Anyone lucky enough to travel to Ireland will relate to Johnny Cash’s description of writing one of his most cherished songs. As he drove through the country, looking at the map on his lap, rhymes started to flow. “The names in Ireland beg to be sung,” Cash said, “and for the title I looked out the window, and there they were, ‘40 Shades of Green.’” On the Emerald Isle—where the poet-to-sheep ratio rivals the natural beauty in legend and scale—memories are made from the magical encounters along the way. Whether in the misty countryside or the cozy confines of a pub, travelers road-tripping from Galway to Dublin will find warm hospitality and stories told (with equal parts horror and humor) by what Cash called the “fine, kind people.” May the road, and a raincoat, rise up to meet you.
Day 1
A drive along the coast, working sheepdogs, and a Baby Guinness
Is sunrise too early for a Guinness? It’s not me asking; it’s the salty, savory sausages, bacon, and baked beans of my Irish fry-up. It’s also the view. From The Dean hotel’s rooftop terrace, I can see the whole of Galway. Along the brisk River Corrib to my left, a king built a fort 900 years ago, and as I ponder the centuries of merchants and marauders who have left their mark, I raise a respectable cup of tea toward where I’m headed today—to the west, to wild Connemara, an area not designated on a map so much as decided on by ancient lore and vivid imaginations, like that of Oscar Wilde, who called it “in every way magnificent.”
As the rain starts, I meet local guide Máirtín Óg Lally of Lally Tours, and we set out from the city in his van. Along the rocky coast he points at people without wet suits jumping off the Blackrock Diving Tower and into the icy Atlantic. “Sea swimming is huge,” he says. “More people come out on crazy weather days than nice days—for the wildness of it all.” Since the pandemic, he notes, charity-based challenges like Coldtober and Freezbruary are all the rage. Rather than make it Shivertember, we stop in An Spidéal at Rúnda, a cafe Lally’s brother Dónal just opened. “Genuinely, he has amazing coffee,” my guide insists. Appreciating a family hustle, I join the queue and grab some scones made by Dónal’s best friend’s mother, who lives next door.
Back out on the Wild Atlantic Way, the Aran Islands emerge as ghostly silhouettes across Galway Bay. Stunning Inis Mór was a backdrop for The Banshees of Inisherin, and, of course, Lally has a related story: His friends, the Hernons, looked after Jenny, the donkey, during the filming. “They didn’t take a single picture of her,” he says. “They had no idea she was the star!” Turning north into Connemara, the rugged coast gives way to rust-colored scrublands marked by ancient dry-stone walls and endless boglands, with odd piles of brick-shaped earth that, if they ever dry, will be used to warm homes.
The light rain makes the grass seem greener, the mountains more blue, the whole landscape somehow more mystical and timeless. “Waterfalls are reappearing, and so are yellow flowers,” Lally says. “In the winter, purple flowers are everywhere. Each time I come here, it’s different.” He tells me how his parents stumbled into guiding in the mid-1980s, “by literally having too many children—six boys and one girl!” The growing brood needed a minibus, which they’d park outside their pub. “Bands and football teams started asking for rides, then tourists wanting locals to show them hidden gems.” We pull over near a fisherman’s cottage, by a lake that looks like a leprechaun’s hut. “Old-school tour guides might call it that,” Lally says with another belly-shaking laugh. Notably, it’s not a denial.
At Lough Na Fooey, we reach Joyce Country Sheepdogs. Joe Joyce, a third-generation shepherd, waits for us with a broad smile and border collie puppies wriggling in his arms and chasing after his feet. His Irish accent is thick, the rain is now “bucketing,” and sheepdogs are barking their faces off, leaping in their pens like pogo sticks. They know that strangers arriving means it’s showtime. “They all want to get goin’,” Joyce says. The sheep, for their part, look like they just realized they left the oven on. Joyce releases a dog named Cody, and she tears, teeth bared, toward the sheep, who bleat and scatter like bowling pins. The shepherd focuses the dog with prompts—“steady, walk on, combine, take time”—that he delivers in whispers. Crouching low, Cody stares down her marks, then maneuvers them into formation. Job done, she runs back over to Joyce, who scoops her up. “We don’t use treats,” he says. “They just love to work.” Suddenly, the sun breaks free, and a rainbow appears, framing the shepherd and his dog. I can’t help but scream, “They’re after me Lucky Charms!”
