Notes on the Republic of Ireland I (June 18-28, 2026)
In this country, but not in this county
June 18 (Thursday). Sligo. I arrived late afternoon. The town reminded me of Cork when I first visited the city in 2011.
Then, it was like travelling back in time 30 years. In Sligo, too, there are old family stores with hand-painted signs and tired manikins, selling ‘woolies’ like the ones my Mam knitted me. The shop windows looked more like museum cases. In contrast, I ate at a trendy Asian fusion restaurant in the evening. Three decades ago, I’d have been sipping tea and eating tired ham sandwiches at Ireland’s equivalent of the National Milk Bar.
June 19 (Friday). 8.00 am: News of Andy Burnham’s impressive success at Makerfield.
9.30 am: A day for prehistory, and a visit to the Carrowmore Megalithic Cemetery at west Sligo. If the landscape of Beflast had been transformed by the overlay of narratives about the ‘Troubles’, then, the landscape of this area changed immeasurably by the imposition of a far more remote history and mythology, going back over 5,500 years.
Rocks strewn in a vague formation were shown to be the remains of a Neolithic wedge-tomb. The same phenomenon could be found among the cows in the fields, in back gardens, and buried under the long-grass. There was a cairn-type tomb surrounded by an arbitrarily conceived architectural structure – as though it was some dangerous animal requiring a high-security enclosure. ‘Archaeological nonsense’, the guide conceded. In these shallow days, even a surface experience of a far deeper time was welcome.
12.45 am: Lunch at Strandhill Beach, while looking out at the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. (Next stop, New York.) The place felt like somewhere I’d been in Cape Cod. 1.30 pm: Onward towards Benbulben. The mountain bore down upon me like the Devil’s Tower, Wyoming (where the alien mothership landed in Stephen Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977)). I took a one-and-a-half-hour forest walk through verdant, mossy undergrowth.
I warm to the people in Northern Ireland and the Republic. They are actively friendly; they take the initiative, and ask whether they can help. Just like South Walians, in this respect. The sun sets after 10.00 pm here. And the sky is not close to pitch dark, even at 2.00 am.
June 20 (Saturday). 9.00 am: Coffee and croissant at a café around the corner from my accommodation, before setting out for the west coast, via Ballina.
It’s a moderately-sized town. Unlike my home town of Aberystwyth, Ballina isn’t punctuated by closed premises, charity shops, and vape suppliers. The Saturday morning streets were bustling. But, so many cars. Which would suggest that the community isn’t well served by public transport. There are very few multi-national companies on the high street. The shops are family-run for the most part, and have maintained their presence here for many generations. Laudable.
On, then to the Céide Fields. This is the largest neolithic site in Europe, situated on the northern boundary of County Mayo. (Today, the surrounding landscape looked like the MS Windows XP desktop background.)
The stone-wall fields go back at least 6,000 years. Again, the overlay of science and history transformed my perception of the landscape. Much of it is now covered – and thereby preserved – by bog land. (Since my holiday in East Anglia last year, bogs and fens have become a passion of mine.) The Visitor’s Centre has one of the most sophisticated exhibitions displays of any archaeological site that I’ve visited. (Get your act together, National Trust!)
2.45 pm: Through winding ‘B’ roads (or whatever the Irish call them) and ‘N’ roads to Westport. It’s busier, buzzier, and hillier than Sligo. Every other premises appears to be a long-established pub (named after the proprietor, rather than being called, for example, the Cock, Swan, Anchor, and Bell), offering authentic Irish folk music.
June 21 (Sunday). Westport. Father’s Day. 10.30 am: Coffee, and a wander around Westport town centre. Outside Matt Molloy’s pub, four children had struck up a jig; inside, adults had not only done the same but also (it appeared to my ear, at least) taken up the same tune. Molloy was once the flautist with The Chieftains. Mick Jagger, Ronny Wood, Sinead O’Connor, and other luminaries from the world of music, have visited here.
After lunch at a very hospitable tavern (where a delicious apple pie and ice cream was consumed), I headed out of town passed Croagh Patrick, the mountain from which Saint Patrick reputedly cast-out all the snakes from Ireland. I’ve seen none so far, so this must be true.
From Louisburgh (named after an American Civil War battle), I took the road through the Doo Lough Valley to Delphi. This route had been walked (when there was no road to walk upon) in 1849 by 600 starving people during the Great Famine.
They went to ask the Poor Law officials for food. The latter were having their lunch, and turned down the people’s request. Many of the travellers died from exhaustion, cold, and hunger, and were buried on the spot, either on the way to, or on the return journey from, Delphi. My return journey was via The Silver Strand sands. On a sunny day like today, the sea looks turquoise. ‘I’ve been here before, somewhere else’, I told myself, with Lynchian paradox.
