Causeway to Heaven

We woke up in a four-poster bed in a castle, a sentence I hope to write again, but had never written before.

Before checking out we roamed the whole of Castle Markree — the ornate dining room, a private chapel, the formal gardens — and racked up ninety-nine photos before breakfast had properly settled.

One last look under the garden arch, and we pointed the car north.

We drove up through Donegal, ducked into a pharmacy, crossed to Derry, and rolled on into Northern Ireland, at which point our GPS quietly gave up the ghost, apparently unwilling to acknowledge the border. We'd hoped to tour the Bushmills distillery on the way and arrived a heroic five minutes after closing — too late even for the gift shop. A moment of silence for the whiskey we did not drink.

We made the Giant's Causeway just as the sun was going down, which up here in late October is less a plan than a race. The stones are genuinely unreal: thousands of basalt columns fitted together like the world's most patient tile job, marching straight down into the sea.

We climbed out onto the hexagons and watched the light go, which that far north it does around a quarter past six whether you are ready or not. Favorite place of the whole trip, and I don't think it was close.

Tomorrow: Belfast, eventually.