The water was as rough as cowhide, and the wind was lashing the shoreline as we drove through the rugged hills of Antrim towards the village of Cushendall. “They were hedge schools, there on the left,” said our guide. As we looked to one side there were small cave-like cavities by the road edge; it was hard to imagine rows of school children writing on slates, exposed to the moods and elements of the adjacent sea. Ken was a fountain, a well and a sea of knowledge rolled into one. Local history, politics past and present, and a dash of drama and poetry were thrown in to his repertoire – a Seanachaí behind the wheel. To spice up the content he added tales of warring clans, battles won and lost, 15th century massacres on nearby islands, and sinking ships leaving Spaniards at the mercy of hotheaded Celts.

We were heading north along the Causeway coast, so close to Scotland that the accents of the locals had taken on a hint of Scottish brogue. It was a flying visit to Antrim and Down, not of the aviation kind, more of the on the bus, off the bus variety - like Japanese tourists on a whistle stop tour of Europe.

It had started in Dublin with the Enterprise Train experience. Normally a pleasant couple of hours jaunt without much to slow it down, we were short on luck that day - a change of engine had caused the doors of the train to jam, adding an extra forty-five minutes to the journey. The problem was not the extra time, it was the standing around what they call the boarding area, like sheep corralled into pens, which caused the real irritation in the queue. But once on board it was all plain sailing, with Drogheda, Dundalk and Newry left straggling behind in less than 90 minutes.

A rapid tour of the coast took in a multitude of images. Known for its stark beauty, a glimpse of Scotland’s Mull of Kintyre came with notions of Paul McCartney’s melancholic crooning - guitar held piously in hand. In the Royal Golf Club at Portrush, plaid and check-garbed foreigners were mobilised around the tee, ready to tackle one of the toughest courses in Europe despite the near-hurricane winds. They were obviously diehard players - the 14th hole is known as Calamity Corner, and the 15th as Purgatory. Listed amongst top courses of the world, it attracts golfers like bees to honey. But this is honey of the manuka or royal jelly variety – quality and rarity come at a price, so the green fees are as steep as the sides of the well-tended bunkers.

Past the Whitepark Bay beach with its breathtaking view onto the Giant’s Causeway headland and we hit the spot that so many come for. With no change in the inclement conditions, we were reluctant to take on the elements. But we did it anyway, knowing it was the land of Celtic myths, where the gentle giant Fionn MacCool was goaded by his nemesis Fingal from across the Irish Sea. Understandably, Fionn had decided to tackle the issue head on. Constructing his path with stones to lead him to the offender, he fell asleep once the backbreaking work was done. So Fingal, the mythical equivalent of the modern day ASBO (albeit a large one) made the crossing himself. When Fionn’s wife Oona saw what was happening, she threw a blanket over the sleeping Fionn. "Shh" she said, pointing to the figure under the blanket, "Don't wake the baby". Terrified at the prospect of fighting the father of such an enormous child, Fingal fled, tearing up the pathway as he went. What’s left today is the Giants’ Causeway, although some still give a more scientific explanation for the unusual rock formations.

From Celtic mythology we moved onwards in search of the elusive uisce beatha, discovering holy water at Bushmills Distillery. It was revelatory – the day that I finally understood why a single-malt is desirable, and that a double-malt doesn’t exist. In Bushmills village, dilapidated buildings with boarded up windows adjoin pretty facades in the main street. It’s the onset of the modern disease ‘apartment blight’, where traditional shop fronts are rapidly disappearing, emerging as more fashionable residential units incongruous in their setting. With well-known developers buying up the land in the area, the traditional villages are traveling fast towards extinction. We had already seen billboards in Belfast citing “no more yuppie apartments, we need homes”.

Back towards Belfast we struck out for The Culloden, formerly a Bishop's palace and now a structural haven set in twelve acres of gardens overlooking Belfast Lough. A Hastings Hotel, it’s one of many in the Bill Hastings mini-empire. The development of the Group is a little piece of modern history, beginning with Bill Hastings taking ownership of a number of pubs in the working class areas of Belfast. Starting out in the fifties, at a time when the hospitality industry in Northern Ireland was growing, the Group rode out the catastrophic effects of The Troubles two decades later. It is thriving today, despite the infamy of the flagship Europa as the most bombed out hotel in the world.

By the following morning the sun was shining as we headed towards the drumlins of county Down, the mountains of Mourne dominating the horizon. The wind had disappeared, the lambs in the fields were numerous and tiny, and the greens of the grass looked as if Bord Failte approved - the kind of colour for which people cross the seas.

The serenity of a pretty blue suite with a view of the lough quickly became a memory and suddenly it was a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire - or off the bus and into a four-wheel drive. Ahead of us was an hour of conquering hurdles on country estates - from the inside of a top-of-the range Land Rover. The off-road driving experience at Clandeboye Estate is deceptive – you could think it’s a lot of fuss about an obstacle course for grown-ups. But when you find yourself tipping over the edge of what seems like a precipice (but in reality is a collection of high-piled logs), seeing only the tip of the bonnet below which you know lies infinity, adrenaline kicks in. By some amazing feat of engineering based on years of expensive research and development, the vehicle stayed upright and we emerged in one piece.

Back on the bus and over to Newtownards - we were just in time for mid morning champagne at the manor. Not really a manor though - Ballywalter Park is a mansion in Victorian Italianate Palazzo style. The inner hall is sixty feet long and reaches the full height of the house. The staircase is not just sweeping – with the stained glass cupola above and grandiose marble columns to the sides it’s better described as lavish. In a separate little enclave added to the main house, a gentlemen’s wing includes a billiard room and a smoking room. These days women are also permitted entrance, particularly the female executive variety at the upscale corporate events hosted in the house each season. Greeted by the current Lord Dunleath and his wife Vibeke, a food historian, it is obvious that theirs is a business mixed with a healthy dose of pleasure. Vibeke uses her professional training to offer guests historical menus for their events, sourcing the ingredients and hosting a dinner in the style of the period chosen. To accompany the meal Lord Dunleath chooses the most appropriate wines from his cellar.

The hills rolled on and we seemed to be moving with them, darting towards the ferry that would take us to Strangford at the other side of the lough. By now at least, yesterday’s tune had been usurped - Percy French pushing Paul McCartney to the back of my humming-prone mind. ‘The Mull of Kintyre’ was forced to vacate, and in its place ……‘Where the Mountains - o' Mourne sweep down to the sea'.

This article was published in Business and Finance Magazine in 2008.