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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 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.

A West Cork Pilgrimage: Farewell and Remembrance

All Ireland Sunday, what better day to create this post.

A recent visit to West Cork for a sad occasion offered one of those unexpected chances to touch base with some of the deeper threads of Irish history—threads that run through bog and bóithrín, through grief and pride, and through the lives of people who changed the course of this great nation.

I was in no rush, so I made a small pilgrimage to three evocative sites—Béal na Bláth, Sam Maguire’s grave in Dunmanway, and the site of the Kilmichael Ambush. Each place stands as a marker in the story of Ireland’s struggle for independence, bound up with courage, controversy, sacrifice—and West Cork’s fierce sense of identity

Béal na Bláth – The Ambush of Michael Collins

The road to Béal na Bláth winds through a peaceful valley, but history clings to it like mist. Here, on 22 August 1922, Michael Collins, Chairman of the Provisional Government and Commander-in-Chief of the National Army, was killed in an ambush during the Irish Civil War. It’s hard to believe he was just 31.

A memorial cross marks the spot where his armoured car was stopped and the fatal shot was fired. The setting is still and rural—sheep and dairy cows graze nearby, unaware of the turmoil once played out on this narrow road. It’s hard to reconcile the serenity of the place with the trauma of that day. Collins was a national hero and a signatory of the Anglo-Irish Treaty, after which he said ‘he had signed his death warrant’. It’s hard to imagine the bitterness and sadness of the Civil War that pitted brothers against each other. Surely some of the darkest days in our long history of suffering.

There’s something sobering about standing where he fell, in the quiet hush of the West Cork landscape that shaped and ultimately claimed him. (The Current cross isn’t the exact location of where he was killed; it was slightly south of it). 

Miscellaneous fact: a lot of us in Éire Óg have a great interest in Collins as we were asked to take part in the film of Michael Collins as the Tipperary team in Croke Park playing against Dublin, represented by Kilmacud Crokes!

Sam Maguire’s Grave – A Forgotten Patriot Remembered

In the churchyard of St. Mary’s in Dunmanway, I stopped at the grave of Sam Maguire—a name familiar to every follower of Gaelic football, though few know the man behind the famous cup given to the winners of the All Ireland SFC.

Born in 1877, Maguire worked in the British Civil Service in London, where he became involved with the Irish Republican Brotherhood. He later played a crucial role in intelligence-gathering for Michael Collins during the War of Independence. A passionate advocate for the GAA, he helped foster Irish identity in exile and on the field where he captained London in the 1901 and 1904 All Ireland Finals. It was he who recruited Michael Collins into the IRB.  He was Collins’ chief intelligence officer in London but he had to flee as his cover was blown and he returned to Dublin, joining the new Irish Civil Service. But because of his anti treaty views he clashed with his superiors and was dismissed.

Sadly, Maguire died penniless and in obscurity in 1927, just five years after Collins, and was buried in his hometown, Dunmanway. Today, a statue and the Sam Maguire Cup—awarded annually to the All-Ireland Senior Football Champions—keep his name alive. But his grave is a quiet one, and worth visiting to remember the man behind the silverware: a patriot, organiser, and believer in Ireland’s potential.

Sam visits Éire Óg 1984 approx.

Kilmichael Ambush Site – Turning the Tide

After leaving Dunmanway I passed out by the birthplace of Sam in Mallabraca.

Not far from the back roads of Dunmanway lies Kilmichael, the scene of one of the most significant—and controversial—engagements of the War of Independence.

Just one week after Bloody Sunday in Croke Park, when the Auxiliaries killed fourteen civilians, including one player Michael Hogan, on the 28th November 1920, Tom Barry led a flying column of the IRA in ambushing an Auxiliary patrol. Seventeen Auxiliaries were killed, along with three IRA volunteers. The event was a turning point in the guerrilla war, demonstrating that the British forces were not invincible. The Auxiliaries, like the Black and Tans, were notorious paramilitary type forces who tried install fear into the civilian population with their cruel tactics and reprisals against local populations, such as burning homes, looting shops and shooting civilians. They are well characterised in the great film ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’. They bookended this cruel chapter with the burning of Cork City in reprisal.

