Rothar Routes

Cycle routes & pilgrim journeys in Ireland and Europe …..

A NFL Road Trip along the Lough Shore

The NFL is finally up and running and it was great to be in Portglenone to witness a really heart warming Carlow victory over Antrim. A complete team performance. Tús maith leath na hoibre.

A long spin up but worth it for the die hard supporters who made the effort.

It’s great to be a spectator and have no real deadlines to follow so I used the opportunity to go on a pilgrimage to the GAA heartlands of the ‘Lough Shore’!

Along the western and northern shores of Lough Neagh lies one of the most remarkable concentrations of Gaelic football strength anywhere in Ireland.

In a relatively short stretch of countryside spanning Tyrone, Derry and Antrim, the lough shore has produced powerhouse clubs, legendary footballers and a culture where the GAA isn’t just a sport — it’s identity and a saving grace for communities that were ravaged by the Troubles.

This is a true football corridor. Drive the shoreline roads and you’re rarely out of sight of a pitch glowing under floodlights.

Not just any clubs but some power houses that have achieved phenomenal success at provincial and All Ireland level, have to mention I mean the Derry Clubs have!

Bellaghy Wolfe Tones stands as one of the great names of Derry football — a club steeped in success and deep cultural roots.

On the field, Bellaghy have been giants:

1972 All-Ireland Club Champions

1995 All-Ireland Runners Up

4 Ulster Club titles

3 Ulster runners-up finishes.

Their greatness was driven by exceptional players such as Damien Cassidy, one of the most elegant forwards Ireland has seen and Fergal Doherty, a prince of midfielders who had a great leap and a great pair of hands.

No story about Bellaghy is complete without recalling the late Seán Brown, a man who literally devoted his life to the club and who tragically lost his life when he was murdered by the Loyalist Volunteer Force as he locked up the grounds one night. His legacy lives on and Seán continues to inspire this great club.

It is also Seamus Heaney’s home town and I still had some time to spare so I paid a short visit to the Seamus Heaney centre. Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, he wrote so beautifully of life in this community, of working in the bog, of the importance of community and culture. 

Just up the road are Ballinderry Shamrocks

Their crowning glory came in 2002, when they captured the All-Ireland Club Championship, cementing their place among Ireland’s elite. Alongside that they won 3 Ulster Club titles and were twice Ulster runners-up.

The diminutive Conleth Gilligan was one of the most intelligent footballers I’ve ever seen and his teammate Enda Muldoon, one of the most elegant ball players; Gareth McKinless has more recently been the lynchpin of the Derry defence and an All Star too!

And the most recent Derry Champions are nearby Newbridge, bordering on Toome in Antrim, home to Cargin, the powerhouse of Saffron Club Football in this millennium.

Ardboe O’Donovan Rossa are Tyrone’s Lough side Legends. Their true legacy lies in the footballers it produced.

Frank McGuigan, Tyrone’s original superstar of the 1970s and ’80s, was a scoring phenomenon — a forward who carried county teams through difficult years with brilliance and bravery. Tyrone’s greatest ever?

Decades later came his son Brian, an intelligent, play maker at no 11 and winner of three All Ireland’s with Tyrone. One of the classiest Red Hands.

What a father and son combination!

I paid a visit to the ancient Ardboe High Cross close by which looks out across the huge expanse of Lough Neagh, the largest lake in Ireland, now sadly suffering from pollution of the waterways.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the lough shore story is how success has flowed differently on each side of the Derry – Tyrone border.

Derry clubs have amassed an astonishing 17 Ulster Club titles, driven largely by Bellaghy and Ballinderry — including two All-Ireland club crowns between them.

By contrast, Tyrone clubs have won just 3 Ulster titles, yet Tyrone became an inter-county superpower — fuelled by shoreline talent like the McGuigans and others forged in these tough parishes.

Same landscape.

Different expressions of greatness.

