By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
Eight weeks ago, I wasn’t moving, I was recovering from back surgery. However, I’m standing at the trailhead. We have a half mile hike down to the bridge. We hate heights. Both sisters ask if I’m sure I can do this. We have all agreed at any point that we might not go the distance. The path is made of mostly dirt, some rock steps, or gravel, on this particular October day, it’s dry and a nice 40 degrees. You can see for miles. The ocean is blue and green, the grass is lush. I imagine my ancestors would call this the perfect day to catch salmon. The bridge’s original purpose was to reach from mainland County Antrim, to Carrick, a massive mossy covered black rock island, that prevented the Irish fishermen from fishing. Daily the fishermen would hike down and over the bridge to their nets, where they would spend the day casting for salmon. They’d climb over the bridge, back up to Antrim with their hauls. The ocean breeze hits my face as I stand at the top of the metal 20 steep steps that lead to the bridge. I’m the first of us to arrive. I seem to be the one that goes first at all of our adventures. A few years ago, I stood first for ziplining in Puerto Rico, that too came down to do I really want to do this? But that’s a story for another time. I hand my bridge ticket to the National Trust ranger, and I grip both rails of the steps. The steps down the side of the cliff of County Antrim are nerve racking, wet slippery metal. The fear of heights and the fact I hate going down regular steps and paths all factor in. There is the 66 feet of rope and wood bridge to cross. Its 100 feet down over rocky ocean. Waves crashing into the black rocks. White frothy foam is bubbling up over the green blue water. I consider hiking back up. I’m at the start of the bridge. I think back to the heights I’ve already conquered. That zipline, that hike down the slippery rocks in the rainforest, and up and down the waterfalls of Iceland. I flew all the way to Ireland to learn my heritage, I’m at the edge of the bridge, I can do this. They say the bridge sways with the breeze, but it’s not likely you’ll notice, I notice. I take that first step out, staring strait ahead to Carrick, focused on where I want to get. The bridge does sway, and I’m locked in a death grip with both rope railings. I’m the kind of person whom watches her feet as she walks on a flat surface, tripping is always on my mind. Now is not the ideal time to look down. I only know that at least one sister followed me across, she’s telling me to keep going. 60 feet seems more like a mile. I step slowly, still looking ahead, focused on Carrick, and not below. 60 feet. 40 feet. 20 feet, 10 feet, I’ve managed not to look down thus far, not the full experience. Zero, I’m on Carrick and alive, heart thumping. I see my sister get onto Carrick followed by my other sister, we all made it across. A once over on Carrick, I decide to head back. I’m determined that I’m looking down, pausing for photos, after all, what is a trip over the bridge without photos? I’m first again in the group back. I step onto the bridge and look out to each side. I walk about halfway and stop to look down and around. I let go of those railings, no more death grip holding me tight. Just me, on two wooden planks, suspended 100 feet above the crashing waves. The bridge with me swaying in the wind. I get up the nerve to lift the camera up and snap some photos. It’s not so bad, I even look down, quite beautiful. I return my grip to the rails and keep going. I make it back to those steps knowing I did it. I went across Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge.