In 1991, early one morning on Dublin Road heading toward the airport in Antrim, a man commuting to work saw something that still haunts local memory. A young woman, dressed in clothing from the early twentieth century, pedaled an old-fashioned bicycle across the road, in front of him. The vision ended as suddenly as it came.

When he reached the spot where she should have crossed, he realised that what he’d seen could not logically have happened: the hedgerows were solid, there was no gap through which she could have passed, and behind them the land was deeply ploughed and crisscrossed by deep ditches. Yet the man was adamant of what he’d witnessed.

Over the years, whispers have built around possible explanations: a spectral rider, a memory of some forgotten local tragedy, or simply the product of a waking reverie. To this day the identity of the woman remains unknown — whether she ever was a real person, or only an echo in the countryside — and those who know the tale agree: there is something deeply unsettling in that stretch of road where the impossible once crossed in plain sight.