Yet more tailwinds helping us on to Larne, where a shouty, belligerent local was furious that we didn’t follow his unsolicited directions. It was the last unpleasant thing of the day, though: from here is one of the loveliest stretches of coastal road in the United Kingdom that Mr Shouty was so keen on belonging to. For miles it hugs the shore at the bottom of steep cliffs, with Scotland — in the shape of the Mull of Kintyre, a shape that features in a curious urban legend about censorship — looking close enough to touch.
Postcard-view villages came in succession: Glenarm, Glenarriff, Cushendall, Cushendun. We had a picnic lunch at the second to last, and some Spanish firemen wandered round, and some people made a phone call from the box I put my bike up against. On we went to Cushendun and had a coffee and cake in the harbourside caff.
There was lots of climbing now, with ever loftier and more colourful views of the coastline below and ever lower and more colourful language from me. After one last haul to the moortop and a short sharp shower, it was downhill to Ballycastle, our guesthouse, and another sociable evening in the pub.
Miles today: 52
Miles since Cranfield Point: 180