Spend time along Lough Neagh and you quickly realise the GAA isn’t an activity — it’s the backbone of community life.

Along the shores of Lough Neagh lies one of Gaelic football’s true heartlands. A concentrated corridor of clubs and communities that have shaped Ulster football. Long may it continue.

Galtymore – Frozen Lessons Above the Glen of Aherlow

The 32 County High Point challenge resumed in earnest this week and it did so with a bang – or perhaps more accurately, with a shiver! Galtymore, that shared summit between Tipperary and Limerick, reminded me that mountains don’t care about forecasts or optimistic hikers. They simply stand there, in all their magnificence, waiting to teach you a lesson if you arrive slightly undercooked.

What made it stranger still was how familiar this mountain felt before I even put a boot on it. The last time my wife and I passed beneath the Galtees we were on two wheels rather than two feet, swooping gently along the floor of the Glen of Aherlow as part of our Malin to Mizen cycle in 2021. Then, the mountains were something to admire from a distance – the sheer green north face of the Galtee Range is a majestic sight on a summers day. Back then they were scenery. Now they were my problem.

Expectation vs Reality

I had done the sensible bits: checked forecasts, looked at maps, reassured myself that the day looked promising. Cold, yes. Wintry, yes. But manageable. Unfortunately, my sense of competence didn’t extend to the basics: I left home without gloves and without snacks. Thought I’d pick some up in a shop but I didn’t pass one all the way down from Carlow! Clownish behaviour in winter. On a mountain. It’s the sort of lapse I could excuse if I was a novice, not from someone nearing the end of a 32-county challenge. You live, you learn… preferably not the hard way.

At Clydagh Bridge car park, I made the decision which shaped the day. Instead of heading for the Lough Curra stile – the established, friendly, sensible way up – I followed the sign to Galtymore Stile, confident that a sign surely couldn’t lie. But it did that quietly Irish thing: it pointed you in roughly the right direction and then left you to figure out the rest!

The path wandered out of forest and onto open commonage and then disappeared… no markers. No poles. Just vast, cold mountain ahead and a stream tumbling off the northern slopes. I followed the water, then committed to a small gully. Luckily (and there’s nothing like meeting fellow strays on a mountainside!) I encountered a couple who’d made the same mistake. We formed a little alliance of misplaced optimism and agreed to stick together, promising to turn back if it became foolish rather than adventurous. There is no way I could have completed this climb without their help and support. Hopefully they felt likewise!

Onto the Rough Side of the Mountain

This is not the tourist side of Galtymore. No lovely trodden track easing you gently toward the skyline. Instead, you get steep, frozen ground that demands attention and respect. Lough Diheen lurked off to our left beneath cliffs that we wisely avoided. The terrain pitched up savagely as we climbed – from about 450m to the 918m summit in a brutally direct line, a gradient that feels closer to a wall than a hill, a ladder wouldn’t be out of place.

The surface was iron–hard with frost. Grip was sometimes good, sometimes treacherous, but always tiring. I was also using poles which I found really helpful, once adjusted for the terrain. The kind of climbing where your legs burn, your breathing goes ragged, and you realise just how far removed this is from admiring mountains from a bicycle saddle in the sunshine.

Near the top, winter arrived properly. Cloud swallowed the summit, visibility vanished, snow swept across us, and strong gusts battered the ridge. Around the Lough Curra cliffs on the descent the wind became something wild – the sort that makes you lean your whole body against it and still feel unsure.

My hands had, since the upper parts of the frozen slope, decided to make their presence very much felt. Without gloves, they reached that sharp, screaming pain stage where you’re not entirely convinced you’ll ever feel your fingers again. Salvation came thanks to a borrowed pair of work gloves near the summit – agricultural by design, miraculous by effect.

