January: The Waiting Game: Winter Cycling on The Antrim Coast and Co Down.

On Sunday the TV weather for the coming week shows it good up until Wednesday. Then it's suppose to turn cold with the chance of snow. The map has closely packed isobars with wind from the north-west.

The plan is to ride north up Antrim coast way and spent a day off the bike up there to concentrate solely on landscape photography. I've never got a good shot of the Giant's Causeway, mainly due to always visiting in Summer, in the middle of the day when the sun is too high. This time of year the sun is just nice and hopefully I'll come away with a three dimensional picture.

On Monday morning I eat a good breakfast of orange and apple segments; yogurt and muesli and toast, washed down by two mugs of tea, before setting out what I'll need to take. I deem a change of clothes unnecessary because of the trip's short duration. So pack my tent and roll mat inside the rack-top bag; sleeping-bag, down-jacket, toiletry (tooth-brush, tooth paste and pack-towel) and bike-lock in one rear pannier: in a smaller front pannier placed inside the other rear pannier for extra padding, I pack my netbook, a notebook and book; and in what space remains on that side, I pack my stove and pans. I place my camera, Michelin map of Ireland and a head-torch in the bar-bag; and apart from a tripod rolled inside my raincoat and strapped on top at the rear, that's everything. Fuel and water is stored on the frame, as are any tools I'll need.

It's almost eleven when I get on the road. The day mainly sunny through broken cloud. Straightaway I feel the handling awkward in comparison to usual when the weight is more or less equally distributed between front and rear. The bike feels rear heavy-front light; not as stable. It takes more effort to pedal with all the weight on the back, especially uphill, as the way goes inland toward the Dromara hills on the back road to Ballynahynch. Then the main road to Belfast, which with the exception of a brief downhill, is an ever so gradual incline the whole way until the final descent to Belfast at the head of it's namesake lough. I take a slightly different, more eastern route into the city, toward the docks. The skyline ahead dominated by the two great yellow gangtree cranes.

In the centre I lunch at one of many cafes, having an uninspiring jacket potato with tuna filling and a lettuce and tomato salad on the side. Then re-emerging out and riding on, cold drops of rain fall as a sheet of dark cloud moves over, but the rain is brief as the cloud moves on east leaving blue sky and a fine late January afternoon in it's wake.

I continue out of the city on the A2, named the "Shore Road" as Belfast Lough is on the right, until dusk when I'm a few mile short of Larne, whereupon I turn off on a byroad hoping to reach a wooded hillside on the left-hand side and a possibility of camping.

But on reaching the wooded hillside, there is too many houses nearby and turning a bend there's even a small village on either side of a steep rise, so have to continue. The narrow road onward between mechanically cropped hedgerows is all intensively farmed grassland without an inch to spare: sheep and dairy farming and before long I'm riding in the dark. In desperation I think of entering through a gate and camping behind the hedge in a field that hasn't sheep in it, but just about every such field has a house overlooking it. It begins drizzling rain. The beads of rain on my glasses make it difficult seeing where I'm riding in the dark, especially when headlights of an oncoming car appears ahead. The rain thankfully peters out after a bit just as the byroad I'm on comes to a roundabout on the main dual carriageway between Belfast and Larne. This in a way is good as there are streetlights and turning left, a walkway extends along to a petrol station. I know from experience that on such roads there's a good possibility to find a camp spot by the fence on top of a cutting out of view of passing traffic. When I pass the petrol station there's road works and a little beyond the start of the coned off stretch, there's a new yet to be opened road off at a right-angle, which I turn along until far enough in, I look and find a dry spot by the fence.

The work men turn up at eight the following morning as I take down the tent and leave. The road is damp, it having rained more during the night. I return back along the carriageway to the roundabout and cross over to continue on a byroad north and after five or six miles of up and down, re-join the A2, the main Antrim coast road.

An Antrim Glen: pale green fields and rust brown of last Summer's dying brackens.

The road is very familiar having ridden it many times, hugging the coast it passes through many harbour villages. I make a lunch stop in Carnlough; have the large all day breakfast costing a reasonable five quid. What I like most is I'm not charged for a second pot of tea, as I was thirsty after the bacon, sausages and fried bread.

After Cushendall the A2 continues a little inland and then a B-road splits off on the right, toward the coast: the way I took last June, it passes through the pretty coastal village of Cushendun, then there's quite a formidable steep climb for a mile or so before an equally steep descend down to Tors head with an old derilick weather station and a fabulous view across to the Scottish coast. Today it being cold I decide on the more direct route which is equally scenic, going up over a moor and then with pine plantation on either side called Patrick forest park.

I ride into Ballycastle about two thirty. The street by the waterfront is deserted, whereas in Summertime its nearly always bustling with day-trippers.

I pull up outside an ice-cream parlour and enter, order a cappuccino and take a seat. Then sit long pondering whether to ride any further today. There's a backpackers a few doors along and staying there a night would be preferable instead of a repeat of yesterday, when I ended up riding in the dark. The cappuccino is strong and it is cosy looking out at the cold of the seafront as a string of early eighties hits ooze from a speaker including "I'm only human" by Human League. I am. I get up and order a second cappuccino. Then sit. Queen's "Radio Gaga" is playing: a soundtrack to me getting on a bus to my very first job. Later when I get up and pay, a woman sat by the counter chatting to the barista woman, swivels in the stool to face me and passing the day comments on what a cold day it is for the bike, and inquires how far I've come. I say and add that I camped last night; at which she winces and shivers in a gesture of sympathy. I mention staying in the backpackers tonight, and she counters that its doubtful whether it is open, but recommends a hostel in The Quays.