Starving, we drive to Letterfrack and grab a table beneath a whale’s jawbone at Veldons Seafarer. Antique bells hang on wood-paneled walls, the fireplace is blazing, and locals are deep in conversation over pints. We order creamy fish chowder, Killary Fjord mussels marinière, Ballinakill Bay oysters, baked Cleggan crabmeat, lemon tarts, and coffee.
As we circle around to the south, the coast turns tropical, with the white sands and glowing turquoise water of Dog’s Bay and Gurteen Bay. Around the bend is Roundstone, a fishing village with colorful cottages saluting a snug harbor. Here, we find Roundstone Musical Instruments, the workshop of master bodhrán maker Malachy Kearns, whose wood-and-goatskin drums have helped preserve and revitalize traditional Irish music. Sadly, the icon’s not here, but his charismatic wife, Gifty, graciously gives us a spontaneous performance. Her hands gently graze the skin, producing a deep, haunting sound. “It’s meditative, soulful,” she says. “It hugs you like a baby, and you feel its heartbeat in your guts.”
Uplifted by our encounter, we drive back to Galway. I say goodbye to Lally and head to the artsy West End for dinner. On Sea Road, I search for Kai, a Michelin Bib Gourmand restaurant that, according to its website, is “nestled between the church and a gay bar.” Inside the cozy stone walls, I thank chef Jess Murphy for the guidance. “I borrowed that from a Tripadvisor review!” she says with a hearty laugh. She seats me at a kind of sturdy wooden table traditionally used, she says, for
Irish wakes: “Oh, it would be in the living room, the corpse lying on top.” You gotta love the Irish dark humor, or as they say, good craic.
Murphy returns to the kitchen, and her husband and co-owner, Dave, looks after the convivial local crowd like a shepherd. My Flaggy Shore oysters are crisp and fresh, with a hint of elderflower, and when I bite into the succulent, aromatic Connemara lamb, I feel a wave of nostalgia for the fluffy lambkin Joyce had me hold. It’s nothing the warm Kerry Pippin apple tart can’t cure.
For a nightcap, I slip into one of Murphy’s recommendations, The Crane Bar. Old men in paddy caps play fiddles in the corner, and a lady next to me at the bar orders something called a Baby Guinness. I watch as the bartender fills a shot glass with crème de café and tops it with Baileys to recreate the iconic stout’s creamy foam. Clocking my curiosity, he makes one for me as well.
Day 2
Lunar landscapes, heroic cliffs, and an introduction to falconry
Aiming to hit the road I head to another before sunrise, I grab coffee in The Dean’s lobby. While my best intention was to limit myself to one Baby Guinness, an Irish pub has a way of keeping you. Chalking it up to “research,” I go for a brief walk, letting the cool wind and rain revive me before I take the wheel. Exiting Galway, I head south along the coast on the Wild Atlantic Way, stopping for a photo of Dunguaire Castle, a 16th-century tower house known for hosting literary luminaries such as W.B. Yeats and George Bernard Shaw. Sadly, it’s too early for one of the castle’s signature mead-filled, medieval-style banquets.
Beyond the brightly colored houses of Kinvara, I cross into County Clare. A sign for Hazel Mountain Chocolate, Ireland’s sole bean-to-bar chocolate factory, beckons. Inside the farmhouse cafe, I learn that the chocolatiers source milk from free-roaming, grass-fed cows, “like the ones you see from the street.” After purchasing a box of vegan truffles, I continue my journey.
Soon, sandy beaches and patches of green grass give way to the stark limestone fields of The Burren. Shaped by geological forces beyond my comprehension, some of these rocks date back 359 million years, when Ireland was parked 10 degrees south of the Equator—which goes a long way toward explaining the incongruous presence of palm trees in Connemara. Not to be outdone, The Burren has Arctic-Alpine and, Mediterranean plants; it’s the only place in the world where these varieties grow side by side. J.R.R. Tolkien is said to have spent a great deal of time here, and it’s easy to see how he might have drawn inspiration from this surreal, lunar landscape.
Feeling refreshed by the silence and solitude of this otherworldly place, I head to another natural wonder, the Cliffs of Moher. At the parking lot, I cross the street to stroll atop the magnificent cliffs, which reach 702 feet in height and extend nearly nine miles from north to south. Heeding the comical signs that depict people falling into the waves, I stick to the paths. It’s impossible to fully convey the beauty and grandeur of the cliffs; I’m awestruck, left trying to imagine these giants rising from the sea 90 million years before the dinosaurs roamed and what secrets the fossilized ancient marine creatures in the walls must hold.