A Race Against Darkness

Reaching the summit wasn’t the triumph I usually feel; it was relief. We didn’t linger. We took the sensible route down – the one we should have gone up in the first place – but the mountain wasn’t done. The ground was frozen, snow covering underfoot, light began to fade, and my phone battery slid perilously toward empty. Every modern comfort we rely on – navigation, weather info, timekeeping – all were quietly evaporating. A trail runner passed and gave us some directional advice for the best way down.

When I eventually reached the trailhead, tired, cold, hungry, and very aware of my own stupidity, I found myself thinking of the Glen of Aherlow again. Of that peaceful cycle in 2021. Of pedalling past farmers tending their livestock, the slow rhythm of rural life, the mountains watching silently above. The Galtees are stitched into local identity – songs, stories and folklore, Sunday drives, family picnics, history layered onto landscape. Indeed my first memory of the Glen was cycling through here with Tom Cullen all of 45 plus years ago! And then there’s us modern wanderers, arriving with apps, gadgets, performance fabrics, and occasionally… no gloves.

From Ireland to the Desert

All of this felt particularly vivid because only a week earlier I’d been scrambling in Wadi Al Dhahir in the UAE. There the landscape is heat-sculpted, bone–dry, dramatic in an entirely different register. Sun on stone, sand underfoot, heat shimmering off rock faces. You carry water like treasure. The danger is dehydration rather than frostbite. Yet the lesson is surprisingly similar in both places: the landscape demands respect, and complacency is never rewarded.

Standing on the Galtymore ridge in driving snow, I couldn’t help smiling at the contrast. One week baking in desert canyons; the next being sandblasted by frozen Irish weather. Two very different worlds, one humbling truth: nature is always in charge.

Lessons (Firmly) Learned

This was one of the hardest climbs I’ve done, less because of difficulty and more because of my own mistakes.

  • Bring gloves. Always. No excuses. Irish mountains are treacherous and changeable in an instant.
  • Bring food. Hunger is no badge of honour.
  • Don’t blindly trust a sign – know your route. I left my guidebook in the car….
  • Batteries die faster in cold. Plan for it.
  • The hardest-looking way up is rarely the wisest.

But Galtymore also gave back: companionship, resilience, perspective, and renewed respect for Irish mountains. Five county high points remain. I’ll face them with humility, better preparation… and a firm promise to myself never again to stand on a winter summit wondering where I left my gloves.

And somewhere along the way, as I often do, I’ll think of that quiet day cycling through the Glen of Aherlow, knowing that sometimes it’s okay to admire mountains from below – because sooner or later they will insist you meet them properly, and they’ll make sure you respect them and remember the encounter.

From Youghal to Ballycotton via Midleton & Cloyne: A 72 km Spin Through Hurling Heartlands & Atlantic Air

It’s been a while! The promise of a dry Bank Holiday Monday in east Cork was enough to have me face the car for the south coast, sick of rain over the weekend and itching for a good cycle. The showers were falling as I loaded the bike on the bike rack but the promise of a clearance in east Cork motivated me to take a 2 hour car journey into the heart of Cork hurling country!

Starting point today would be historic Youghal, a town we all bypass these days on the ring road but I was glad to revisit a Town, well past its heyday as a holiday destination, yet still packed with mobile home parks along the cliff tops and the sea front.

Youghal, ‘Eoghaill’ as Gaeilge, meaning Yew, has been around for a long time with Viking settlements here in the 11th century. It is of course closely associated with Sir Walter Raleigh (nothing to do with bikes!), and is designated an Irish Heritage Port Town. The Clock Gate Tower stalls tall and proud in the centre of the Town since 1777 and was used as a prison during the 1798 rebellion. 

It was home to the magical Seánie O’Leary – multiple All-Ireland winning hero, played in a great era for Cork hurling in which he was an out and out goal poacher. His son Tomás was equally gifted but he went on to play rugby for Munster and Ireland.

The Greenway Glide

The newly opened Youghal–Midleton Greenway offered smooth, direct westerly travel toward Midleton as it threaded through Killeagh and Mogeely, following the skeleton of the old rail line. The surface is perfect, the gradients gentle, the riding stress-free.

