I’ll never forget the drive up to Portrush from Belfast – we’d packed the car with enough crisps and sandwiches to feed an army, but about halfway there, the heavens opened and my sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly, rerouting us down some narrow lane that felt like it hadn’t seen daylight since the Troubles. Sod’s law, right? We arrived a bit later than planned, both a tad frazzled, but as we pulled up to this lovely single-storey guest house just outside in Castlerock, near that stunning Binevenagh Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, all the stress melted away. First impressions? Spot on. Off-road parking right there, a stone’s throw from the beach, and stepping inside to that bright open-plan living space felt like a proper hug from an old mate. The kitchen had everything we needed to rustle up a fry-up, dining table for four was perfect for us, and that comfy sitting area with the telly was calling our names after a long journey.

We were buzzing with anticipation for some proper coastal walks – Portrush and the nearby beaches are made for it, with those wide sands and dramatic cliffs begging to be explored. Day one was glorious: clear skies, not a cloud in sight, so we headed straight out for a brisk hike along the East Strand beach. Feet in the sand, waves crashing, we wandered for miles towards the Curragh, spotting seals bobbing about and even a few hardy surfers braving the Atlantic chill. It was pure magic, the kind of walk that makes you feel alive, wind in your hair, chatting nonsense about nothing. Lunch was a simple picnic on the dunes – nothing fancy, just cheese butties that tasted like heaven.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, doesn’t it? Next morning, we’d planned a longer trek up towards the Binevenagh cliffs, that epic escarpment with views over the coast that’d make your jaw drop. Armed with maps and optimism, off we went... only for the fog to roll in thick as pea soup not half an hour in. Visibility down to zero, rain lashing sideways – classic Northern Ireland twist. We laughed it off (well, mostly – I might’ve muttered under my breath) and pivoted to a shorter loop along the beach path instead, dodging puddles the size of small lakes. Ended up soaked to the skin but grinning like idiots, sheltering under a rocky outcrop for a brew from the flask. It forced us to slow down, really take in the wild sea and the gorse bushes glowing yellow even in the gloom.

By the third day, the sun was back, teasing us with a rainbow over the water, so we tackled a gentle coastal path from the property towards the edge of Portrush, weaving through dunes and past Magheracross. The bad weather had made the good days sweeter somehow – no crowds, just us and the elements. Reflecting on it now, sat back in that cosy open-plan haven drying off with a cuppa, I realised I’m a fair-weather walker at heart, always chasing the perfect day. But these hikes taught me there’s joy in the soggy ones too – they build character, or at least a good story. If you’re after a base for walks that’ll test your brolly skills and reward your soul, this spot’s a gem. We left fitter, happier, and plotting our return.