From Malin Head to Mizen Head: In a nine-part series Irish Times writers travel the length of the country using different forms of transport. Their verdicts are as varied as the weather that greets them. In the second stage Rosita Boland buses from Derry to Belturbet.

Now, let's get this straight from the start. I'm Irish, and I know it rains in this country. I know it rains quite a lot, consistently, and that most years the term "Irish summer" is an oxymoron. I'm used to it. Rain is entirely unremarkable, and to be expected. And naturally, I rarely carry an umbrella, because that's being defeatist.

I'm in Derry, on my leg of the Malin Head to Mizen Head run. And it's raining. Really raining. (This is the week before the heatwave.) And, as usual, I am umbrella-less. Bus is my mode of transport, although I won't be properly boarding a bus for some time yet. No, first there is The Picture to be got out of the way. Ninety-nine point nine per cent of the time as a journalist, you thankfully manage never to be the subject of The Picture, because you are rarely writing about yourself. Today, my luck is out. The lens is on me. And since the photograph has to indicate my location, it must include a recognisable Derry landmark, which of course means it must be outdoors.

So here we are, the very patient photographer Trevor McBride and me. I'm alternately grinning and grimacing like a prize eejit - with the Guildhall in the background. My aversion to cameras is so great that I've never owned one, and I find it almost impossible not to automatically scowl when a lens points in my direction. Plus it's raining. Did I mention that? Pouring. Bucketing. Lashing. There is no way it's going to stop for hours, so we have to do the picture now: Trevor is a busy bloke and has other jobs lined up. Passersby are falling about with mirth at the sight of the pair of us streaming water like twin falls. Whatever about people and water, cameras and water definitely don't go together, so Trevor is even less happy than I am at the whole lark.

Finally, it's over. But I have to be honest. I'm soaked, it's still raining, and I feel a tad unenthusiastic about immediately exploring the highways and byways of the town Phil Coulter loves so well. I head for shelter and have black coffees instead. After this, my clothes have dried on me somewhat, and my temper has improved marginally.

While I've been staring out the window drinking far too much coffee, I have noticed that Derry has an open-top bus tour. It also leaves from the Guildhall, which is right beside me. As my mode of transport on this leg is bus, what better than a bus tour within the bus journey? Ergo, I get on the red City Sightseeing Derry bus when next it passes, and sit upstairs, under the roof at the front, since it is still raining.

I am the only person on the bus. Not just the only person sitting upstairs, but the only punter on the bus at all. Apart from the driver, and the knowledgable guide, Anna Connolly, who decides she might as well switch off the microphone and come to sit beside me instead of giving the usual running commentary.

She asks have I heard of the Troubles. I tell her I have. Once I open my mouth, she knows I'm Irish, and since I'm the only person on the bus, she also knows a potted history lesson isn't necessary on this tour. Past the Harbour Museum, up through the Bogside and the Free Derry gable wall. Anna tells me the political murals are very popular with tourists on the bus, but that if I get off to take pictures, can I be quick about it? I assure her I won't be taking pictures.

We pass gables painted with a portrait of a child killed in crossfire ("that one symbolises the death of innocence"), one of Bernadette Devlin and women bashing binlids, and one of Bloody Sunday. "In the 1970s and 1980s, it wouldn't have been possible to come into these areas on an open-topped bus. We'll be seeing unionist murals too, to balance it out."

And we do. We're deep in tough-looking suburbia, staring at more gable wall paintings, this time of UVF people, and statements saying such things as "Here lies a soldier, killed by enemies of Ulster". The place is coming down with Union Jacks and red, white and blue bunting. Both sets of murals are so aggressive they make my head ache. I don't find it interesting or enlightening: I just find it all incredibly depressing.

My final destination is Belturbet, which I plan on reaching some time the next day, so I head into the bus station to inquire about buses that will get me there. I'm trying to get there from Derry via whatever route I like, and I fancy an overnight in Armagh, a city I've only ever passed through.

"If you want to go to Armagh by bus, you have to go to Belfast first and then change," the polite man behind the Ulster Bus counter says to me.

I look at him. Is he joking? Belfast is a considerable distance east of Armagh. I would be going round the world twice to get to Armagh if I go there via Belfast. He's not joking. I stand at the counter and remember with blinding clarity why I finally learned to drive three years ago: I decided I was too old and cantankerous to hitch any more, and I had got fed up with Ireland's appalling public transport system that makes you do mad things like go to Armagh via Belfast from Derry.

So Enniskillen it is, and I get on board, still wet, and still cross as a weasel. At Strabane, however, I am cheered by a shop-front that declares itself to be The Holy Shop. This is a new one on me. Clothes shops, kitchen shops, bookshops, and now holy shops.

Sion Mills is trim and tidy; a neat village with stone-cut buildings. So is Victoria Bridge. Past Newtownstewart, I see a sign by the roadside that makes me laugh out loud: Mountjoy B & B, which must qualify for a non-existent prize for the most unfortunately inappropriate name for paid holiday accommodation in Ireland. Soon after, I fall asleep and wake up when we get to Omagh, where I have to change buses.

Poor Omagh. People will only ever think of one thing now when they hear the name Omagh.

At Ballinamallard, there is more loyalist bunting, and huge Union Jacks, as there are at several stops along the way. It's like die-hard smalltown America, where the flags are almost in your face at every turn. It's so simplistic - and crude - a statement that I feel myself getting depressed again.

At Enniskillen, where I didn't think I'd be that night, I go to the Tourist Information Office, and discover there is a choice of a one-star hotel or two two-star hotels. I ask the helpful woman in the Tourist Information office to recommend one of them. "I couldn't possibly do that," she tells me. "Which one would you stay in if you were visiting Enniskillen?" I ask instead. But she says she can't tell me anything about any of them, that she's not allowed to, so I exit the Tourist Information Office and hoof it off to sound them out myself. It's still raining, by the way, in case you were wondering.

After checking in to the Ashberry, I beetle off to eat. At Scoff's, I look at the menu with astonishment and wonder if the restaurateur has a small zoo outside. Apart from the usual round-up of beef, chicken and fish, there is also on offer carpaccio of crocodile, chargrilled ostrich and seared kangaroo fillet. Not creatures I would have associated with Fermanagh. I opt for the less adventurous sea-bass.

Next morning, I'm all set for the 10.30am water bus tour of Lough Erne on the MV Kestrel, with a stop at Devenish Island. I wait at the jetty. There are seven others also waiting. But hey, someone comes off the boat, looks us up and down and says they need 12 for the trip, so they're not going. We can come back again at 2.30pm and try again, we're told. Except I can't: I'll be on the bus to Belturbet. And guess what? Right on cue, it starts raining again.

It rains all the way to Belturbet, where I arrive just in time to find out that my onwards bus to Dublin has already left and I'll have to wait hours wandering round in the rain for the next one. Oh, the Irish summer. Nothing like it.