But yet. I always find greenways just a little too neat. Too predictable. Rural Ireland without the rumble. Beautiful but sterile, like cycling through a very well-curated postcard collection. The long gentle straights on perfect tarmac, the whole thing undeniably pleasant. Though, as headwinds begin to needle my shoulders, perhaps pleasant is no bad place to start. The route has lovely signposts highlighting local townland names and local flora and fauns, which really help appreciate the beauty around us.

The hurling pulse never really fades. Killeagh – a stone’s throw from the Greenway – produced another great small man,Joe Deane, one of the craftiest corner-forwards ever to wear Cork red, as well as Mark Landers, another pivotal Cork man of his era. Each village and parish feels wired for hurling.

Midleton: Magpie Country

As the Greenway ushers me into Midleton, I can’t help thinking about the club’s black-and-white stripes and their fierce pride. John Fenton, he of the magical wrists, who can forget his goal in Semple Stadium that might be the most replayed strike in hurling history? Fenton was one of my favourites. Kevin Hennessy and Conor Lehane too gifted stick-men of Midleton and Cork.

This landscape breathes hurling. Every hurling field down here is like a green carpet, beautiful sod, huge pitches!

I leave the constraints of the Greenway now and head for Cloyne, legs grateful for a change in scenery.

Cloyne: Towers, Legends & Granite Shoulders

The round tower in Cloyne rises from the earth like a stone exclamation mark. A reminder that this place was important long before Championships and scoreboards. Today though the Round Tower is encased in scaffolding and it’s bemusing to see it – the Monks who built these fabulous Towers had no such technology!

It’s impossible to roll through here without thinking about the hurlers who carved their names in local and national lore.

Cloyne is Christy Ring country. Enough said really. The man who still stands in the collective imagination as the greatest to ever swing an ash stick. Add the granite presence of Diarmuid “The Rock” O’Sullivan, whose blocks and shoulder charges rattled the very foundations of Croke Park. I recently bumped into him in Enniscorthy, the week of the All Ireland Hurling Final. He looked like he could line out at full back! Then there’s Dónal Óg Cusack, a goalkeeper whose bravery, leadership and voice reshaped the modern game.

It feels right to be travelling by bike here. Time to reminisce and tp explore nooks and crannies. The roads are made for cycling.

Cycle to the Sea

Leaving Cloyne, I spot a small sign that reads “Cycle to the Sea.” Music to my ears. An 8 km detour down winding local roads: twists, glimpses of sea, ditches lush with late-season green, the occasional farmyard aroma reminding me I’m in real countryside now. The Greenway might be polished, but this – this is where cycling feels alive.

The Atlantic unveils itself suddenly and gloriously as Ballycotton comes into view. The village perches above a rugged shoreline, and out on the horizon Ballycotton Island stands with its lighthouse watching over everything. The place feels like a secret that refuses to keep quiet.

It is gorgeous, yes, but there is solemnity in the salt breeze too. I remember the four fisheries officers who drowned off this coast in 1990 while protecting these waters. No easy life living for anyone associated with the sea.

Homeward with the Wind

After soaking in Ballycotton’s drama, I retrace my route for a handful of kilometres and then swing right through Garryvoe. The landscape relaxes again into farmland, the Atlantic still hovering over my shoulder as if checking I’m heading the right way. I pass Kilcredan and roll by Fr O’Neill’s GAA grounds, yet another reminder that in East Cork, sport is more than a pastime.

The wind became my friend once I left Cloyne. The headwind of the morning flips to a tailwind, a quiet hand placed on the small of my back, encouraging me to fly those last few kilometres. It’s one of cycling’s simple joys: same legs, same bike, same rider… suddenly a different world.

Back to Youghal

I rejoin the Greenway close to Youghal, letting it guide me smoothly homeward to where the day began.

