bordered houses flashed by to left and right; silent dogs atop walls; cud-chewing cows watching silently; white sheep with black faces and mouths agape, probably laughing, unheard by the fools rushing by in their dust-rising chariot.

Realizing what we were missing in our haste, we turned another sharp climbing bend and at length found a space on a part of the road that had leveled out for a short distance. Slowly we rolled to a halt. Far down below us, the blue-green, ever- moving sea lapped gently on a golden strand. In between, myriad colored green fields and rich earth-brown plowed fields were each bordered by ditches of hawthorn, ash, rowan, and oak, and here and there an exclamation point of brilliant orange-gold whins. The early- afternoon sun bathed all in its warmth and light.

Almost intoxicated by the breathtaking vistas below us, we had our cameras working as if the splendor might, perhaps, disappear. A man driving what looked like a three-wheeled tractor pulling a small trailer whizzed by, disturbing the natural music of the earth. Small birds sang, warblingly underscored by the languid droning of the bees among the whins.

Away in the distance a dog barked. A bucket rattled in a farmyard, the sound drifting to us as if in a daze. As we talked quietly, a blue car slithered almost silently to a halt on the other side of the road. A smiling, pink face with apple red cheeks and bright, glittering, blue eyes topped by red-gold hair beamed a big hello. The driver's seat of his car was pushed back as far as it would go. All the windows were open, and he sat in relaxed comfort with the top three buttons of his crisp blue shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and his suit jacket and tie lying on the back seat. ``Isn't this just absolutely magnificent?'' he said. ``Hello, my name's Arthur,'' he proffered. ``Hello, Arthur,'' I said, ``I'm . . .. ``Oh, I know well who you are,'' he added quickly. The conversation continued light-hearted and friendly after we had all shaken hands.

Arthur told us that we could have come up here on a hundred different days and not found one so perfect. He had been coming up here for 20 years, as often as he could manage it, bringing family, friends, and foreign business associates to refresh their souls by breathing in the sights, sounds, and smells of this glimmering paradise, as he put it. He was a self-employed businessman from Belfast who had been to Coleraine on business and decided that the day was too magnificent to waste on business. He had taken the afternoon off to indulge himself in what he considered the ultimate in pleasure for the soul and the senses.

Arthur was indeed a rare man who had his priorities all correct and knew exactly how to seize, hold, and extend the moment of sheer golden glory. We said our farewells and started off slowly to find the spot two or three miles back, near Torr Head, where, as Arthur put it, on this special day not only the Mull of Kintyre but Sanda Island as well were so close you could almost reach out and touch them.

Arthur had not exaggerated. From Torr Head the view was awesome. Certain features on Kintyre in Scotland were visible to the naked eye. Sanda was very clear behind a thin veil of haze. Hard to the left, the coast of Rathlin Island stood out off the northern coast in its black basalt and white limestone finery.

It was on Rathlin that Robert the Bruce of Scotland rested in a cave after his defeat at Perth in 1306. One day he saw a spider trying to climb up its strand of web to reach the rock above it. It made many attempts and kept falling back until, through perseverance, it finally reached its objective. Inspired by the spider, Robert the Bruce coined his now-famous phrase: If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

We took more photographs here at Torr Head with the coast of Antrim in the bottom of the picture and the Mull of Kintyre in the top. There was astounding beauty on every hand on the breathtaking drive to Fair Head. Seabirds floating over the lush green and brown countryside to be lost in the gold dazzle of the sun on the sea. The Sea of Moyle, as this body of water is called, sang a sad song to us. Here on this lonely sea, the four Children of Lir, who were changed into swans by their wicked stepmother, were destined to spend 300 years. They survived and sang their beautiful transcendent laments, touching the hearts of man, beast, bird, and fish. If you listen closely, you may still hear the echo of their singing on the soft winds of the Sea of Moyle. We floated on magical wings into Ballycastle.

Here in Ballycastle every August they still celebrate The Old Lamas Fair. Singing, dancing, and all kinds of jollification abound, with sideshows and displays of crafts to tickle every fancy. While enjoying all these good times, you can nibble on local treats like dulse and Yellow Man. Dulse is a dried seaweed brimming over with all kinds of healthy vitamins and minerals like iodine. Yellow Man is a sticky, sweet toffee beloved of children of all ages. Both are celebrated in song.

We turned right in the big airy square in the middle of the town and headed for the Giant's Causeway. The road meanders through rich farmland with always the smell of the sea and the white gliding marvel of seabirds. Making a slight detour, we parked our car and walked about half a mile to experience the sensation of crossing the Carrick-a-rede rope bridge. It was built by local fishermen between the mainland and the small island a short distance away to facilitate their catching of salmon some 70 feet below.

Crossing over and back again was thrilling, making one feel as though he were on an adventure with Indiana Jones. On the way back to the car in the warm afternoon sun, we looked at a silver rocky headland standing in the sea with a green trim at its top surrounding a rich, dark red-brown plowed field with furrows as straight as if every one were shot from a bow by a master archer. Nature was imitating art. Down the road a short distance, we stopped again to visit and savor the dreamlike Ballintoy Harbour.

As we approached the village of Dunseverick, my mind rushed back 2,000 years. Although there are no signs to mark it now and let the traveler know, this was where the dun or fort of Conall Cearnach stood. Conall Cearnach was one of the mightiest mythological warrior heroes in The Red Branch Knights. They were the forerunners and model for the Knights of the Round Table, and served the King of Ulster from his palace at Emhain Macha, near present-day Armagh. It was also believed that Conall Cearnach was in the Holy Land when Christ was crucified. Every nation on earth was reputedly represented when that momentous event took place. Conall Cearnach was Ireland's representative.

It is further believed that Conall Cearnach was one of the people who put their shoulders to the rock that covered the entrance to Christ's tomb and rolled it back on that first Easter morning. Dunseverick is indeed a special place, and traveling through the village added greatly to the mystical, magical journey we were experiencing.

Some 60 million years ago, molten lava burst up through the earth's crust and in cooling very slowly these strange polygonal columns were somehow formed. That's how geologists would explain the origin of the Giant's Causeway. The ordinary people would have a different story. They maintain that an Irish giant made these columns as steppingstones so that he wouldn't get his feet wet when traveling to or from Scotland. As a matter of fact, some similar columns reach up out of the water in Staffa in Scotland. This place was called in Gaelic, Clochan an Aifir, which means The Giant's Stepping Stones. Sitting here on the Giant's Causeway in the evening sun, mesmerized by the grandeur, the beauty, and the sense of mystery that marked our honey-gold journey, I know that this magnificence, this joyous day will stay with us forever.

My mind was too full of all the delights and surprises to remember how we got home or what roads we took on our return journey from this Land of Wonder.