Antrim Coast Road - from 'Traveller in the Glens'

Journey in the Old Days

A retrospective view of the road that rounded the shores of Antrim prior to the construction of the now-famous Coast Road.
      (We are back in the year 1810; Napoleon has recently divorced Josephine Beauharnais, and his armies are predominant on the European continent; George III, bluff old ‘Farmer George’, is on the throne of England.)
      The coach in which we are travelling has just left Larne behind, and is taking its leisurely but noisy way over the deeply-rutted track that winds along the hillside from Larne.
      Now and then the coachman sounds a note or two on his horn, this both for the purpose of announcing the coming of the ‘stage’ to intending passengers (no limited stops operate) and acting as a warning to other road users, including the hens, dogs, pigs, sheep or cattle that this modern juggernaut might frighten if it arrived unheralded!
      Just how bad the road can be is shown by the subject now being discussed by the ‘inside’ passengers – the bogging of another coach a week ago, when a wheel came off, the coachman was injured and it took two days of hard work to get the vehicle back to Larne for repairs.
      In 1841, over thirty years later, when Mr and Mrs S. C. Hall visited Glenarm, they asked an old man how the coach-and-six of an earlier date had managed to negotiate such a road. His reply was:
      ‘Och, this was the way of it,’ he said, ‘first and foremost we tuck the horses off, and then the beasts got on well enough when they had nothing heavier than themselves to drag; then the quality got out and walked, and a power o’ men turned up from the glens and drew the carriage. Oh, bedad! We managed it bravely.’
      Well, the descent – or, as the Glensman said, the climb down– into Glenarm is by way of that same road, and the coachman skilfully uses his horn to wake up the sleepy village, then the horses are brought to a stop that almost sends them on their haunches.
      Ostlers dash out, unhook the traces, and lead the steaming nags to the stables, while mine host with rubicund visage takes his place on the inn steps to welcome the passengers. The coachman descends in a rotundity due to many overcoats, and in leisurely fashion waddles to the tap-room, there to imbibe some liquid ‘cheer’ and regale the open-mouthed villagers with tales of the perils of the road.
      Some of the passengers elect to put up at the inn, despite the statement of R. Dobbs a hundred or so years before that ‘Glenarm afforded only ill-lodging and bad cooks’! So we leave them when the fresh team is yoked. We are driven over the bridge near Glenarm Castle and, climbing over Straidkilly, see Glencloy and Carnlough. Through Carnlough we go at a spanking pace, then up past Limnalary House, the residence of Peter Mathewson, Esq., Captain of the Glenarm Yeomanry (and destined later on to be the home of a more famous soldier, Field-Marshal Sir George Stuart White, VC, GCB, OM, GCMG, GCIO, GCVO, the hero of Ladysmith).
      The going here is better, as the new owner of the Drumnasole estate, a Mr Francis Turnley, has since his coming to the district employed men in improving the surface of the road leading to where he has erected a large residence which is known as Drumnasole House.
      Local gossip says that Mr Turnley spent some years in China, where he amassed a fortune of £80,000, then returned home and bought Cushendall and Drumnasole.
      We pass a roadside well that somebody says is called ‘Tubberdoney’, whose water has a great reputation in the locality for the treatment of affections of the eyes; then a little schoolhouse comes to view, and some way above it the partly-finished mansion of larch and fir trees extending from near it right up to the brow of the mountain.
      A lovely drive takes us over two humped-backed bridges, then past Nappan, where resides John Higginson, Esq., Major of the Antrim Militia (and ancestor of Moira O’Neill, poetess, of Songs of the Glens of Antrim fame).
      From Nappan our pace increases and soon we are passing Garron Head, crowned by Dunmaul, an ancient stronghold ringed by a fosse; then we descend to a point near the sea, crossing a rivulet (Foran) that springs from the face of the limestone rock.
      A depression close to the shore is pointed out as ‘St Patrick’s Heel’, where the saint is supposed to have put his foot down when crushing the serpents that were reluctant to enter the sea when he banished them.
      There is little more than a track from this point up to Galbolly, so we have to walk while the sweating horses strain and pull the coach up to the village. There is a dark, withdrawn look about it that is not inviting, and the inhabitants – or the few we see– do not appear to be very hospitable.(We remember, too, that not a lifetime before the place had a reputation for brigandage.)
      Re-entering the coach, we drive gaily past Falavee, its white cliffs shining in the rosy light of the setting sun, and as the twilight settles down we pass the ruins of Ardclinis, a monastery dating back to the thirteenth century.
      Glenariff is now is sight, and we slow down passing Milltown, smallest townland in Ireland, which consists of a cornmill, flax mill and clachan of small, neat, whitewashed cottages. Nearby is Bay Lodge, the residence of Rev. Stewart Dobbs, who built the mills referred to and who is a very popular landlord. He has always taken a practical interest in the welfare of his tenantry, though the majority of them do not belong to his church, and has lately (1809) sent a very complete account of their history, mode of life and any interesting topographical features to Mr Mason, editor of the (published 1812) Statistical Survey of Ireland.
      The landlord who succeeded Rev. Dobbs evicted many of the people, and the mills were left derelict. The ruins may still be seen.
      Our next stop is, of course, at the cave-home of Nannie Murray where, while we refresh ourselves with a drop of her special distillation, we are told the story of how she came to be allowed to dispense ‘mountain dew’ with impunity.
      It appears that the then Earl of Antrim heard of Nannie’s activities and came to visit her. Upon arrival at her ‘premises’ he was told – not by Nannie, but by some of her neighbours – of the number of apparently-drowned persons she had restored, and the number of benighted or exhausted travellers to whom she had extended her hospitality. So struck was his Lordship by this evidence of the usefulness of Nannie’s service that he obtained permission for her to carry on her good work without the formality of paying rent or licence.
      We look upon our hostess with a certain amount of respect, as the only unlicensed retailer of alcoholic beverages permitted to exercise her ‘calling’ without fear of legal interference, then bid her farewell, and after a steep climb up Crookanavick come in sight of Cushendall.
      The horses seem to know they have only a short distance to go, and set a spanking pace for the descent into the village where, passing on our left the ‘Curfew Tower’, a square, sandstone-built building, we come to a stop at the large inn which Mr Turnley has built for the convenience of travellers (Glens of Antrim Hotel)– and journey’s end.