Wigtown

We set out along the Giant's Causeway Coastal route, pausing along the way to admire the beach and views of the chalk cliffs at White Park Bay.

What's not to like about views of the sea? I do love the mountains, but if I had to choose just one, it would be the sea.

We had our morning tea at a waterside park in Ballycastle.

On this cloudy day, we had the place to ourselves.

When our guides joined us at the lunch table yesterday, they remarked that we seemed awfully quiet. “That's because we just reviewed the description of tomorrow's ride. Toughest cycling road in Ireland!” it says. They looked at each other.

The Torr Road. It started out gently enough.

They're always scenic, these climbs. I declined the offer to ride in the van. It was cloudy, but not raining; and the steep section (16% grade) was short. I walked, until it leveled out a bit. Luka Bloom's lyrics played in my head:

Ah go on, get up on your bike.

The switchback ahead was steep, but I'd get there faster if I pedaled.

And if I pedaled, would I make it? My legs were as balky as yesterday. I dug deep.

The van was parked above. “It's clear, you can go wide!” shouted our guide.

Instead of walking, with great determination, I pedaled. I powered up one steep bit, at last!

I was, of course, off the back again. Fragments of Irish fiddle tunes (the soundtrack during Sunday's long drive) played in my head, and helped me keep turning the pedals. [Note to self: listen to more of those.]

One benefit of climbing slowly is all the time you have to admire the view. And here, there were plenty of views to admire.

I drew closer to some cyclists who had stopped ahead; close enough to see that they were not part of our group.

“Are you the lady from California?” one asked. (Evidently they've met the rest of our group.)

“Near San José,” I replied. One of them pointed at his arm warmers: San Jose Bike Club. And then, things got really surprising. He noticed my club jersey ... he was wearing a different one. We are members of the same bike club. What are the odds, that we happen to be on the same remote road in Northern Ireland, on the same day, at the same time? It's been years since we've crossed paths on a ride in the Bay Area, as he's a much stronger rider than I am.

Just as I was getting back on the bike, our guide circled back to find me. With a little more climbing ahead, he gallantly offered to take my handlebar bag. “People pay money to shed that much weight from the bike.” I handed it over. “I'll try to keep up on the descent,” he joked. (My reputation has been solidly established.)

We were on the clock again today, as we had to catch the ferry that would take us to our fifth and final country, Scotland.

To reach our destination for tonight, Wigtown, we cycled 20 miles across a peninsula. Along the way, right next to the road, was the Torhouse Stone Circle.

Whenever I visit an ancient historic site by bicycle, I can't help but wonder what its people would make of us and our machines. And wonder at the labor (and the thought) that went into the creation of this monument, during a time when it would seem a luxury to do anything more than the work needed simply to survive.

Our longest day, so far: 52 miles, with 3,350 feet of climbing.

Yet, I was not eager for this day to end.

Giant's Causeway

The sun lingers late, this far north, during the summer months.

Which afforded us the opportunity for a bonus post-dinner excursion to a very special place—the Giant's Causeway—a UNESCO World Heritage site.

I saw my first volcanic basalt columns last year, when I visited Yellowstone National Park. Here, they were more varied and accessible ... and particularly striking at dusk.

Looking at the landscape now, I can't imagine the volcanic violence that formed these towering columns (about 60 million years ago).

Even more so, given that despite the work of waves and weather over the millennia, some 40,000 columns remain.

Wildflowers find their footing in the crevices and hint at the size of these rocks.

The perspective is much more clear at human scale.

Before it finished setting over the North Atlantic, the sun tinted sea and sky in shades of gold and pink and lavender.

How very fortunate were we, to bask in this place and time.

Portballintrae

More rain to start our day. So it goes.

We shared the road with a few sheep (and a lamb); they kindly kept to the left side of the road.

This was day seven of our trip, and despite our recent rest day, my legs did not want to climb. Did. Not. Want. To.

Being way off the back again, I was feeling like I should call it a day at lunchtime. The prospect of biking 48 miles was daunting.

We were headed for another steep climb, up Mamore Gap. Photos never do justice to the slope—we're headed for the V-shaped notch, and around the bend the road goes more or less straight up. I recorded a grade approaching 19%, though this report suggests it maxes out at 22%. In other words, I was doomed. I took a deep breath and pedaled until I couldn't; then, I walked the steepest 4/10 of a mile. Only one rider, and our guide, pedaled the whole way up.

The descent was technical, and wet, so I took it easy. If you look carefully, you will find a tiny dot of a cyclist (above the big rock) descending a twisty, steep bit. Looking back when we reached the fields below, the skies grew darker and darker: we were lucky to get through the Gap before the downpour.

Somehow, I didn't get the memo about where we would have our tea break, and the van was not visible from the road. I assumed that everyone was ahead of me; I did catch another rider at an intersection, where we decided to pause. Our guide appeared (somewhat breathless), to reel us back in. We backtracked to find the van at a parking lot for the Glenevin Waterfall. We didn't have time for a hike to see it, so we just enjoyed our tea and sweets.

The rain found us when we stopped at a pub for lunch (cycling—it's all about the food). Have I mentioned that our guides also wipe our saddles dry when we're ready to get back on the bikes? [Yes, they do that.] They talked me out of abandoning into the van at this stage; the drive would be long, and they assured me that the climbs ahead were gentle.

We rolled into Greencastle, where we would meet up with the boat that would take us across the edge of the North Atlantic to our fourth country, Northern Ireland. There was enough time to warm up with our favorite libations, each to his or her own: hot chocolate, tea, Guinness ... I was amused to find USB ports installed under the bar top, for patrons to charge their phones.

Bikes and people were loaded onto the boat, lifejackets were donned, and tales were told by the captain: How the British army used to play rugby on the sand bar we were skirting, at low tide. How the Royal Portrush Golf Club (visible along the shore) will host a championship in 2019.

There was an unusual boat in the harbor at Portrush; our captain didn't think much of their maritime skills and gave them a wide berth. It was the vessel that the four-man team “Home to Portrush” plans to row in the 2017 Atlantic Challenge. [Yes, they plan to row 3,000 miles across the Atlantic Ocean.]

Having biked some 41 miles, what's another seven? [Sigh.] Not much climbing, I was promised.

It was worth it, from the coastal promenade, to the ruins of Dunluce Castle.

It's a personal foible, to imagine I'm capable of less when I really can do more. Today, for example: 48 miles, 2,940 feet of climbing.