A Scenic Drive or Whatever Happened to Flossie?     Part 2: Downhill to Downhill Part 1: Driving up Benevenagh Part 2: You are looking at it Part 3: Driving to the Point Part 4: Along the coast and up a wall Part 5: Whatever happened to Flossie?

 

We continue our epic drive for a few more minutes without any further damage to the car whatever. This part of Benevenagh used to be wonderfully shady, but nowadays Ballyhanna forest is a pitiful collection of dead stumps and miserable looking leftovers. Homeless buzzards swoop above a violated landscape; their nests have been sacrificed to the human need for chipboard. In three years' time, when the secondary growth becomes visible, this place will look nice again.

Ballyhanna forest

A The suicidal pheasant Oil painting by Margaret Lueg

We park at the side of the road, and watch a cock-pheasant  promenading up a small overgrown lane. As half expected, Meg whispers: "This I've got to paint!" In no time whatever she gets her paints and artistry together and produces the oil painting on the left. Finishing, she snaps the paintbox shut and nearly startles the object of her portrait out of his colourful feathers. The bird bursts into a noisy take-off run after which he jumps into the air and elegantly glides down the mountain, screeching:  "Shoot me! ...... Shoot me! ..... Shoot me!" We fear that somebody will do just that - if only to stop the racket - and drive off just as the bullets start to fly.

When we dare to stop again we find ourselves on the highest point of the road where we pull in to tend to Flossie's gastric emergency. Whilst Tudor herds her to the nearest convenience there is time to pontificate about this mountain. Benevenagh is clearly a magnificent work of nature. From certain favoured parts of the valley it has a sphinx-like appearance because - like some people - it has a wonderful profile but a fairly flat top. Not only is Benevenagh an 'Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty' and a 'Countryside Policy Area', but it is also an 'Area of Restricted Mineral Development' - which explains the scandalous absence of gold mines in these hills. But above all, Benevenagh it is wonderful to look at.

View from the top

Flossie and Bossie, the famous Ulster fighting lambs.

Some people spell the name 'Binevenagh' rather than 'Benevenagh'. This began - some think - with a spelling mistake on an old map and the Ordnance Survey has a lot to answer for. This is not an unlikely theory, because the landscape around here is full of spelling mistakes. We have to interrupt this advanced geographical thought because Flossie and Bossie need fresh air again - so do we in fact, because there seems to have been a gastric emergency. The minute the two lambs are outside, Bossie attacks the only thing he can see that is less dangerous than himself - poor Flossie - and then takes to his heels and gallops into the next field. Ah well, there goes half our lunch

 

Flossie - who had lost the fight - didn't even try to escape and Tudor has no trouble herding her to the car. It is time to continue our journey. We pause where Leighry Road joins Bishops Road, admire the view and study an interesting road sign which seems to indicate the unexpected presence of a whaling preserve just two somethings to the left. "The anglers around here must use steel hawsers instead of lines" I mutter admiringly. "Lamb and whale sushi, garnished with rosemary"  drools Meg: "That sounds like our kind of lunch". After a statement like that we just have to turn left. Whilst we admire the large fir trees, the Donegal coastline beyond Lough Foyle and the homesick buzzards soaring above, we suddenly hear:

Cross roads on Benevenagh

 

"Cuckoo - cuckoo - cuckoo". Either a Swiss horologer works around here or we have invaded the territory of a very monotonous-sounding bird. "Cuckoo - cuckoo - coooockoo". We count the calls: six in all, yet the time is half past ten: it must be a bird! We heave Flossie into the jeep, tell Tudor to follow and turn into the very steep Leighry Road. The spelling of this road is very confusing because at the bottom the sign says 'Leighery Road' and up here it's only 'Leighry Road'. It seems that this stretch of near vertical tarmac is the only road in Ulster so steep, it has to shed an 'E' to make it to the top. Most of the forest around here has recently been savaged but some trees remain. Half-way down near an unexpected house, we hear the unmistakable sound of an Alpenhorn.

