After "them two," the north is strewn with worthwhile stops like Ardglass, Malone, Clandeboye, Balmoral, Castlerock, Warrenpoint, Royal Belfast (which the locals call Craigivad) and Portstewart. Like Spyglass to Pebble Beach, Portstewart to Portrush is just a different kind of spectacular, in the same neighborhood. A medley of big-league dunes and fastidiously revetted bunkers, Portstewart (without the sea) is actually the stiffer test.
Ballyliffin in Donegal is the hot new stop. Like Tom Watson at Ballybunion, Nick Faldo has taken Ballyliffin under his wing. The newer, longer Glashedy Links is formidable, but the older, shorter one (Old Links) still leads in smiles. Those Olympic skiers who twist and bounce on slopes that look like the bottom of egg crates would break their ankles on the fairways here.
Farewell
The nameplate of the woman at the checkout desk of the Europa
Hotel identifies her as Carolyn Stalker, the "front-office manager."
It's a famous name in the lobby. One time, she and a colleague noticed a
suspicious truck at the side of the hotel and ordered the immediate
evacuation of all the guests and staff. In less than 15 minutes, this
feat was accomplished. At which point the Europa blew up for the 28th
time. "We used to be No. 1 in explosions," she says cheerfully, "but a
hotel in Beirut has gone way by us."
There is just enough time for a farewell drink at the Crown, and the same Ulsterman encountered before is still buying. His name is Kavan McDermott. "I've reserved a snug, for me and Christine," he says, meaning his wife, "and you." The "snugs" in the gaslit bar are mahogany enclosures that call to mind private compartments on the Orient Express, or stained-glass confessionals in a sacristy.
"All the best," Kavan toasts, lifting his glass.
Behind the bar, a sign on the wall reads, "No football garments are to be worn on these premises at any time."
"It's a sign of normalcy," he says softly.
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