Babet and the Dragon (N. Ireland Pt. 2) - October 18th - 20th, 2023
After having our fill of cool hexagon-rocks and the rather shabby hostel it was time to pack up and hit the road back to Belfast. A concerning short-term forecast (as opposed to the equally concerning long-term forecast) had now become a full fledged named storm - Babet - which was supposed to start hitting Northern Ireland that same day. Babet, shmabet, we thought; the weather was going to be bad all the time anyway, and we needed to catch our ferry and get a move on to potentially more rock climbing.
So we started that day of biking mentally prepared for terrible conditions, and at first it seemed likely, with grey threatening skies, burly winds, and cold temperatures. Stopping at Ballintoy Harbor along the way we nearly got blown off the rocks and into the ocean. We hid from the wind in a picnic shelter, and while eating cookies reflected on how maybe it was a poor idea to visit one of the locations used as the Iron Islands for the "Game of Thrones" TV series in October.
Moving on, though, the skies never did downpour, and as we crossed back inland over the hill the sun even came out for a while. Sure, the wind was still brutal (how did we manage to have a headwind on our bike ride out AND our bike ride back??), but we were dry and relatively warm; maybe Babet had missed to the north? We stuck to our commitment to go back via Torr Head, and while the roads were nowhere near as tight as that woman had described, our hearts sank when we realized we'd have to drop several hundred feet down a STEEP road to reach the site near the coast. Yet we had little choice, since Torr Head was also our target for camping; as a natural/historical landmark point it seemed like it would have space for a tent and be better than setting up on some random farmer's field.
A man in cool-weather sporty running pants and a trim jacket was getting ready to leave Torr Head in his shiny BMW as we rode down the hill with a white-knuckle grip on the brakes, and chatted with us for a bit. He commented on how steep the roads around Torr Head were (his bike computer recorded something like 20% grade?) and prodded a little about where we were staying that night, since it was getting to be evening and the nearest lodging was about an hour's ride away. We gave some cagey and evasive answers so he picked up on the plan and strongly advised us not to camp that night and repeatedly said "I wouldn't sleep out tonight".
But Susan and I are very stubborn (not to mention scrimping pennies and now too tired and far away from any indoor housing options to keep biking), and what did this guy know, anyway? We have a very good tent. It's held up in plenty of strong storms. Our sleeping bags are warm, and we're tough enough to brave Babet. So we parked the bikes and looked around the Torr Head ruins, trying to fit in with the couple of regular sightseers who remained before dusk. Torr Head is a rocky promontory jutting out into the sea from the northeast coastline, the closest point to Scotland, topped with the burned-out ruins of an old cost guard station, destroyed by the IRA during Ireland's fight for independence. From the top of the hill we could just make out Scotland across the water, and while it still wasn't raining, the genuinely ferocious wind ripped around us and made it difficult to stand or even keep your eyes open.
As the other last visitors cleared out we stashed the bikes behind the remains of a wall and hauled the necessary bags up the hill towards the station remnants, taking our time to find a spot that was both hidden from view and as sheltered from the wind as possible. We found a spot that honestly seemed decent enough, and while the water was slow to boil the wind didn't keep us from a hot meal, so as darkness settled in it we thought it would be OK to set up the tent.
Well, that was wrong. Working by the light of headlamps and doing our best to prevent any loose stuff sacks from blowing away, we methodically rolled out the tent and held it in place until we could stake down the corners, get the poles in, and corral the rainfly into place. Gusts of wind deformed the body of the tent to frightening angles, but we thought maybe it would get better once the guy lines were fixed... no luck. The force of the wind on the fabric overwhelmed the pulls and warped the whole structure in ways that would have squished the walls against our faces.
Increasingly nervous, we thought maybe a small adjustment to the location would help, and made the brilliant decision to leave the tent constructed but pulled up the stakes to shift it. We barely managed to hold on as the wind joyously found its new plaything and tried to repurpose our tent as a kite. Quickly admitting the error we frantically undid the poles, balled up the tent as much as we could, and regathered the stakes that had become haphazardly strewn about in the dark.
Still not convinced it was *that* windy, and frankly desperate to figure out our housing on this cold, black night, starting to feel bits of rain carried in the air, we decided to make one more go at it, hoping that by throwing our bags inside the extra weight would stabilize the structure sooner. But our same methodical routine yielded the same result - a tent getting periodically flattened by the wind, to the point where even if we could stand having nylon and bug netting pressed up against our faces all night, there's no way we'd trust the poles and fabric to survive the onslaught.
Thank goodness we had one failsafe but crappy backup option that night - sleep in the ruined coast guard station. So we went to put away the tent for good, and must have pulled up some stake too soon or left some part of the rainfly attached when we shouldn't or maybe a particularly nasty rogue updraft caught the fabric, but the tent made one last escape attempt towards the heavens. With a surprised and fearful yell I basically body-slammed the remaining mass of tent to the ground, scared to snap the poles or rip the fabric but more scared to have our home blow into the ocean, and laid there in the dark until Susan picked up the pieces and got the situation under control. This is what we get for not listening to the NPC from earlier.