Seventy-two kilometres. A battle into the wind, a glide back with it. Greenway convenience paired with the soul of small roads. Coast and countryside. Hurling’s heart and the Atlantic’s edge.

Every ride is a story. This one came with round towers, lighthouse beams, legendary hurlers, and a reminder that the best roads are sometimes the ones that meander and make you earn the view.

I’ll take that over sterile straight-lines any day.

Moylussa – Clare’s Highest Point & Best Views over Lough Derg!

County Clare is often associated with the limestone pavements of the Burren or the towering Cliffs of Moher, but its highest point lies further inland in East Clare – the hurling heartlands, looking down on the broad waters of Lough Derg. Moylussa (532m) rises out of the Slieve Bearnagh range, overlooking Killaloe and Ballina, the twin towns that straddle the Shannon. Today I ticked off Clare’s summit – my 25th County High Point out of 32 – and it turned into a walk of woods, bog, lakes, history, and a little bit of hurling talk thrown in! The views over Lough Derg, Killaloe and Ballina are just stunning on a fine day like today.

Encounters on the Mountain

I thought I was doing well until I was overtaken on the way down by a Limerick man in his seventies, running the descent with ease! We’d shared a great chat at the summit about Limerick hurling – he turned out to be a fellow clubman of Tom and Dan Morrissey from Ahane. Proof, if ever needed, that hill fitness isn’t always a young person’s game!

On the way up, I also passed a touching shrine adorning some trees, a personal memorial lovingly kept. It felt fitting – these mountains, though not crowded, carry people’s stories as much as their summits carry views.

Mountain Goat!

Moylussa in History and Lore

The mountain is part of the Slieve Bernagh (Sliabh Bearna) range, meaning the “Mountains of the Gap.” These uplands acted as a natural barrier in medieval times, forming a wild border between the kingdoms of Thomond and Ormond.

Killaloe itself, nestled at Moylussa’s foot, is steeped in history. In the 10th century it was home to Brian Boru, High King of Ireland, who ruled from his fort at Kincora overlooking the Shannon. Standing on Moylussa’s summit, you can almost imagine his longboats drawn up on the waters below.

As for myth, the Shannon itself is tied to legend: the river is named after Sionann, granddaughter of the sea-god Lir, who is said to have drowned after tasting the waters of Connla’s Well in search of wisdom. From high on Moylussa, where the Shannon spreads into Lough Derg, the story feels close.

In more recent times Irish rugby stars Keith Wood and the late Anthony ‘Axel’ Foley are among Killaloe’s most favoured sons!

Weather, Luck and County High Point #25

The forecast had threatened showers, but apart from a few early drops the rain held off until I was safely back down. Sometimes the mountain gods grant a little mercy. With Clare’s high point now under the belt, that’s 25 of 32 climbed – the end of the challenge is starting to come into view.

Moylussa might lack the rugged cliffs or dramatic peaks of some counties, but it rewards with atmosphere, wide horizons, and a sense of standing at the heart of Ireland, looking out over river, lake and history.

  • County Clare High Point
  • Height: 532 metres
  • Starting Point: Ballycuggaran Car Park
  • Distance: 10kms out and back
  • Ascent: 450 metres
  • Moving Time: 1 hour 43 minutes
  • Terrain: Forest Trails, some slippy rocky sections, bogland boardwalk (no walking permitted on the bog)
  • Difficulty: Moderate – steep start and rocky sections tricky on the descent
  • Highlights: Has to be the view of Lough Derg and Silvermines Mountains

