Bags were packed the night before. At 5 a.m., I loaded the car, coaxed sleepy children through a quick bowl of cereal, and we rolled towards Birkenhead for the day ferry to Belfast. Audiobooks lined up; the promise of a corner of the UK we’ve neglected for decades.
Boarding was easy. Then a wander of the decks before surrendering to the blackout‑dark of a day cabin. The rhythm of travel reset us; we dozed to the occasional squawk of a car alarm from below decks (I confess it took me thirty minutes the day before to find the “interior sensor” toggle). Between naps we watched the Isle of Man slide by on calm seas and it has been promoted to the “soon” list. Then we rolled off in Belfast and drove for Coleraine, briefly diverted by a police road closure.
Ferry note to future‑us: carry plenty of water; a flask and cups are gold.
The Causeway Coast day
Giant’s Causeway: our day started with an early start and then when parked up a guided tour threaded with stories as we approached down the old road to ~40,000 basalt columns (cast about 60 million years ago); our guide explained that many stones had been quarried in the past, why cooling basalt forms hexagons and why some tops are concave while others are convex. He did a great job of telling the story of Finn McCool acrossing to Fingal’s Cave on Staffa. We lingered at the Wishing Chair, eating giant chocolate buttons; took a photo by the Giant’s Boot; then passed the twelve‑metre pipes of the Giant’s Organ en route to the cliff‑in at the Amphitheatre. We climbed the 162 Shepherd’s Steps, paused for a last look to the Giant’s Chimney Tops, and took the clifftop path to the Visitor Centre.
With a recommendation from my father to visit Carrick‑a‑Rede Rope Bridge, we hopped in the car, picked up ice creams and walked down to the island crossing (now managed by the National Trust). The old salmon‑fishers’ bridge spans a 20 m gap over a 23 m drop. Replaced most recently a few years back although still wonderfully wobbly. My daughter cruised back across hands‑free (all those dance lessons paying off); I edged across backwards, not holding on, and snapping photos.
Time to head to County Donegal
The next day it was time to head further west. On the way west we looped to Downhill Demesne (Co. Derry), the Earl of Bristol’s 1774–78 estate. Downhill Houseis a romantic ruin now but the gardens and spectacular clifftop walks remain. Teetering on the edge is Mussenden Temple, once the estate library. Saved from the sea when the National Trust took over and now a popular wedding perch.
Then we continued west, crossing the boarder into the Republic of Ireland and changing my instruments to kilometres from miles. We made a short stop at Glenveagh, just long enough to know we’d be back.
Then on to Errigal Youth Hostel in Dunlewey, under Donegal’s quartzite crown. Ann’s warm hello at reception set the tone; check‑in was quick. We negotiated bunks with the kids and settled into a room looking down to Lough Nacung.
Dinner was a simple stir‑fry in the self‑catering kitchen, then we slipped out in golden evening light and wandered the lane to An Cuige Dam between the lakes. The Clady Hydro Scheme began work on the dam in 1955; the station at Crolly has been generating since 1959, enough for around 3,000 homes. The project raised the upper lake by over ten feet, submerging an ancient crannóg and relocating families from “the Village” at the head of the water. From here we watched Errigal dominate the skyline until the midges rose, then retreated back to the hostel.
The forecast promised heavy rain overnight, a morning window of slightly better weather and more rain after so we had an another early start to head up Errigal.
Errigal (751 m): up the tourist path, along the ridge, down the far side
We’d been watching the forecast for the next few days: the storms were coming in hard on Saturday and Sunday. So we pulled the plan forward. Bags packed and after our first night at the hostel it was time to make the most of the weather window.
It’s a short drive to the R251 car park below Errigal, and we were early enough to beat the crowds. The car park is small, best to arrive early if you’re planning this loop. Our inov8 shoes laced up and of we set. Conditions looked promising: 13–16 °C, light wind, summit in cloud but expected to clear, with showers due later. The ground underfoot was mostly dry.
The boardwalk and pitched stone path whisked us quickly across the bog and onto the hillside. Behind us, the lakes around Dunlewey glinted under teasing sun. Ahead, Errigal’s quartzite cone sat quietly under a sulky sky.
The climb kicks in quickly. Above 600 metres, the breeze dropped and the mountain pulled its white fluffy curtain across. Visibility shrank as we entered that odd, muffled world of hill fog: magical and slightly surreal. The kids seemed to love it.
At the summit cairn, we sorted a heel hotspot for my daughter on one of the new Mudclaws. Tape saved the day, a quick fix before anything became a problem. We shared out sausage rolls, and popped on jackets before we cool down. We were treated to the cloud open to give us the most amazing views.
The Poisoned Glen dropped away below us. Mackoght and the Seven Sisters rolled off towards Muckish. The ridge to the NW top stretched out like the prow of a ship. Donegal had delivered again.
The that followed as we continued along from the summit was one of the best bits of the day: narrow but safe hands naturally come out for balance, and a bit of spacing between walkers goes a long way. It gave us a handful of playful steps and a lovely sense of movement. The kids took it in their stride, quietly proud of themselves.
From the NW top, we dropped off the skyline via a short loose scree slope, definitely the trickiest bit for younger legs. We slowed things down, encouraged three points of contact, and talked footwork and line choices. The slide would stop safely if anything moved, but it was a good chance to coach calm decision-making. Once at the col, the ground eased off. From there, we looped back onto the main tourist path, following the familiar boardwalk back across the bog.