More battered by Northern Ireland than we had thought possible, we picked up our bags and slunk up towards the wreck of a station, still trying to be mindful of our headlamps shining out from the top of the hill, lest anyone in the nearby farmhouses got suspicious (as if they would have cared, staring out their windows during the storm). It was hard to find a few square feet of complete wood flooring; most of it randomly opened in holes to the basement. The intact sections were often covered with ash, broken glass, or rubble. One potential spot also turned into a wind tunnel, so that wasn't a great option. Finally we found a room that would do and brushed aside a little debris to make space for our sleeping pads; the whole place could have passed as the origin of The Plague if not for the cheerful neon graffiti decorating the walls from what must have been high school parties. We started to call it "Dragon House" in honor of the figure who watched over us as we tried our best to go to bed.
But unfortunately this room also had a giant window on one wall, which was now just a giant hole to let in the rain. After a first round of light sleep I awoke to find a thin film of water on my sleeping bag. I woke up Susan to try to figure out what to do, and our only idea to protect against the water was to wrap up in the tent rainfly as well. We nervously draped it over our bags, trying to avoid tearing it on any of the popped nails of the floorboards, and attempted to get a little more sleep. We slept fitfully at best, and I repeatedly woke back up only to find that the sleeping bag was perhaps even more wet now that the initial water had coated the inside of the rainfly and my own body moisture was trapped underneath an impregnable layer of nylon. Of course, with the rain misting through the window to our right it's not like I could have taken the rainfly off; these are the sort of conundrums that keep you awake at night.
I might sound pretty negative about Dragon House, but honestly, thank God we had that option for shelter that night. Things could have been much worse.
It was something of a relief when light finally broke and morning dawned, which meant we could brew some instant coffee and get the heck off of Torr Head. The weather continued as it had pretty much all night - rain that seemed lighter than it was due to sporadic atomization by vicious gusts of wind. We loaded the bikes as fast as we could... and got to work pushing. We'd been mentally preparing for this, looking at the hill grades in our planning app, but starting off the day with nearly 2 miles of pushing up comically steep roads still sucked.
At least the pushing kept us warm. As we crested the hill and the gale pelted our faces with a cold rain, going down honestly didn't seem too appetizing. But you gotta follow the road, so down we went, and as the air moved around us even faster and the water became icy knives against our skin, I could feel the warmth draining from my face and the strength draining from my hands. We stopped after the initial downhill to regroup and I had trouble thinking of words or moving my mouth to articulate them. It's a good thing bike brakes don't require much dexterity because my fingers really didn't want to work independently. For some reason I was panting. The tempest continued to swirl around us and for the first time after all the miles on the bike I felt genuinely unsafe, like if we didn't escape the weather soon I might be in proper bodily danger; in some ways it was surprising that I hadn't felt that bad while biking yet, but in another very real way it was pretty terrible.
So Susan led on and we biked against the wind and rain, knowing of no solution except to get off this road that was more less perched on a seaside cliff getting pummeled by the wrath of the gods. We finally reached the outskirts of Cushendun, the small town a few days prior where we'd decided *not* to go via Torr Head, and dove into a public bathroom we knew was there. We did need to use the facilities, but also, bathrooms are some of the dearest sanctuaries of the itinerant traveler; with a respite from the weather, you certainly could have convinced me it was a church. We huddled for some snacks under an awning (not having had a proper breakfast), and then Susan joined me in the men's section while I abused the privilege of the hand dryer to dry my gloves a little and return my core and extremity body temperatures to functional levels.
While the rest of the riding that day was kind of miserable, I can say with relief that the worst was behind us. A cafe stop in Cushendall helped refill some depleted morale and the rain let up at times (but not the wind). We rolled into Larne, where we'd reserved a night at the wonderful and reasonably priced Derrin Guest House. I think we woke the host up from a nap, and though he seemed mildly concerned with the fact we'd arrived on bicycles he let us check in a little early, which we greatly appreciated because we had a bunch of chores to do.
We started with our now standard routine of exploding everything out of the bike bags, using every available doorknob, coat hanger, surface, etc. to hang up wet gear, and cranking the heat up to try to get things to dry. Taking stock of the tent revealed that by some miracle, after all the shoving around the previous night, the only thing missing was the small pouch that held the stakes. All the stakes were accounted for, the tent poles were whole, and we found no holes in the tent. What luck!
