Kings of the Road on the Irish Coast

The road trip was a success before we even buckled up. National Car Rental in Belfast, Northern Ireland, honored the erroneous low price we were quoted on the Internet, allowing us to drive off in a $500-a-week car for a third less. The savings meant we could afford gas, currently fetching $6 per gallon in Britain.

After leaving our rented flat in Edinburgh, Scotland, Andrea and I traveled by train and ferry to Belfast. We then drove for four days across the top of Northern Ireland and Ireland--from the Irish Sea to the North Atlantic--touring a part of the Emerald Isle we missed on a trip here three years ago. The call of the road in Ireland, with its promise of wild headlands, rugged mountains and mystical bogs, is not easily ignored.

We rolled north out of Belfast, Andrea at the wheel of our Vauxhall Vectra, the British version of a Chevrolet. Near the coastal village of Ballintoy, we stopped to traverse the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, spanning 80 feet above the ocean, from the mainland to a small island that gives fishermen access to migrating salmon. A few miles west, we pulled over to scramble across the geological phenomenon known as the Giant’s Causeway, a stretch of mostly hexagonal stone columns, some as tall as 40 feet, packed tightly and extending into the sea.

Northern Ireland offers the same sublime scenery as its larger Irish neighbor, but without the snarl of tour buses. Fears about the sectarian violence so quaintly called “the Troubles” means uncrowded roads and bed-and-breakfasts.

Although the country is as safe as others we’ve visited, the presence of police vans that looked like armored tanks created a slightly menacing atmosphere. The week we were there, more than 80 Republican and Loyalist terrorists were released from prison as part of the Good Friday peace accord, and tensions were high. “There’ll never be peace,” said an old man feeding pigeons atop the 17th century wall circling central Londonderry, Northern Ireland’s second largest city. “You can’t make peace with murderers.”

We encountered a lighter tone in the seaside resort town of Portstewart, where we secured the road trip’s missing ingredient--music--by buying CDs by Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Steve Earle and Moby. But the musical find of the day came half an hour later in a shopping center parking lot hosting a “boot sale,” a flea market where people sell stuff out of the trunks of their cars. From the clutter of old toys, clothing, tools and Christmas gnomes, I plucked a mint-condition CD by Latin vocal stylist Trini Lopez, adding that degree of hilarity demanded by any serious road trip. We barreled west into County Donegal, Ireland, snapping fingers to Trini’s swinging rendition of “If I Had a Hammer.”

Ever since our first trip to Ireland, we’ve fantasized about spending a couple of weeks here in a thatch-roofed cottage overlooking the sea. There was no time for that on this trip, but we were lucky to find vacant a stone cottage at the Green Gate, a B&B; perched on a hill above Ardara, a coastal hamlet known for its tweeds and wool sweaters.

The cottage, bordered by red, yellow and green fishing-net buoys, has an antique iron stove for a night stand and a seashell sconce for a reading light. Compensating for the low ceiling are the windows, positioned so that guests reclining in bed or the bathtub can gaze out at Loughros More Bay and, beyond that, the Atlantic Ocean.

In the morning we ate breakfast in the cozy main house, where the colorful French owner, Paul Chatenoud, regaled guests with stories while stoking the peat fire. He proudly displayed a thick guest book stuffed with poems, songs and sketches penned in tribute to the Green Gate. A Canadian at the table mentioned that her guidebook said Paul is as charming as his B&B.; Paul chuckled and said, “But that was 10 years ago.”

Paul, who formerly ran a bookstore in Paris, unfolded a map and showed us his favorite drive in Ireland, a loop around the nearby Slieve League peninsula. Following his directions, we headed west along a lonely one-lane road. Sheep, tagged with bright spray paint to identify them to their owners, meandered in our path. Streams tumbled down rock-strewn mountains. Stone fences scaled green hillsides. The occasional palm tree in the mist looked like a mirage.

We pulled onto a dirt track that ended at the base of a peak. We left the car and climbed for an hour. At the top, what little breath we had left was taken away by the view. We stared straight down at the ocean, about 2,000 feet below. We were standing alone atop Slieve League, among Europe’s highest sea cliffs. Halfway down the cliff, sea gulls soared. I turned from the edge without blinking, holding the picture in my mind. We walked back down the mountain to the car, returning to the road and the hope of wonders to come.

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NEXT WEEK: How books and reading play a big role on the road.

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Did you miss a Wander Year installment? The entire series since it began in January can be found on The Times’ Web site at https://www.latimes.com/travel/wander.