6.30 pm: Opposite the pub – to which I’d returned for another slice of apple pie, a steak, and my first ever pint of zero-alcohol Guiness — I alighted upon my first Marian wayside shrine of the trip. My sons video-called me in the evening.
June 22 (Monday). 9.45 am: A drive to the Wild Nevin National Park in northwest Mayo. It has the largest blanket bog in Ireland. As such, visitors can’t walk on it without sinking knee-high into the soggy turf. However, there’s a boardwalk and gravel path around the Welcome Centre. If you knew nothing about bogs, this would be a disappointing park. However, no one could gainsay the quality of either the views roundabout, or the apple cake and homemade vegetarian soup served in the café.
Bog cotton:
12.30 pm: Over a short bridge to Achill Island, off the west coast. It has a thinly-spread community. I’d intended to see the Deserted Village, but a problem with the car’s back wheels (due to a bump over speed humps at the National Park) had me waiting at a petrol station for Danny and his mobile diagnostic to give the all clear on the suspension. I hung out in a pub, while he prodded and poked under the car, and caught up with Keir Starmer’s resignation.
6.30pm: Back at Westport, I ate at an Italian restaurant and wandered around the pubs. Live music doesn’t kick-off until 8.00 pm+. The images on the walls tell their own story.
June 23 (Tuesday). 10.00 am: A slower start and a quieter day, beginning at an off-city centre bakery. They make a renowned sough-dough loaf and pastries. I resisted, and took a tea only. At 12.00 pm, I visited the Clew Bay Heritage Centre on the quay – which was a rather grand title for a small but lovingly curated long house filled with local artefacts and newspaper cuttings. The woman at the ticket office insisted on walking and talking me through the relief map of Westport. Helpful, even if I did feel like a captive audience.
1.00 pm: A boat trip around the bay and its many islands (one for every day of the year). They include one bought by John Lennon, although he never lived on it. It was good to be where the cool wind blew. Botox, the tour guide informed us, is made entirely in Westport.
June 24 (Wednesday). Westport to Galway.
‘I’ll punch a donkey in the streets of Galway’, Scott Walker, ‘Jolson and Jones’, Tilt (1995).
10.00 am: I made my way to Galway via Mrs Teas on the Ashford Estate. You can book a room in the castle for £4,000 per night. I wouldn’t, even if I could afford it. But the teashop was reasonably priced. I was there to meet with editor friends of my wife, who lived and worked in this part of the world. 12.30 pm: Lunch at a café close by, which sold a more than passable rocky-road slice. A combination of the heat, a high pollen count, a pollen that my body has never encountered before, and a cold, made me lethargic, off my food, and cough like a 80-year old chain smoker.
7.30 am: In the streets of Galway, life unfolded noisily.
June 25 (Thursday). In Galway, the temperature would rise to 31°C. In Aberstwyth, 35°C was predicted. I should move to Orkney. Although the assistant at the local pharmacist was of the opinion that ‘all Orcadians were a little bit mad’. I suspect they hold the same view of the Welsh and the Irish.
10.30 am: A tour of St Nicholas Collegiate Church. I appreciated being in the cool of the sanctuary. My cold-riddled head was not geared for church history today, however. Another cool place was Nora Barnacle’s childhood house. She was James Joyce’s friend, muse, lover, and, eventually, wife. Nora was a tour de force in the poet and playwright’s life, and in her own right too. They wrote fiercely erotic love letters to one another.
A cool bookshop was close by, too.
June 26 (Friday). Galway to County Clare. Yesterday, Ronnie, the landlord of my accommodation, travelled out of county to buy a tower fan for my room, which is a converted loft (where the house’s heat accumulates). He’s a wonderful man. When I looked into his eyes, I could see the kindness of God. He’d worked as a chef and ran an engineering workshop in the past. Ronnie lost his mother at 10 years of age, his father in his teens, and two brothers, and a sister-in-law more recently. He is possessed by a quiet grandeur.
In the hallway of his house, there’s a photograph of him in his late 20s — taken by one of his brothers — rising from a bed of turf clods where he’d been sleeping moments before, accompanied by his dog. Joyce would have made something of Ronnie. I didn’t either photograph the photograph or ask him whether I could. He’d have said yes enthusiastically, even though he may have been made uncomfortable by the request. The image was too personal. But this is the photograph that I’ll remember long after I’ve forgotten all the other ones taken on my tour.
