The sectarian troubles that lasted for more than 30 years in Northern Ireland are over, welcome news for those who want to come here to investigate their heritage or simply to see one of the most beautiful, green spots on the planet. The scenery, the history, the colors, the ability to step back in time and, above all, the hearty, wonderful people are all reasons that this is Northern Ireland’s moment.

A start in Belfast makes sense, certainly now as Continental Airlines flies nonstop from Newark, N.J. A Friday or (especially) Saturday visit to St. George’s Market for fresh produce, music and crafts is the perfect beginning to savor the region’s memorable atmosphere (try dulse, a dried local seaweed), while in the afternoon tour the city’s eastern areas, where the Titanic was built (her tender ship, the Normandie, currently is undergoing renovation) and Van Morrison practiced his gravelly tunes, or see the city’s political murals. I went in a black taxicab driven by Ken Harper (www.harpertaxitours.co.nr), an informed host who—importantly—takes you to see the “sights” of both sides of the Catholic/Protestant divide. The experience left me numb, which is the correct intention.  Some of the murals are chilling reminders of an era that no one wants to return to.

A perfect finish could be to visit (preferably, choose a quieter hour) the Crown Liquor Saloon on Great Victoria Street, for its majestic array of tiles, mosaics and carvings. On entering, everyone walks over a mosaic of a crown, political cheekiness that often goes unnoticed.

After the city, drive north through the wild country of the Antrim Hills and along the dramatic coast of the Irish Sea, with, on a clear day, Scotland’s Mull of Kintyre visible in the distance. Stop off at the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, which every summer is re-rigged for local salmon fishermen and, now, tourists.

Once some of the Northern Ireland countryside has seeped into you, get ready for its jewel—the Giant’s Causeway.  It (Irish Gaelic speakers call it Clochán na bhFómharach) was formed, depending on your view, either by volcanic activity on basalt, or a trial of strength between Irish giant Finn MacCool and his Scottish counterpart, Benandonner.  It’s famed for its geological oddities,   huge rock formations with names such as The Organ and The Harp and its 40,000 hexagonal, occasionally octagonal, stacks that visitors are free to marvel at, jump on and clamber over. A beautiful walk is from here to the small fishing town of Portballintrae and, more strenuously, to the dramatic castle of Dunluce. A steam train does some of the journey, before heading off to the famous whiskey distillery at Bushmills.

I loved Derry, on the River Foyle and Northern Ireland’s second city (and it’s better to call it Derry, rather than Londonderry; it’s shorter to say, and no one will think you’re being controversial (politics again!)). A guide is useful here, too, to show all the sights of the only completely walled city in all of Ireland, including its Guildhall and St. Colomb’s Cathedral.  Gazing over the wall, visitors get an eagleeye view of Bogside, the Catholic area also known as Free Derry. This was the site of Bloody Sunday, and a tour of the small Museum of Free Derry will raise the hairs on your arms. In the distance is the Republic of Ireland. My guide was from City Tours (www.irishtourguides.com), who knew absolutely everything about the place. When I asked him to show me the spot where 1970’s pop-punk band The Undertones (which sang about girls, chocolate and obnoxious relatives, never about politics) shot the sleeve cover for its first album, not only did he show me, he also mentioned that he had driven the band members to their first gig at a local youth club.

Interesting stops near to Derry include Mussenden Temple, perched high above the Atlantic Ocean, which is reached through a wooded garden and across a moor via a ruined mansion (supposedly an 18th-century bishop of Derry kept his mistress here—politics and scandal!), and St. Aidan’s Churchyard in Magilligan, where, as well as the saint, is buried Ireland’s greatest harpist, Donnchadh Ó Hámsaigh, who lived to the age of 112. Magilligan is the Northern Ireland that I instantly adored—one-lane roads bordered with hedgerows and grass growing down their middle, with the greenest of fields to both sides and hardly a person in sight.

This gorgeous countryside—simple, quiet villages and stirring, windblown vistas—continued on a 60-mile rambling route I chose between the border town of Strabane and Cookstown, which has the longest street in all of Ireland. This is The Sperrins, a dramatic area of stone circles such as Beaghmore, undulating lanes that beg for diversions and hillsides draped in white sheep and purple and green color. Four U.S. presidents—Arthur, Grant, Jackson and Wilson—have ancestral homes that can be visited. I went to Woodrow Wilson’s, in the hamlet of Dergalt. It is a humble, whitewashed, two-story house with red doors and a thatched roof.

It’s heartening to see that exactly 200 years after Wilson’s grandfather emigrated to our shores, many Irish descendants—and others—are heading back.

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