Folly

Explorer Tom Red Trail, Mount Stewart hosted a dance once where the music got too loud. The folly ruins are still pretending they did not see what happened. Ideal stop for a big stretch and a bigger yawn.

Explorer Tom Temple of the Winds does absolutely nothing when nobody is looking except judge your haircut from across the bay. It’s basically a giant ear that’s tired of listening to the sea complain about its salt content. Have a chat with it, nobody's watching.

Explorer Tom The Temple of the Winds at Mount Stewart is showing off again. From the late 1700s, it thinks a breeze is enough to keep the locals humble. Tell your mates you found it first before they steal the glory.

Explorer Tom Lake Walk at Mount Stewart had a matchmaker working there who paired off half the village, but I think she mostly just liked the view over the water. It’s one of those spots where the gardens are so fancy they make you feel like you need to iron your t-shirt before walking past. Look serious, nod slowly, you're basically an expert now.

Explorer Tom Mount Stewart makes politics look tidy from the garden path. Mount Stewart looks across Strangford Lough with the composure of a house that has hosted far too much politics to start explaining itself at the gate. Alexander Stewart bought the earlier Mount Pleasant property in 1744. His family's rise was helped by a marriage into the fortune of Robert Cowan, a governor of Bombay, and the estate became the Irish seat of the Marquesses of Londonderry. Robert Stewart, better known as Castlereagh, went on to shape British policy during the wars with Napoleon. That history is impressive, uncomfortable and too tangled for a neat drawing room boast. Outside, the celebrated gardens give you a completely different kind of ambition: careful planting beside the wide water of the lough. The National Trust cares for the house and gardens and offers visitor access, with hours and areas that can vary, so check before travelling. Give the rooms time, then let the paths and planting have their say. The estate has kept more than the portraits and polished furniture. A family could collect titles, but it still needed someone to keep the garden alive.

Explorer Tom Tir N'an Og burial ground at Mount Stewart is where the fancy folks went to nap forever. There's a tall tale about a hidden tunnel straight to the pub, but nobody’s found it yet. Go now, before it gets famous.

Explorer Tom Tir n'an Og Cemetery in County Down thinks Dublin tourists are all noise and no taste, especially when they take selfies with gravestones. It prefers the quiet company of the wind and some moss. Sit on a wall near it and pretend you're in a painting.

Explorer Tom Mid Island in County Down is currently being judged by rabbits who think it’s too fancy for its own good because of all those trees growing on it. The National Trust keeps it tidy, but the wildlife thinks it’s just a very well-dressed piece of real estate. Hang around long enough and you’ll hear a story from a local.

Explorer Tom Grey abbey: cistercian abbey in Rosemount is a ruined Cistercian priory that’s been maintained by the government since monks stopped caring about it. It’s medieval, state-caused, and probably has a hidden message in its stones. Snap one photo, then put the phone away and actually look.

Explorer Tom Grey Abbey House has a superstition that if you touch the wall three times, you’ll find a lost sock later in the day. The locals swear by it, even though none of them can actually prove it works with any scientific evidence whatsoever. It’s just a stone building, but it’s got this whole aura of mystery going on. Ideal spot for a dramatic phone call.

Explorer Tom Carrowdore Castle is hiding behind its gates like it’s got nothing to show anyone. I reckon 'Carrowdore' actually means 'Where The Sheep Went To Get Lost And Never Came Back,' which fits perfectly given the empty fields. It’s playing hard to get while pretending to be mysterious and important. Bring someone who'll believe anything.

Explorer Tom Cross Island in County Down wrote a bad poem about itself once and still hasn't recovered from the embarrassment. It sits east of Reagh Island connected by a causeway, which is basically a bridge for lazy boats that can't be bothered to swim properly. Visit, then text me what you think. I'll pretend to read it.