Back in the car, heading south once more, I stop for lunch at Hugo’s Bakery in Lahinch, Ireland’s surfing mecca (another recommendation from Jess Murphy). Hugo is a big-wave surfer, and he works with friends at the organic Moy Hill Farm to sell eggs and sourdough. I grab a focaccia sandwich, a chocolate croissant, and a pastel de nata fresh out of the oven, then continue my road trip across the country to County Laois, best known for its plowing championships.
Two and a half hours of scenic countryside later, I reach the roadside entrance to Ballyfin Demesne. At the press of the intercom button, the gate swings open, and I find myself on another planet. A tree-lined path winds through gentle hills and manicured lawns for a mile, heightening the dramatic reveal of the elegant Regency mansion. At the sight of the household staff— impeccably dressed and lined up Downton Abbey–style, I suddenly feel very Beverly Hillbillies, what with my mud-splattered rental car and drowned-rat hair. To make matters worse, as I step out, croissant crumbs scatter like confetti onto the decidedly not-to-the-manor-born purple wellies I borrowed from Máirtín Óg Lally.
Inside, general manager Peter White takes me through a captivating show-and-tell of Ballyfin’s arduous nine-year restoration, sharing detailed notes on craftsmanship and materials that demonstrate an astounding level of commitment. As he delivers me to my room, he informs me that Tom, the falconer, awaits me in the grotto. But first, a Cinderella moment: a pair of classic Dubarry of Ireland leather boots for my stay. Finding the perfect fit, I take a golf cart down the long, forested path.
Tom lets me hold his avian crew one by one, regaling me with each bird’s unique personality traits and skills. There’s Gizmo, an owl the size of a Fabergé egg; Sal, a tawny owl who was once called Psycho Sal but had the name shortened “because she’s softened up”; barn owl Eugene, whose gold-flecked feathers inspire local dressmakers; and Lincoln, an angel-winged owl known to “take a piece of flesh off.” The symphony builds to a crescendo with a hawk named Maude. Tempting her with morsels of meat, Tom commands the bird to fly to a distant tree before she circles back, straight toward my head. Inches from contact, she effortlessly lowers her talons onto my extended arm. Tom is beaming. “As a kid,” he says, “I read every book I thought might mention hawks, falcons, or falconry cover to cover.”
After a quick change into formal attire, I enjoy an Irish Manhattan by the fireplace in the Gold Drawing Room before moving on to the State Dining Room. Hypnotized by the server’s descriptions of vegetables sourced from the eight-acre garden and wild mushrooms foraged from the 614-acre estate, I opt for the six-course tasting menu with wine pairing—it’s Ballyfin, after all. My favorite of Michelin-starred chef Richard Picard-Edwards’s creations are the melt-in-your-mouth Higgins beef cheek and the dessert of Tipperary Brie with pickled beet and beet sorbet. For a finale, the waitstaff prepares an old-fashioned Irish coffee tableside. When the Baileys hits the piping hot skillet, a theatrical poof of fire sets off a chorus of oohs and aahs throughout the room.
Day 3
A haunting jail, a little museum, and a comedy show
In the spirit of Edwardian leisure, I enjoy a lengthy breakfast and an archery lesson before heading to Dublin. Marksman Glenn walks me through the basics—“let the bow do the work, keep your elbow down, sight along the arrow”—and, of course, I miss badly. “It takes practice,” he assures me. “You’ll get the hang of it in the last five minutes.” Sure enough, as the hour wanes, I find my inner Katniss and hit the bull’s-eye.
After bidding a bittersweet farewell to the enchanting staff, I begin my 90-minute drive to Dublin. At The Merrion Hotel, doormen in Georgian-era top hats and long coats sweep me inside with witty banter and thick brogues. I drop my bag and head over to the city’s west side and the Kilmainham Gaol Museum. A tour guide, Daniel, greets my group with a somber nod, foregoing the usual hammy chatter. “This is a national monument,” he says, “and it holds great significance for the Irish people.” From 1796 to 1924, the infamous jail housed revolutionaries who participated in several armed rebellions and a civil war, he explains, emphasizing the intertwined history of the jail and Ireland’s political struggles.
Focusing his narration on the pivotal 1916 Easter Rising, he leads us to the chapel where Joseph Plunkett married artist Grace Gifford just hours before his execution. The artist was later imprisoned for her role in the Irish Civil War, and she painted a haunting portrait of the Madonna cradling the baby Jesus on the wall of her cell. (It’s still visible through the peephole of her locked door.) As the tour concludes, we enter Stonebreakers’ Yard, the grim site where 14 revolutionaries met their end by firing squad. A light rain falls as Daniel reveals a tragic irony: Initially, public opinion had been against the rebellion, but as stories from the jail began to surface, sentiments shifted. “These men went from rebels and traitors to heroes and martyrs,” he says. “The flame for independence was lit. Our history as an island, as a nation, changed here in this very yard.”