We also needed to do laundry (since we weren't sure we'd have the chance in the Peak District) and get something for dinner, so that required walking up a hill to a public laundry machine, down to a grocery store for ramen fixin's, and back up the hill to move our clothes to the tumble dryer (extremely overpriced but in this situation worth every penny). Susan mentioned that her back was feeling sore, but we chalked it up to battling against the wind all day and she stubborned her way around with me. Back at the guesthouse we used the electric kettle to make dinner, showered, and crawled into bed exhausted. But before we fell asleep we couldn't help but break out in fits of laughter at how much nicer our sleeping situation was this night compared to the last. What a long 24 hours.
Finally it got to be Friday, the day we'd leave Northern Ireland behind. Our transport back to Britain was the same overnight Stena Line ferry to Liverpool, so once again we were trying to figure out how to fill the day before we could check in about 8 PM. After a delicious full breakfast cooked by the guest house hostess, we ventured out on the bikes to find it was still stormy. Big surprise.
We biked south from Larne and somehow the wind was even stronger, although at least at this point it had become mostly a tailwind instead of a headwind, so the biking did feel genuinely easier. But this exposed us to a new hazard - as the road skirted around the coast, rough whitecapped waves slammed against the embankments, sometimes with enough angry force to send a wash of seaweed and saltwater spraying into the air and onto the pavement. We put our heads down and kept pedaling, hoping our luck would hold out, but the odds weren't in our favor and we each got socked by waves. It made me pretty sad to have saltwater sprayed all over my freshly tuned-up bike with the new chain. Susan said she felt like she was doing the "Fury of the Nile" ride at Worlds of Fun on a bike.
Entering Carrickfergus meant hopping around bike lanes and sidewalks, since the urban area started here and stretched to Belfast, and several pedestrians commented on how lovely of a day we'd picked for a bike ride. We stopped by Carrickfergus Castle for a bit to kill time, exploring the fortress grounds, enjoying their Halloween decorations, and I barely beat Susan at a game of chess. The wind around the castle was comical, the kind where gusts will hold you up in the air if you lean into them. We'd tucked the bikes around a side of the castle sheltered from the wind (castles make really good windbreaks), and at one point a very concerned employee came up to ask if we'd like him to move the bikes inside the castle. Someone might steal them! Susan and I laughed - the number of sarcastic pedestrian remarks betrayed the fact that no one in their right mind wanted to ride a bike today (let alone one that weighs 110 pounds).
With enough of the afternoon gone by, we left to finish the last stretch to Belfast. Much to our dismay the ocean was fighting to reclaim the normal bike path ahead, sending fierce waves over the sides and continuously spraying down the way. Not feeling like playing any more Fury of the Nile, we redirected to the road and sidewalk and endured more questions from pedestrians as to whether we'd picked a good day to ride bikes. Yeah yeah, maybe we should have stayed inside during the named storm.
At last we made it to Belfast, still with several hours before boarding opened for the ferry, so we hid in a pub for an early dinner. It was dead inside and the server seemed to pity our tired faces and the fact that we were clad in rain gear head to toe; perfect, we wouldn't have to worry about loitering for a little while. Over some tasty chicken sandwiches and a beer, Susan and I commiserated over how rough Northern Ireland had treated us. Susan's back still hurt. I kind of wanted to doze off at the table. We checked the weather forecast for the Peak District again - pretty lousy. Taking stock of the situation, we coalesced around a new plan - what if we just went straight to London and then flew to Türkiye about 9 days sooner than planned?
In our heads, Türkiye had become a promised land - sunshine and warmth, no rain, rock climbing to our hearts' content, and the beach! Why stick around a grey and clammy land of windstorms? We came up with a list of all the things that would need to rearrange - plane tickets, housing in London, housing in Türkiye, not to mention our plan to get from Liverpool to London - as well as the cost we'd have to eat to make all that happen. A few hundred dollars total? Seems like a fair price to escape the UK in October.
Not wanting to make phone calls in the pub, we went down to the Stena Line offices, hoping the waiting room would be open... no luck. So we leaned the bikes against a railing and posted up under an awning out of the rain, with all of our jackets on to try to stay warm, and called the airline Jet2 to see about moving up our flight. Success! With the first domino knocked down we started on the rest, and in a little while the staff (who seemed worried because we were blocking their access door) opened up the first waiting room so we got to huddle inside.
Much better prepared for all the rigamarole of getting on the ferry this time around (and also handled by a much kinder staff who actually *explained things* to us), we worked diligently on my phone and laptop to try to reorganize our next couple weeks. The first last-minute booking for a week in London fell through, but we found another option. After the same song-and-dance between waiting rooms and the pointless bus ride, we beelined for the common area benches and set up our beds like pros. Before falling asleep we did a last bit of figuring for our route to London, planning to do a final day of riding through the English countryside to Crewe, and then hopping a train. It felt like a weight had been lifted off as we snagged some snatches of sleep, dreams of Türkiye floating through our heads...
🧿👄🧿 the foreshadow !!! 🧿👄🧿
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