 

The Alpenhorn player

"Boooom, boooom, booooooom" - "Cuckkoo". It sounds like either Strauss or Brahms - if it isn't Bruckner; we can't decide which, because that monotonous bird puts us off our classics! Flossie is so frightened she nearly jumps out of her skin and hits the side of the car with such velocity that she leaves a sizeable bump and two horn-sized holes. To our left in amongst the trees we spot a very helvetic-looking gentleman whose power of wind seems only to be matched by the instrument he his playing. Alpenhorns are very elongated things and we  duck respectfully as we pass. "Boooom, boooom! booooooom!" - "Cuckkoooo...ooh.....oooooh" There is an Eidgenosse living around here!

 

We turn left at the next sign and face another stumpy landscape. Why can't they leave some of the trees standing? Flossie is baahing pitifully because she can't see anything to eat. Tudor licks his chops, because he can. A steep bend takes us to Benevenagh lake. The cliff edge is about five hundred meters away, no matter what that sign says. The lake is a welcome sight though, particularly if you have a harpoon, a steel line and an appetite for whale meat. Sturdy fishermen populate the shore - there is even a corner for half anglers.

Benevenagh lake with a couple of half anglers

 

A low flying glider

As it is too early for lunch we don't bother the marine mammals just yet but take a walk along the cliff-edge. The view is superb - as long as you remember to duck every once in a while to let the gliders go by. These big silent birds use the cliff face updraught to stay in the air. However, some of the pilots don't seem to know where the mountain ends and where the average walker begins. Hence we have to crawl along on our bellies for several tedious miles. What with low flying gliders and overstretched alpenhorns, this seems to be a dangerous mountain. Below us is the Magilligan peninsula and across the water the mountains of Inishowen guard the shores of Lough Foyle. It really is a superb view.

 

People not familiar with the area will be interested to know that this is one of the few places on earth where you have to look West to see the South. But enough of these geo-political reflections. It is time to return to the car for our harpoon, so that we can land more lunch. Back at the car a dire emergency seems to have developed. This time Flossie has punched two holes into the other side of the car and she looks rather pleased with the extra air circulating around her tiny horns. The reason for her sudden panic attack is immediately obvious because we can't help but notice a bedraggled looking figure dressed in a pilot's outfit sitting on the dented roof of our car. Bits and pieces of glider lying about the place make our approach quite difficult. A large brass angling spoon dangles from the nose cone of the wrecked air plane.It is connected via a strong nylon line to the upper half of a rather smug-looking angler, who is about to rise from the foams, sporting a large net and swinging a fearful looking wooden flail. "He didn't even use a harpoon!" I mutter, as I survey the scene. We shoo the dazed pilot off the roof of our car, crunch through the remains of the glider, bid the triumphant angler a petrified farewell and leave without so much as a whale bone. Just as the scene vanishes behind us a faint yell reaches our ears: "Thar she blooows". Ah well. Thar goes our lunch. "I hope they choke on it!" says Meg with much feeling. We reach the Bishops road again and turn left towards Downhill. The road is so narrow that two cars can just about pass each other if the drivers don't mind a few scratches. We are beyond caring - at this rate our car will only last for a few more hours anyway.

 

Magilligan, the jail and two savaged yows

Not only is the road narrow, but oncoming drivers tend to watch the view rather than the traffic, which explains why the next car nearly tips us into a field. We stop near Tircreven Road to catch our breath. This time we've only lost some paint and a bit of the running board. Not to worry, we aren't in a hurry anyway. Tircreven Road is even steeper than Leighrey Road and goodness only knows how many 'E's' it has at the bottom of the mountain to still have two left up here. We examine the Magilligan jail complex and Flossie gets quite a fright when she meets some of her local compatriots - who look as if they have just been savaged by a lion. They obviously belong to a farmer with a sense of fun and a large bucket of red paint.