From Trostan to the Glens: High Points and Hurling Heartlands

Last Saturday I conquered Trostan, the 551 m summit of County Antrim, and hauled myself back home over a 700 km relentless but rewarding round-trip in my 32-County High Point Challenge! From that windswept trig-point, views stretched beyond the haze north to Rathlin Island, west to the Inishowen Peninsula in far off Donegal, east to the Mull of Kintyre and Scotland then just south to Slemish, the first known home of Saint Patrick, where he was enslaved; I climbed it on his feast day two years ago. Beneath my feet lay a mountain carved by basalt lava, long watched over by clans and cairns— this land was fought over by many chieftains and clans, both native Irish and of Scottish descent. Not far from Trostan Sorley Boy MacDonnell had a great victory at the Battle of Aura, following which they withdrew to Trostan, marking the spot with a cairn. Looking out to Rathlin brought fond memories of a trip many years ago with Tommy Wogan with one particular image being of the pair of us sitting on the top of the huge cliff edge watching RAF fighter jets flying low above the North Atlantic Ocean on a training mission. Never saw anything like it before or since! I hope to ride the ferry to Rathlin again sometime soon! Today though was about notching up my 24th County High Point, Trostan’s summit, yearning for the remaining eight high points still calling me onward to complete a few more before the onset of winter.

Looking down from Trostan into the Glens of Antrim, I wasn’t just seeing valleys and sea-cliffs — I was gazing into the cradle of Ulster hurling, where villages like Cushendall keep alive the flame of Ireland’s oldest game. Names like Sambo McNaughton and Neil McManus ring out here as proudly as any chieftain of old. In a county where nationalists often carried the heavy burden of politics and prejudice, the hurley and sliotar became more than sport — they were symbols of resilience, pride, and culture woven deep into the very fabric of the Glens. In villages like Cushendall, Cushendun, Glenariff and Loughgiel, the game is woven into identity and daily life, with the Ruairí Óg club in Cushendall standing as a powerhouse of Ulster hurling.

Hurling here isn’t just sport — it’s a cultural anchor. In an area where Irish music, song, and storytelling have long flourished, the clash of ash sticks on the pitch echoes a community’s resilience, pride, and belonging. Local festivals and the use of the Irish language keep that cultural thread alive in a way that still feels raw and rooted.

For nationalists in Antrim, especially during the difficult years of the Troubles, hurling and the GAA provided more than sport. They were safe havens of identity, places where Irish culture — language, music, games — could flourish against a backdrop of political tension and discrimination. To take the field in the maroon of the Ruairí Óg Club, the green and gold of Dunloy Cúchullains, the red and white of Loughiel Shamrocks or the black and amber of McQuillans Ballycastle was to play for more than points on a scoreboard: it was to declare pride in community and continuity of tradition. Terence ‘Sambo’ McNaughton, Neil McManus, Ally Elliott, the Donnelly’s, Liam Watson and Cloot McFetridge were as good a hurlers as any across the hurling strongholds.

Mention of Loughiel Shamrocks and I have to mention my good friends Bernie and Dermot Connolly of Corkey Road, who I met many years ago and with whom we stayed for a weekend when the lads were very young. True Gaels.

I knew from reading Kieron Gibbons guide book to Ireland’s County High Points that the approach to Trostan tended to be very soft and wet as it crosses a stretch of open bogland. It was no accident I took it on last weekend. The dry spell had made it spongy and nice to walk across. The climb follows markers for the Moyle Way / Ulster Way and involves climbing over a couple of stiles. On a day like last Saturday it was one of the easy High Points so far. The starting point is easily missed as it is on a remote minor road between Newtown-Crommelin and Cushendall / Cushendun and there was no information panel present on the day identifying it as a trailhead; a brick pedestal probably held a sign at some stage. There is only parking for 1 or 2 cars. It can also be claimed from the Glenariff Forest car park on the eastern side.

After finishing the climb I detoured into Cushendall and paid a quick visit into Sambos pub, the walls adorned with photos of hurling legends and signed jerseys. A GAA watering hole off ever there was one. The homeward journey brought me through Glenravel Glen, made famous by Bobby Sands who wrote a ballad about the blind fiddle player and poitín maker, ‘McIllhatton’ and sung by Christy Moore.