Moved beyond words, I seek comfort in food and drink. On the recommendation of The Merrion Hotel’s concierge, I join the properly old-school, two-whiskey-lunch crowd at Matt the Thresher on Pembroke Street, where I feast on buttery Dublin Bay prawns and a pot of steaming mussels.
Replenished, I stroll down Grafton Street and pass through the gates of the sprawling campus of Trinity College Dublin. Watching students with backpacks shuttling through courtyards framed by Gothic buildings makes me feel romantic about higher learning. I imagine debating with Bram Stoker over whiskey, or breaking into the wine cellar and popping an Hermitage La Chapelle with Mary Robinson—neither of us knowing she’d one day become Ireland’s first female President.
Lured by the promise of history, humor, and wine, I head south to partake in an After Hours Tour at The Little Museum of Dublin. Set inside a Georgian townhouse, the museum is filled with oddball memorabilia and historical artifacts, all of it donated by Dubliners. There’s a letter from Samuel Beckett to the boy who lived in his childhood home, a facsimile of James Joyce’s death mask… and also an unopened bottle of lemonade from 1918. Our host, Declan, appears like a jack-in-the-box, wearing an outfit straight out of Gulliver’s Travels, and proceeds to squeeze 100,000 years of Irish history into a paragraph, interspersed with terrible, triumphant puns and cracks on the Brits.
Stopping at the year 1729, he reads a passage from Jonathan Swift’s savage “A Modest Proposal,” and asks: “So, does he want us to eat children? No! He was attacking the government’s callous treatment of the poor in a revolutionary way. This here is the greatest example of sustained irony in the history of the English language.”
Buoyed by the resilient rebel heart of the Irish, I walk to Portobello, a residential neighborhood named for a British victory and bearing the marks of another more genteel local conquest—by the hipsters, in search of cool coffee shops and thrift stores. On Camden Street, I step into Frank’s, a natural wine bar with the original name and signage of the butcher who once occupied the cozy space. Grabbing a stool at the communal table, I work my way through the menu, so concise it could fit on a postcard. A flurry of small plates— Carlingford oysters with a tart blackcurrant granita; chicken thigh in a chicory, oregano, and caper stew; and surf clams with al dente peas and bacon—is paired with glasses of vinho verde. Infectious laughter fills the air. Perhaps it’s the rain that fuels the Irish humor, or maybe it’s the eight centuries of British rule (and the attendant famine, troubles, and rebellion) that echo in the Irish psyche. Comedian Jason Byrne once quipped about performing here: “Everyone in the room already thinks they’re funny, so you’ve got to prove to them that you’re funnier.”
Excited to witness this phenomenon firsthand, I ask my neighbor about nearby comedy clubs; he directs me to Cherry Comedy, down the road. The tip feels like a four-leaf clover, which reminds me of Máirtín Óg Lally, and how he’d meet my every mention of leprechauns, pots of gold, and the lore of Irish luck with a kindly eye roll, insisting they are all American fabrications.
The tiny club is on the second floor of a music venue, Whelan’s. I’m told the show’s about to begin, but it’s sold out. Hoping for a no-show, I have a Guinness at the bar, and before I can finish it, I’m ushered inside, as host Fiona Frawley takes the stage. Like a snake charmer, she extracts details from the audience, cleverly weaving them into innuendo-laden riffs between acts. Aidan Greene, self-billed as “Ireland’s foremost stammering comedian,” runs through a hilarious set, deftly playing with his speech disorder both to shock and endear us. Headliner and TV regular Deirdre O’Kane gets a big round of applause, and with the casual confidence of a pro she workshops new material, playfully jotting down in her notebook what lands and what bombs.
Back on Merrion Row, the clamor coming out of O’Donoghue’s Pub lures me inside. A cornerstone of the 1960s Irish folk revival, this was once a hangout for The Dubliners, and in one corner there are lads with fiddles, carrying on the jamming tradition. As more than a few patrons teeter like fawns finding their feet, I toast to my lucky charms (sorry, Máirtín), uttering a heartfelt Éirinn go brách.
The Emerald Isle Awaits: United offers year-round nonstop flights to Dublin from New York/Newark and Washington Dulles. During the peak summer travel season, there’s also nonstop service to Dublin from Chicago O’Hare and to Shannon from Chicago O’Hare and New York/Newark.