Outside the Italian ice-cream parlour in Ballycastle.

The seafront at Ballycastle with Fair head.

The Quays is the street around the corner leading up from the seafront. Therein is the hostel opposite the integrated school just as the woman in the café said. Beside the door is a list of prices: twenty five pounds for a single: a little more than I'd like to pay and think of seeing is the backpackers shut for certain, where a bed would be in the region of fifteen. But before I get moving, a door opens at a guest house next-door and out steps an energetic late thirtyish man with a friendly demeanour: the proprietor, apparently seeing the loaded bike from his front-room window. He owns the hostel too and is a cyclist: breaking the ice by relating he once cycled from Derry, all the way round the north Irish coast to Newry. He opens up and says as I'll be the only guest he'll settle for twenty, a reasonable price. He shows me round, checks the heating, answers my questions: there is a Co-op supermarket off The Diamond and a good café on the street to the ferry terminal if I fancy breakfasting out in the morning. Then tells me his name is Barclay and if there's anything I need, call next door.

The house to myself, I pass the evening as follows. I shower and settle in; walk along the high street, the pavement wet as it has been raining, to the Co-op and shop, return, cook dinner and eat, then work on the journal until near midnight. When I go to bed I find it hard sleeping. I later put it down to those two cappuccinos in the afternoon.

The weather doesn't look too bad from the bedroom window at eight next morning, a bit windy, otherwise okay. But later, after a breakfast of muesli, toast and tea, hailstones rattle against the window pane and are driven horizontally on the wind along the street. A heavy shower which is soon over. It is winter after all, it is only to be expected.

I set off before nine in blustery wind howling down the street with the maxim that the weather always looks worse sat inside looking out on it, it isn't as bad when you get out and going.

There's another hail shower which soon peters out while climbing the steep hill leaving town. The wind is head on. I struggle onward, hoping to reach the Giant's Causeway, then call it a short day. The road is exposed and follows high up from the coast below on the right with Rathlin island a grey line out at sea. The sky has become the blackest shade of grey. The wind builds to a forceful gust and begins raining hard stinging pellet-balls that drive me to cover against a field-gate. The hailstone eases after five minutes leaving the road and landscape almost white. I ride on. But soon a mighty gale builds and powerful horizontal rain of pellet-balls blinds me, forcing me to cover against a fence in a drive.

The shower is prolonged, turning to big slops of wet snow, turning the landscape even whiter. I decide. When it begins easing, I set off back towards town without pedalling, the wind bowling me along, but the brake-pads being well worn and all the wet snow, my brakes are barely fit to slow against the force of the wind, making it extremely hairy to say the least. Finally I get off and walk down the slushy hill to the seafront, turn left toward the ferry terminal and find the café Barclay mentioned. It is now eleven-thirtyish, so perhaps not too early for brunch.

I remain in the café. I see many diners come and go. And look out to sea where in periods the sky is blue and sunny, but looking inland over town there's an ill smoke colour pawl of cloud which at times moves out along the coast in a scrawl of sleet darkening out the sun. I leave about four and return to the hostel for another night.

I sleep better tonight and looking out the following morning, the rooftops and pavement has a thicker covering of snow, but it is calm, so decide to make a run for it. I adjust the brakes so they slow and stop and get going at nine, heading south again. The road up over the mountain via Patrick forest is reduced to car-tracks through slushy snow. When I stop to take a photo, sheep in a field to the side, seeing me, come running, bleating to the fence; hungry, unable to graze through the snow. They think I've come to feed them.

once I descend to the coast at Cushendall, the road onwards is a wet sheen and the day remains calm and at the same time, an ever changing mix of blue and dirty white skies with snow flurries. Then turns greyer further south; like rain, but it holds off until reaching Belfast at dusk, when it comes on blinding sleet in the city, turning to a whiteout of big slops of snow on the long steady climb south out of the city. Now dark, the rush-hour traffic is a constant stream, conditions are appalling, but I ride on the footpath, which is bumpy foot-trampled snow.

I reach the big Carryduff roundabout six-thirtyish as the snow eases, where the A-road splits in two, alternatively veering left and my road straight on. From here on the traffic is reduced to a trickle. The road has a shoulder so I carve through fresh snow, while cars hiss by in dirty wet snow.

There is less snow on reaching Ballynahinch and the sky has cleared, so I enjoy the remainder of the ride in moonlight.

I arrived home at nine, stopping on the way for this shot.

The weather remains cold; nightly frosts and sunny days. In the hostel in Ballycastle I picked up a tourist pamphlet titled "Cycling In The Mournes" It had a number of routes of various degrees of difficulty, circuits of about forty kilometres. Although familiar roads to me, I thought it would be good to try one out. Starting north of Newcastle it climbs steadily up the river valley. The short description says: a loop taking in forests, villages and a nineteenth century man-made lake. Then goes on to describe the road and where to turn etcetera.

Riding toward the White Gate with it's fake Tudor cottage from 1876.

Clanawillan: the valley of the hollybush.

Moyad Road above the fog below, looking toward Slieve Croob (The Dromara Hills) like nuatak peaks protruding above a polar ice-sheet.

It was well I'd a hi-vis vest and bike-lights for the low visibility on a moderately busy road below.

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