However, I have not lived in that part of our wee island for many years. I’ve had a home in Co Down for more than a decade and in Belfast for 20 years before that. The bald mathematics show that much more of my existence has been spent outside of north Antrim than within it. However, it must be that the oldest attachments are the ones which cut the deepest tread. In my heart I’ll always be a culchie rather than a townie. It follows that the north coast remains one of my favourite locations for day trips. I’ve lost count of the number of friends I’ve bored as I relate tales about Dunluce Castle or Sheep Island as we traverse the dramatic, winding coast road. There is a sense of belonging that, for me, exists only when I am close to that rugged landscape. It is Sunday morning and it looks like it might not rain. The decision is made that we will go to Barry’s in Portrush (I know it is now Curry’s, but I still call a Snickers bar a Marathon). The decision to drive north is not quite spontaneous, we had briefly discussed the possibility the night before, but it is not well organised either. I’ve never felt the need to plan a trip home, I just go when the mood takes me. All is well at first. We make our customary stop at the service station for coffee and sausage rolls. There is excited chatter about which rides we will go on first. My wife seems to doze off in the back seat as I deliver my well-worn lecture on the history of the Frosses trees. My first sense that something might be different is when I see a large electronic sign at the end of the motorway. The message advises that the Carrick-a-Rede rope-bridge is fully booked. Instinctively, I bridle at the advice. Through my youth and early adult years I went to the rope-bridge when it suited me. My da used to help in erecting that bridge in the spring. Even though I had no intention of visiting today, it still annoys me slightly to be told I cannot go. But worse is to come. I am close to the end of the Ballybogey Road, still a couple of miles from Portrush, when I meet the traffic jam. The sight alarms me. I’ve been driving this route to the port for more than three decades, through the busiest of summer days, and I have never encountered traffic this far from the town before. We barely move for the next 45 minutes. My wife goes online to find social media full of warnings for motorists to avoid Portrush due to a car cruise. The images on Facebook show hundreds of vehicles bringing the streets to a standstill. Regretfully, we explain to our son that we won’t be able to get to the amusements and drive east rather than west. We stop briefly in Bushmills to stretch our legs. The small car park is full of large tourist coaches. I wonder how some of them will be able to manoeuvre the narrow coast roads. We walk along the main street and I’m struck by the number of cafes and restaurants, the sheer level of the footfall in what I’d always remembered as a sleepy village. We drive further along the coast, past the causeway, Lisnagunogue and White Park Bay. I turn left and inch my car down the treacherous winding path which descends towards Ballintoy Harbour. I inform my now restless son that we can play on the rocks, explore the coastal path, get a treat in the wee café. I tell him that my own da used to bring me down here on Sundays when I was a boy. But another plan is quickly abandoned. The cars are backed up in a long queue snaking out of the tiny car park. The best I am able to achieve is to turn my vehicle around and take a quick look at the dramatic rocky landscape before we drive away. I have a low feeling as my car struggles on the climb back up the hill. This road will never get any wider, the tiny harbour is the size that it is, but the number of visitors just continues to grow and grow. I wonder how long it is before the tipping point is reached. We drive on into Ballycastle, the pretty coastal town where I spent so much of my youth. There is much that I remember, but plenty which is new. Morton’s fish shop is there, Harry is still selling his ices, his hair and moustache now as white as the ice-creams he serves. I am pessimistic about getting parked. We crawl around the large harbour car park and my son gets excited when he spots a free space, the most animated he has been in some time. We go for a stroll on the beach. It is uncomfortably busy at first, close to the tennis courts and golf course, but we walk on until there are fewer people and more open stretches of sand. We keep going, in the direction of the Pan’s Rocks, until it finally feels like we have the beach to ourselves. I tell my son that I used to walk on this same sand decades before. We throw stones into the sea, trying to skim the smooth and flat pebbles off the surface. Away from the crowds now, for the first time today, I notice the sky. The clouds have formed into a creamy void with threatening dark grey streaks. It is at once both ominous and beautiful. I stand there with my son for a few minutes, just staring at the sky. I wonder how I did not notice it before.