A stark monument, stands at the ambush site. Various Panels at locations around the site tell the story, but it’s the landscape that speaks loudest: boggy fields, rocky outcrops, and that same mix of calm and sorrow that haunts much of Ireland’s rebel history.

The Kilmichael Ambush has been the subject of historical debate, particularly around claims of a false surrender, but it was a defining moment in West Cork’s memory and in the folklore of resistance. The surviving Auxiliaries feigned to surrender and killed three local IRA men who had dropped their weapons. Barry gave the order to open fire and not to cease until he gave the order to do so. 

In the modern Ireland, we have forgotten the sacrifices and hardships of generations of Irish men and women who gave their lives so we have our freedom today. Cruel hard times; that opened scars that have taken generations to heal.

West Cork wears its history proudly, if quietly. These sites are not huge tourist destinations—they’re tucked away, often signposted with a kind of modesty, as if to say, “We remember, but we don’t boast.”

Each grave, each cross, each quiet roadside plaque reminds us that history is never really in the past. It’s under our feet. And sometimes, when we need it, it rises gently to meet us. Gone but not forgotten.

It was time to head home.

Killanerin, Croghan Hill, Ballyfad & 1798 echoes

My latest looped spin dipped over the borders of County Wexford and Wicklow, beginning at Killanerin GAA Club, a handy spot to leave the car—although it didn’t start smoothly. A flat rear tyre on the car meant my cycle began with a bit of hassle changing the tyre before even hopping on the bike!

Once finally rolling, I left Killanerin and pedalled by the Wexford Lavender Farm, one of Ireland’s few commercial lavender growers. Their rows of purple bloom are a unique sight in this country, against the backdrop of rolling fields.

From there, I coasted through Coolgreaney, a small village with a lot of history. The Askamore to Coolgreaney area was very active in the 1798 Rebellion, when United Irishmen under the leadership of the Catholic Miles Byrne and the Protestant Anthony Perry, played such a pivotal role in the Rebellion of 1798 as Wexford rose against British rule. Local tradition holds that rebel columns marched through here en route to the key battles at Oulart Hill and Vinegar Hill, leaving behind stories of hidden pikes and daring night gatherings. As I came into the village I could hear raised voices coming from Coolgreaney House gardens – an outdoor play was being performed among the gorgeous gardens,

Next up was Ballyfad, also with strong 1798 associations.

It’s a 10 km climb to Croghan Hill. The ascent snaked steadily upwards, passing through Ballyfad with the shoulder of Croghan drawing closer all the while. Croghan Hill’s upper flanks are dotted with giant whooshing wind turbines. I followed the wide gravel fire breaks through these towering blades until I reached the last steep 600 metres of heather and spongey ground – but very dry today, which demanded a short 600 metres hike.

At the summit, I was greeted by one of the best 360-degree panoramas I’ve seen. Under a crystal-clear blue evening sky, the whole sweep of the Blackstairs Mountains and Mount Leinster lay to the west, while Lugnaquilla’s bulk marked the Wicklow mountains. The line of the Great Sugar Loaf stood proud to the northeast, and the east coast ribboned away south past Arklow, all bathed in late sun.

From there, I looped back down toward Ballyfad Wood, taking a peaceful cycle through 200 acres of mature woodland listening to nothing but late evening bird song—quite the contrast to the frantic start to the day. Ballyfad Wood was used as a refuge by The United Irishmen both before and after the rebellion of 1798 and there are records of rebels encountering local loyalist militia in the woods in the autumn and winter of 1798. Ballyfad Wood was said to be a hiding place for rebels on the run after the failed rising. Some old locals still talk of “rebel paths” threading through these woods, though most of the traces are long since swallowed by bracken and pine. I was back in Killanerin, the car (now with a spare wheel) waiting.

Cycle details

  • Total distance: 31 km
  • Climbing: 767 metres
  • Start/finish: Killanerin GAA Club
  • Highlights: Lavender farm, Croghan Hill views, 1798 history, tranquil Ballyfad Wood

Another gem of a loop, mixing rebel folklore, modern turbines, and timeless vistas. Well worth the tyre hassle!