11.00 am: On to Dunguaire Castle (which is now permanently closed due to lack of government funding and vision) and, from there, to Traught Beach (by mistake). It was barren of event, but full of melancholy – like a small, failed, and forgotten seaside resort. 12.15 pm: A welcome pause at the Hazel Mountain Chocolate factory and café. My hot chocolate drink was very hot. Most I’ve had of late have bordered on lukewarm. Guinness chocolate cake is one of the company’s specialities.
2.00 pm: At Ballyvaughan: ‘Too much information’.
A stop off at Murroognhtoohy (which reads like a cunningly devised IT password) to view the ‘Wild Atlantic’, and the effects of the glacier on the surrounding geology. 2.45 pm: A deliberate arrival at the right beach, in Fanmore.
3.45 pm: At Doolin Cave there’s a stalactite that’s 7.3 metres long, 10 tons in weight, and an estimated 500-million years old. It looked as astonishing as it did ghastly – like cheesecloth soaked in molten candlewax; like a sickly and solidified emanation of ectoplasm pouring through an aetheric portal in the cave’s ceiling.
8.30 pm: An after-dinner walk to The Cliffs of Moher (which sound like some fearful place from a Tolkien story). It’s one of the few geographical formations that I’ve found to be truly majestic in Ireland. The opening scene of David Lean’s film Ryan’s Daughter (1970) was filmed here.
June 27 (Saturday). Lisdoonvarna. The proprietor at the hotel I’m staying at used to be a Michelin Star chef. He’d trained at the Savoy and Dorchester hotels in London, and under Raymond Blanc. I guess he’s the same age as me. For someone like me who has limited culinary talents and the palette of a 5-year old (baked beans, fish fingers, instant mash potato, and jelly and blancmange, are still among my favourites), I’m astonished at how long I can sustain an intelligent conversation about cuisine with a practitioner of this chef’s status and craft. He and I were of one mind: the tastiest meals we’d ever eaten were those prepared by our mothers when we were children. ‘Cooking is fundamentally about the evocation of memory’, we concluded.
10.30 am: Off to the Poulnabrone Dolmen Geopark site in the Burren to see one of the site’s tombs, principally. 5,800-5,200 years ago, a community had occupied this site for around 600 years. The tomb’s surface structure reminded me of works by Anthony Caro. It was grounded and confrontational; appearing to be balanced precariously, while entirely stable, structurally. The drystone walls in this area exhibited the same contrary dynamics. (Andy Goldsworthy took this principle to a defiant extreme.)
The rain poured but, what the heck, it was cool. Out into the road sprang what appeared to be a pine marten (which is a protected species in Ireland). Or was it a weasel? It stood motionless on hind legs for a long time, probably wondering whether the car was an Aurus or a Prius.
June 28 (Sunday). Lisdoonvarna to Slane. After my second conversation about cheffing with the hotel proprietor, I headed south-east to the next destination. En route, I discovered Kilmacduagh. It’s the ruin of a 12th century monastery. The order was established in the 7th century. The site boasts one of the most splendid and unnerving towers I’ve ever encountered. The monks built it to hide from, and fend off, invading Vikings. The door is situated twenty feet up, and was reached by a ladder. Its height and darkened windows reminded me of the final scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958). The structure wouldn’t have looked out of place in a painting by Georgio de Chirico. It has an almost supernatural presence.
On, then, to the poet W B Yeat’s tower at Thoor Ballylee. He believed it was haunted by the ghost of a Norman soldier, who appeared on the stone spiral staircase. Yeats held seances in the upper ‘Blue Room’ — which is a strangely theatrical space, even today. There, his wife received messages through automatic writing, it is said. The guide told me that some pet dogs will not enter the uppermost ‘Stranger’s Room’ in the tower. Chairs in the museum have been known to elevate unaided by human agency.
The final stop for the day was the Neolithic Hill of Tara, at the highest point in the Boyne Valley. The site needs greater protection than it receives. Adults and children are free to clamber over mounds, adding to the damage that they’ve already suffered from wind erosion. 6.00 am: I arrived at Slane (the name given to a well-known Irish hymn tune).
Notes on Northern Ireland (June 15-18, 2026)
Notes on the Republic of Ireland II (June 19-July 2, 2026)
See also: Intersections (archive); Diary (September 15, 2018 – June 30, 2021); Diary (July 16, 2014 – September 4, 2018); John Harvey (main site); John Harvey: Sound; Studium; Academia; Facebook: The Noises of Art; Bluesky; Instagram; @Threads; YouTube; Archive of Visual Practice