The Magic of Whitehead - Gerry McCullough

The Magic Of Whitehead

Gerry McCullough

One bright summer’s day in my childhood, my father took our family for a drive, going up to the Glens of Antrim by the coast road. We were driving from Carrickfergus to Larne when I saw Whitehead for the first time, down below us. The view I saw was unbelievably beautiful. Blue sea, white pier. I kept the magic of that view in my mind’s eye for many years.

In my late teens I went down there one day with my friends. We set off walking round towards the Gobbins. It wasn’t possible to go the whole way then. Since those days, the pathway has been reconstructed, and goes right to the cave.

(Image, Audrey Kyle Art)

We passed a painted message across the path, ‘Slow, crabs crossing,’ the work of some joker. It was getting dark when we reached the trees known as the magic forest. It might have been wise to turn back, but we wanted to press on.

We were as near to the cave as the path would take us when we became aware of a high pitched musical note sounding in the distance.

‘Ghosts!’ said someone.

I didn’t believe in ghosts, but the sound was eerie enough for anything. We stood stock still, listening. The sound grew louder.

With one accord, we turned on our heels and retraced our path.

‘I think there’s supposed to be a musical sound from the cave,’ someone else ventured. ‘Like Fingal’s cave on Staffa. Mendelssohn wrote music inspired by that, didn’t he?’

No one knew, but it was a comforting answer. Not a ghost, then.

Later, I was told that there was no musical sound from the Gobbins, only from Fingal’s Cave.

I should accept that, really.

But I know what I heard, that magic night.