Two years ago I fulfilled a long-held dream to sail around the west coast of Ireland. The weather behaved and I stayed up all night to watch the sunrise over Croagh Patrick. Nearing Clare Island, sitting like a huge whale at the entrance to Clew Bay, the sail tore and valuable time was lost with repairs. Our plan for a pint at the pub in the community centre had to be shelved and we wistfully sailed northwards past the island’s lighthouse.
Last year I was reminded of my near miss with Clare Island when I came across Ireland’s Wild Islands on RTÉ. This beautiful show was presented by Eoin Warner, and I watched with interest as he tramped through a pocket of ancient woodland that has somehow managed to thrive on this windswept, sheep-bitten island.
A recent, unlikely forecast for two days of sun has me scurrying across the country to make the 5pm ferry from Roonagh Pier to finally visit this elusive island. My 15-year-old son joins me on the trip, along with Elvis, our long-suffering, overly walked dog. Clare Island Fast Ferries live up to their name and within 20 minutes we are unloading backpacks and sleeping bags off the boat and setting up our tent on the island’s campsite overlooking the port.
The infamous pirate queen Grace O’Malley (or Gráinne Mhaol) ruled over the western seaboard from her home on Clare Island in the 16th century. We pass beneath her castle searching for a swimming cove we spotted from the ferry. Grace reputedly slept with a rope tied between her toes and her galley, ever ready to tax any passing ships. Another rope awaits to help us descend to the cove which we have all to ourselves except for dozens of washed-up jellyfish glinting in the evening sun. The water is cold, even for us seasoned swimmers, but worth it for the stunning view across to a clear Croagh Patrick.
Warmed up after a mug of tea, which takes 10 minutes to boil on our tiny gas stove, we follow the road north along the coast until meeting a large group of Americans taking in a rare sunset from the stone wall outside Bay View House. All 20 of them have hired the house for the week, which comes with its own pub and pool table. The Americans point out an open boat in the harbour and explain that their landlord has started Clare Island Whiskey, with several barrels of his single malt spirit maturing on-board, slowly absorbing the island’s character.
Intrigued, I ring Carl O’Grady and he explains that the boat was used by his family as the island ferry in the 1960s. When Carl began this new adventure in the whiskey business, he resurrected the boat from the floor of the harbour to become an ingenious repository for his casks. This precious spirit retails at €320 a bottle, sadly a little more than what we’ve brought with us to the island. I make do instead with that long postponed pint at the community centre pub. It’s Tuesday night and the weekly Comhaltas session has just kicked off as we arrive. Given the amount of cars outside, it feels like most of the 130 people who call this island home have rocked up for a long night of music and dance.
Sleep comes slowly. A tent will do that, one pitched beside the island’s only pub even more so. But no hotel could compete with the sound of waves lapping metres from our zipped door. We live almost in the centre of Dublin, and it’s a joy to cast off our urban shackles for a few days. I read an article in this paper last summer about a Belgian family who decamp to uninhabited Mason Island in Connemara for their holidays every year. With overly busy lives, they relish the opportunity of having almost nothing to do.
My son isn’t altogether impressed with our breakfast the next morning of Weetabix with lukewarm milk served in a tin cup. Happily, the Clare Island Oven has just opened and we join the queue for home-made sausage rolls and the best cinnamon rolls I’ve ever tasted. Alice Capponi, originally from Antibes, froths my coffee while explaining that she and her musician partner, Niall Hehir, converted this old shipping container themselves into their thriving cafe.
Mike at Shoreline Pursuits charges our phones while we sip coffee and polish off a second cinnamon roll. We sadly have to forgo renting his electric bikes as our dog isn’t a fan of two wheels. Instead, we take off up the road in blistering sunshine for the 2.5km hike to Clare Island Lighthouse. The houses soon thin out, giving way to sheep-covered hills and a field of weathered tree stumps, the last remnants of an ancient pine forest. Circular organic salmon farms lie out to sea and, as the road becomes increasingly steep, we are passed by several other visitors on ebikes (who cleverly left their dogs at home).
The lighthouse is stunningly located on the edge of a towering cliff overlooking Achill Island. It now functions as a luxury, six-bedroom guest house costing from €300 for an overnight stay. As Katrina, the current keeper, shows us around, we are very tempted to ditch our tent and check into one of the suites for the night. Ascending the narrow stairs to the lantern room with 360-degree views across much of the Mayo coastline, we think about the lives that were saved by this beacon until its decommissioning in 1965.
Returning back down the hill, a valley of native woodland soon comes into view. This has to be the same woodland featured in the TV documentary I had seen last year. A wooden sign for Macalla Farm hangs on a gate and I’m soon being led by owner Ciara Cullen through her organic farm and onwards to the island’s only wood that she has restored and added to with more than 3,000 deciduous trees. All the vegetables and fruit that grow here are used to feed guests who have been coming here since 2001 for yoga retreats. In recent years Ciara and her partner, Christophe, have renovated and opened the Stone Barn Cafe, serving lunches and a weekly Monday dinner. My city life seems very small compared with all that has been achieved here.
We walk on, and don’t get far before another hand-painted sign lures us up another driveway to check out Beth Moran’s handweaving workshop. Beth, seated at her giant loom and working with her own sheep’s wool, tells me about moving here from the US more than 30 years ago and the joy she has found in island life. Like many living here, the internet has radically changed her ability to run a business from this once isolated setting.
My phone informs me that I have tripled my normal step count as we crest the final hill leading down towards 12th century Clare Island Abbey. Within we find the O’Malley Tomb, supposedly the final resting place of the restless Grace O’Malley. The ceiling of the abbey is adorned with rare medieval paintings of a cattle raid, dragons and mythical figures. I recently viewed the famed Bayeux Tapestry in Normandy for the first time, and these paintings bring history alive just as immediately.
Our good luck with the weather finally turns as mist rolls in from the sea. We take shelter in the community centre pub with bowls of seafood chowder brimming with salmon from the farms we spotted earlier. The next morning the forecast is for wind and more rain and we fair-weather campers reluctantly pack up our tent and take the 1pm ferry back to the mainland.
Signs for “The Big Dipper, Ireland’s most scenic Spa” all along the road to Louisburgh catch our attention. An hour later we have checked into BigStyle Atlantic Lodge in nearby Killadoon, which thankfully welcomes dogs and bedraggled campers in need of a shower. We forgo offers of surf lessons, yoga and mountain hikes and instead make straight for the Big Dipper spa directly across the road. Muscles are soon eased as we slip into a wood-fired hot tub and take in the panorama of the sea we have just traversed extending east to Croagh Patrick. The sauna offers the same views and, after multiple dips between the freezing plunge pool and the steaming tub, we begin to agree that this is Ireland’s most scenic spa.
Our bedroom also overlooks the sea and as night falls, the clouds finally part to reveal the magnetic presence of Knockmore, the highest peak on Clare Island. Next time there’s a break in the weather we’ll be heading back for a climb.
