Talk about the luck of the Irish. We are enjoying a sumptuous dinner at a country house hotel in County Clare when our fellow diners stream out onto the terrace in the middle of dessert. What’s wrong? A fire alarm?
No – it’s a sunset for the ages. We watch in awed silence as the great orange ball dips into the sea before turning the horizon fifty shades of pink.
But, then, this comes as standard on the Wild Atlantic Way, which runs for 1,600 miles in western Ireland, zig-zagging with the landscape and taking so many detours that it is like a shaggy dog story in a pub.
Pubs, many with live music, are intrinsic to this glorious route from Donegal to Cork launched by the Irish tourist board in 2014. But then so are empty beaches, craggy mountains, sleepy villages and bustling towns.
It is like a tasting menu for independent travellers. Roaming, not getting from A to B, is the name of the game. You just follow your nose and Ireland does the rest.
On a tour of Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way, Max Davidson stops at Slieve League in Donegal (pictured), which has some of the highest sea cliffs in Europe
Our focus is the northern section between Clare and Donegal, each county more ravishing than the last. We are also keen to explore the sparsely inhabited islands where The Banshees Of Inisherin was filmed. Can they possibly be as fabulous as in the movie?
Yes is the answer. We take the ferry from Doolin to Inishmore, the furthest of the Aran Islands, where some of the film was shot.
Drystone walls bisect fields overrun with flowers. White horses peep out from behind tumbledown cottages. Narrow lanes wind down to rocky beaches. Fishermen unload their catch at the harbour. Everyone knows everyone and nobody is too busy to stop for a chat. Cyril O’Flaherty, our guide for the day, was born on the island and, if he has his way, will die on it. Who would blame him?
Max visits Inishmore, the furthest of the Aran Islands, where some of the The Banshees Of Inisherin was filmed
Above is Kylemore Abbey, which Max says is one of the ‘glories’ of Connemara
Here, at an extremity of Europe, people have been finding peace and tranquility since time immemorial, from 6th Century monks to modern writers such as John Millington Synge, high priest of Irish folklore.
Cyril shows us the ‘salmon well’ – a holy site associated with ancient miracles – then introduces us to his pony Minnie, who had a cameo role in the Banshees. She poses for selfies like a Hollywood pro.
The next morning, we resume our Wild Atlantic Way odyssey, heading north to Connemara. The roads are thrillingly uncrowded and the only hazard is being ambushed by some jaw-dropping views. Vibrant colours abound; the iridescent green of the Emerald Isle is matched by the purple of the heather and the red of the fuchsias in the hedgerows.
One of the glories of Connemara is Kylemore Abbey, a stately pile beside a lake that’s now home to an order of Benedictine nuns.
Max spends a night in Strandhill (pictured), which he says was packed with surfers
After a night of shameless over-indulgence in Galway – a party town if ever there was one – we head north again to Sligo. It is more populated than the Aran Islands but still has that quintessential Irish blend of scenic beauty and informal charm. Outside the hairdresser, a trio of elderly sheep are crossing the road so slowly that they nearly cause a pile-up. But nobody would ever question their right to roam.
Sligo is associated with the poet W B Yeats, but even he would have struggled to find words for our next drive – the most thrilling yet – around the Coolera peninsula.
The Atlantic is at its wildest as it pounds the rocky shoreline and the sweeping bays. Flocks of sandpipers try to fly out towards the sea but are beaten back by the wind. Sheep cling to steep hillsides.
No wonder this corner of Ireland is so popular with surfers. Strandhill, where we spend the night, is packed with them unwinding at the Voya seaweed baths or Mammy Johnston’s Ice Cream Parlour.
After a full Irish breakfast, which we would be fools to spurn, we head for the mountainous Donegal, the northernmost county in the Irish Republic. Slieve League, the most dramatic mound of the lot, has some of the highest sea cliffs in Europe, rising majestically above the swell of the Atlantic.
According to Max, pubs, many with live music, are ‘intrinsic’ to the Wild Atlantic Way route
We tramp upwards and upwards, buffeted by the wind, but too captivated by the views to notice, then have a hearty lunch of seafood chowder at the Rusty Mackerel, yet another of those wacky hostelries in which this friendliest of countries abounds.
Our final port of call is the heritage town of Ardara, known for traditional tweed-making and live music. You will not find better craic in all Ireland than at the Corner House – there is a smile on every face as the music rings around. Paddy the fiddler is playing a blinder, his elbow going up and down like a piston.
As we head back to Dublin to catch the ferry, still humming those old songs, myriad images of the Wild Atlantic Way swirl around in our heads: sunlit hillsides; waves crashing on the rocks; sheep huddled under an old stone bridge; the jolliest traffic warden in Connemara, a one-man Chuckle Brother.
Why head to the Med when there are such riches on your doorstep?
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