A Day on Rathlin

A day spent exploring Rathlin on foot made me want to share the simple joys of a place that takes me back to a time when we were kinder to nature.

I’m a great believer in a well-executed day trip. Good company (or none at all), a few indulgent food treats, and a real sense of getting off the beaten path.

So our packed lunch included slabs of buttered Guinness wheaten bread, a vintage crumbly cheddar, lemon drizzle cake, seaweed (yes) crisps, and NearyNógs chocolate, chosen for its beautiful packaging as much as anything else. On an island, it pays to be prepared!

Despite my husband’s protestations, I booked the first ferry, which meant a 5am alarm, earlier than he thought was reasonable. The Kintra II is a small catamaran, fast but basic, with only a sheet of plastic between you and the sea spray coming over the deck. The risk of getting soaked feels real.

On landing, hopes of a caffeine fix were dashed, as the Manor House didn’t serve tea or coffee until 10am, so the flask we had packed would have to be rationed carefully!

We skipped the island bus and set off on foot. It was sunny, with clear blue skies, warm with a fresh breeze. Perfect walking weather.

I feel real joy and a sense of melancholy, seeing farmland and verges as they must once have been everywhere. Thousands of buttery yellow primroses peeping up, a striking pink orchid, a surprisingly large dung beetle, butterflies and bees, fields full of purple dog violets, and the coconut scent of gorse. The dung beetle, I later learned, is increasingly at risk from anthelmintic treatments used in livestock.

By midday, I felt the unwelcome pull of the clock, knowing we still had a fair distance to walk back. I wasn’t ready to turn yet. Booking the 3pm ferry had been a mistake, but the joys of 4G meant I could change it there and then.

By the time we got back to the village, we had walked 16km, some of it steep and uneven, and I could feel it in my legs. Sitting down at a picnic table outside the Manor House with two pints of the black stuff felt well earnedthat were exactly as they should be. Crisp batter, flaky fish, and chips we made short work of. We sat outside, lingering at our table, taking in the harbour below, the sun still on our faces.

At one point, my husband noticed a large plane flying unusually low, almost level with the cliffs. It felt disconcerting, and for a moment we wondered what it was doing there, whether it was looking for submarines. We think it was a Boeing P8 Poseidon from 201 Squadron, based at RAF Lossiemouth, out on a low-flying training exercise with the Coastguard.

The ferry home was the Spirit of Rathlin, by far the better option, with a proper cabin and an open, wind-swept viewing deck.

I ended the day weary to the bone, cheeks still warm from the windburn, but lighter in spirit. I slept like a log and woke up with the motivation to write for the first time in ages.