And then: Idahoan mash in a Sea to Summit bowl, rehydrated with water from a faithful flask. No stove. No fuss. Just hot food and the satisfaction of tired legs and steaming socks. It’s become our tradition now, and honestly, I’m not sure what beats it.
What earned its keep
- Group shelter – always wise in changing weather
- First aid kit – Compeed & tape both used
- Warm layers and gloves – despite mild temps, the summit chill creeps in fast
- Headtorches – just in case
- Bowl + flask – mash magic, enough said
What stays with me from this day is how complete it felt. In under four hours, we had:
- A proper mountain ascent through changing conditions
- A moment of summit magic when the cloud cleared
- An airy ridge for balance and confidence
- A loose descent where coaching mattered
- And a hot meal in the car to wrap it all up
The kids took it all in stride: checking spacing on the ridge, listening well on the descent. I’ve led more technical routes but few that offered such a full experience in such a short, accessible package.
Glenveagh, properly
With legs pleasantly used and rain on the way, we rolled back into Glenveagh for the castle and gardens. The shuttle to the castle, then an unhurried loop through rooms and paths. The house above Lough Veagh feels full of stories.
The original Victorian garden was laid out for Cornelia Adair from 1885. In the mid‑20th century Henry P. McIlhenny, with James Russell and Lanning Roper, expanded it with ambitious planting and neoclassical touches: a Tuscan Garden, an Italian Terrace, and the famous Sixty‑Seven Steps. Tree rhododendrons and magnolias rise over under‑plantings of azaleas, hostas, astilbes and rodgersias. The Walled Garden follows the jardin potager style, where flowers, fruit, vegetables and herbs are grown for their ornamental effect. Today the park and gardens are cared for by Ireland’s National Parks and Wildlife Service.
Dunlewey days: rain, games and the Poisoned Glen
As forecast the following day the west‑coast weather drew a grey curtain and kept it there. We leaned in: giant cards and board games, reading and drawing, hot chocolate with marshmallows. The quiet pleasure of being warm and dry while rain hammered in at a 45‑degree angle.
When the sky blinked and with slightly better weather we kitted up with full waterproofs for a wandered to the Old Church of Dunlewey (the Chapel of Ease). The Russells, landlords here from c.1845–1870, drove the project: James Russell began campaigning in 1846 but died of typhoid at 48 before work began. His wife Jane carried it through and the church was completed in 1853; James lies in a vault beneath the floor. Jane also pursued an (unsuccessful) mission to convert the district from Catholicism to the Church of England; importing Protestant Scottish farmers, pushing for Protestant‑only teachers, and calling door‑to‑door. The farmers mostly moved on; the two who stayed married local women and embraced the local faith.
From there we crossed to the so‑called Wooden Bridge. Built in the mid‑1850s by Jane Russell as part of a new “avenue” to the rectory of Rev. James Bor, it was the first span on a route planned east into the Poisoned Glen. Folklore says the Reverend disliked sharing the original approach with Dunlewey House; he left before the avenue was finished, leaving this lone bridge. The name sticks because an earlier timber bridge likely stood here.
Beyond the bridge lay wet‑foot country, a hopscotch of tussocks and rocks, into Gleann Nimhe, the Poisoned Glen: a classic U‑shaped valley carved by glacial ice around 17,000 years ago. Legend says this is where the one‑eyed giant Balor fell to his exiled grandson Lugh Lámhfhada; poison from Balor’s eye split the rock and gave the glen its name.
Beach day at Inishfree Bay (Carrickfinn)
For our last full day in County Donegal we headed over to the coast. We followed airport signs, parked behind Donegal Airport, and took the short path through dunes to a ribbon of sand facing Inishfree Bay, pink‑granite outcrops adding to the sand and sea view along the shore. A steady stream of locals, felt like a good sign, but plenty of space to feel it was ours. The kids built sand kingdoms; I listened to an audiobook and watched the Atlantic breathe. Sometimes the right thing to do is very little and this was just what I needed.
The homeward loop via The Argory
Now time to move on again. We arced south towards Belfast and paused at The Argory (National Trust), a Greek‑Revival house on the River Blackwater. Built 1820–24 for Walter MacGeough Bond by architects John and Arthur Williamson, it was his escape clause from a family will; the hall still holds its ornate barrel organ (commissioned 1822). Later, Captain Ralph Shelton, a survivor of the 1852 HMS Birkenhead disaster took over; a fire in 1898 destroyed the service wing, and in 1906 he installed the estate’s distinctive acetylene gas lighting, which remarkably stayed in use until the 1980s. The family kept the place until 1979, when it was gifted to the National Trust and returned to as close to how it was when the last owner was a child!
National Trust Passport stamps collected, café pizza inhaled, we walked through the gardens down to the river, peered into the walled garden, and toured the house to the percussion of rain on the windows.
On our onward journey; a Tesco stop for ferry supplies. Respecting GB import rules and with foot and mouth outbreak all dairy was banned.
Showers at sea, yoga in a cabin, and a straight road home
No need for to earlier a start on departure day. We packed and had an early breakfast, then saved showers for the ferry cabin. The kids read; I folded the bunks and unrolled half an hour of cabin yoga. Belfast slid away; Birkenhead drew near on this quite rough sailing. Then just some motorway miles to Manchester and then across the Peak District back home.
Thank you, Ulster. We felt welcome everywhere. We’ll be back.