Bridges over Troubled water

In the first week of his journey on foot along the Border, EDWARD BURKEmarched from Donegal to Co Tyrone

Day 1, July 6th Culdaff to Linsfort

Culdaff, a village at the top of the Inishowen peninsula, is a hard place to leave. The friendliness of its people, its pristine estuary and long, sandy beach made me want to settle in for a few days.

But a promise must be kept, and I began my journey from the small Anglican church where more than a century and half earlier a viceroy of India, John Lawrence, had married a local bride, Harriette Hamilton. The rain had stopped and there was an occasional glimpse of blue sky.

Leaving the Buncrana road, I climbed up a boreen to Bulbin mountain. I moved around the summit to an expanse of bog that reached down to Lough Swilly. On the bog I met a scattering of McLaughlins, including the Manais McLaughlin, who took a break from cutting turf to point out the mountains to the south and west, including the “devil’s back”, Errigal, and the nearby Urris hills, where a British bomber crashed during the second World War, killing all its crew members, having mistaken Swilly for Lough Foyle. The turf would be no good this year, they said. It is too wet.

Striding down to the fjord-like Swilly – starting-point for the Flight of the Earls, where Wolfe Tone and his French allies were captured, and occasional base of Admiral Jellicoe’s Grand Fleet during the first World War – I skirted Fort Dunree.

Dunree was briefly Ireland’s Gibraltar. It was ceded to the British under the Anglo-Irish treaty in 1922 until de Valera negotiated its return in 1938, much to the resentment of Winston Churchill. Nearby an old man had his door wide open nearby – I refilled my water bottle and he pressed an orange on me.

Day 2, July 7th Linsfort, Buncrana to Derry

Linsfort Castle, the first bed and breakfast stay of my trip, was the prize given to a William Benson for building the walls of Derry in the early 17th century. Leaving the beautifully preserved house I walked down to the nearby beach on the Swilly where I was joined by Pat “the Miller” McLoughlin and Pat Doherty. They pointed the way to Buncrana castle, the former home of the lord of Inishowen, Sir Cahir O’Doherty, who burned Derry in 1608 in a short-lived revolt – his body was later dismembered and sent to various parts of the country.

Leaving the two Pats, I acquired a new companion for the next two miles – a big curly-haired, blondish dog. Unfortunately I couldn’t let him go further than Buncrana. He didn’t really understand why, so we parted on bad terms.

Buncrana was deserted by man and beast. It started to drizzle. Heading eastwards, I again cut across the Inishowen peninsula, through the pass by Scalp Mountain. As I clambered to the top of the pass I looked at the Swilly behind me while the Foyle and the Derry coastline stretched before me, and listened a kestrel calling overhead, before I ground out the hard yards to Derry.

Day 3, July 10th Derry to Lifford

On a drizzly, dark morning I walked past St Eugene’s Cathedral, up Creggan hill and into the Derry countryside. Crossing the Border at Killea, I stopped for coffee in a petrol station. I knew I was in the south from the “Don’t register, don’t pay” signs, referring to the household tax. The shop assistant was from Delhi, had a girlfriend from Poland, and spoke pure Donegalese.

A spate of Border crime has seen jittery farmers acquire Baskerville-sized brutes as guard dogs. I watched successive hounds attempt to leap fences to get at me as I hurried towards the Foyle, heading south for St Johnston.

Leaving the main road after St Johnston, I walked alongside Binnion hill with a wonderful view of the Foyle and Tyrone. A local farmer stopped to ask me what I was doing and why in God’s name was I doing it. I replied that each person had their quirky habits. Mine was walking. “Each man has his own way of going mad,” he pronounced before walking on with the air of a judge pleased with his verdict.

Day 4, July 11th Lifford to Castlederg

I wanted to arrive in Castlederg in west Tyrone in time for the July 12th celebration of William of Orange’s victory at the Battle of the Boyne. The town had been selected as the main parade location for many of the Orange Order lodges in the county. It was ironic that I inadvertently spent the previous night in pretty Long Vale House in Port Hall, whose previous guests had included William’s rival claimant to the throne, James II.

I left Long Vale via the remains of the Great Northern railway bridge, which had once connected Port Hall with Strabane. The bridge extends to the nearest island in the Foyle but falls short; the final section to Tyrone was removed in 1965 and sold for scrap.

Most people living close to the Border do their shopping in the north. In Lifford, the paint on the Funland amusement arcade was peeling and the Anglican church had been vandalised, its door charred and entrance staircase half-dismantled. To my eyes, the Border had sapped the town of purpose, aside from selling petrol.

Across the bridge in Tyrone, Strabane, pock-marked by its share of the Troubles over 30 years, is full of people shopping. Judging from the number wearing fluorescent green fleeces on the streets, the giant Asda shopping centre has provided much-needed local employment.

Walking on past Clady I began the long, straight ascent up to Fearn hill, from where the mountains of Donegal and Tyrone stretched out before me.

I arrived in Castlederg in time for the first parades. The crowds were thin but the bands were enthusiastic. Looking at the big fellas waving their hands about and pounding their Lambeg drums for more than an hour was like watching an endurance sport.

A few people in Castlederg were surprised as to why a Cork man would come all the way to Tyrone for the 12th. I had the feeling that they were wary of being judged. The parades are a tradition of their fathers, they said. To give it up would be a betrayal. And it was a great family day out. But, best of all, the craic in the pubs at night was brilliant.

Day 5, July 12th Castlederg

On the morning of the 12th, Castlederg was dressed up in all its red, white, blue and orange finery. Families crowded the Diamond square, spreading out picnics and eating ice cream. These were mostly rural people – the atmosphere and the stalls gave Castlederg a fair-day atmosphere.

Then the loud boom of the Lambeg announced the main parade itself as the Orange lodges of Tyrone took turns to parade in front of friends and relatives. Children as young as three or four walked with their parents and grandparents. Many of the older marchers beamed with pride and waved to friends and relatives; the adolescents shuffled a bit more awkwardly.

Donations to Edward Burke's walk for the Neal Turkington Nepal Project can be made at justgiving.com/Edward-Burke0