 

Our next stop is the Gortmore viewing point from whence one has a magnificent view of the cliffs of Benevenagh, the Roe mouth, the Magilligan peninsula and Lough Foyle all the way to distant Derry. Opposite are the hills of Donegal. Unfortunately one also sees the Benone Caravan sites, which are a dreadful scar on the landscape. Above the viewing point the AA have erected a small bronze table mapping the Inishowen mountains one can see across the lough. There are Croaghconnellagh and Croaghnageer, Croaghnacraddy and Croaghnamaddy, in fact: an endless number of monotonous sounding croaghs followed by a random arrangement of other noises. As I said already, they have a way with words around here, but rest assured: those mountains look much better than they sound! Meg groans: "I've got to paint this", whips out the oils and brushes and spends the next ten minutes recording the view for posterity.

Croagh Benevenagh from Croagh Gortmore viewing point Oil painting by Margaret Lueg

 

Bishops Road with Mussenden temple on the left, the palace on the right and Portrush in the background

We pull out of the car park to continue our one-day odyssey. From here on it is downhill to Downhill all the way. Soon we spot the ruins of the Bishop's Palace and lovely Mussenden temple. Portrush, the river Bann and the Causeway Coast form a magnificent backdrop. Bishop Hervey, the Earl of Bristol, was a character - by all accounts - and his buildings have inherited some of his qualities. Bristol was a famous traveller and many a 'Hotel Bristol' on the continent used to commemorate his visits. Why he would want to travel so much when he had such a nice place over here is anyone's guess. His vast palace has fallen into wreck and ruin but Mussenden temple - a Victorian folly in the Roman tradition - is still clinging on, though the cliff is threatening to swallow it. The lovely road we have been travelling on - 'The Bishops Road' - is of course also named after the long-gone eccentric.

 

A rather steep series of bends with high rocks to the right and splendid views across the Atlantic and Lough Foyle to the left guide us down towards Downhill beach. This links up with Benone beach to form one of the longest sandy stretches in Europe. Whoever named Downhill 'Downhill' must have had a rare talent for stating the obvious. Mind you, as it hardly ever snows around here the name also has the potential to lead lovers of winter-sports seriously astray. The little hamlet - which just borders the Limavady district - is a strange place. Surrounded by the most spectacular scenery imaginable, crowned by that wonderful bishopy love-nest, it looks at the moment like a total dump. A building site dominates the centre, a fenced-off area - the former car park - is filled with building rubble and most of the rest of the place is a building site.

Going Downhill

 

Downhill beach

But who wants to count bricks when one can drive up and down that spectacular beach? A wonderful idea! We join the throng, steer our disintegrating conveyance onto the sandy expanse and hit the accelerator. We drive past angry-looking bathers who try to reach the water, but can't get there because of the traffic. Imagine - coming to the seaside to have a swim. Whatever will they think of next! For the next ten minutes we race up and down the beach and inhale the invigorating salty sea air mixed with wonderful exhaust fumes. Isn't a visit to the beach relaxing?

Suddenly we hear a thunderous noise. A wave, which looks suspiciously like something started by the flip of a dolphin's fin half a planet away, washes around the car. A trickle of water squirts through the holes that Flossie made, we float for a few precious seconds - have just enough time to get seasick and then the tide retreats as suddenly as it came. With it floats our spare wheel. Oh well, who needs five wheels anyway?

 

As it is quite certain that the car won't survive another such chaotic occurrence, we turn and head towards the exit - admiring the huge cliffs crowned by the temple. Just as we turn right to get off the beach Meg yells: "Stop what's left of the car! I've got to paint this!" From underneath Flossie and the as yet untouched picnic she extracts canvas, brushes and oils and starts to record the scene for posterity. 42 seconds later, with the smell of drying paints of various colours still wafting in the breeze, we move on. A rather good painting, don't you think? As we leave there is a funny crunch from beneath the car and bits of yellow fibre-glass fly past in all directions. In our damaged mirror I notice a distant figure in a wetsuit waving its arms furiously. "Whatever does he want?" I wonder aloud. "Maybe he suffers from cramps" says Meg, as we drive off.   The third part of this amazing tale

Mussenden, Downhill - Oil painting by Margaret Lueg

 
 
Continue driving