A Magical Guinness along the Wild Atlantic Way

pinch me.

The legend is true: Guinness is better in Ireland. It’s mild and sweet and low in alcohol, and all the places you can get it are just so picturesque and cozy, and let’s be honest: it feels badass to call it “The Black Stuff.” In two weeks of driving clockwise around Ireland in a tiny red car that squeaked when you turned the steering wheel to the right, we stopped at a lot of pubs and drank a lot of Guinness. But one magical pub two miles from nowhere in the far western wilds was so wonderful I nearly called movers in NYC and told them to just pack up our apartment and ship it to County Kerry.

We went to Lauragh because I wanted to stay in this gypsywagon. I found it on Airbnb and my heart skipped a beat and so we drove hours out of our way along craggy, winding roads to this thin finger of land that extends into the Atlantic. We sandwiched our trip to the wagon between visiting a cheese farm in Durrus and taking a boat out to Skellig Michael (where I couldn’t understand a word our boat captain said except when he physically got up and put me in front of the steering wheel and seemed to think none of the other 18 passengers would mind that suddenly it was me guiding them full speed ahead over choppy, rainy seas towards a rock outcropping twelve miles from shore.)

BUT FIRST! A Guinness.

the road to lauragh

We were early to Lauragh, despite driving at half speed because every turn of the road revealed another family of sheep lounging within inches of our bumper. And here’s a thing to know about Lauragh, Country Kerry: there’s not much going on. There are the Derreen Gardens, where we stopped in the parking lot and both pretended we were excited, and then at the same time admitted we actually were ambivalent about paying 7€ to see exotic plants (don’t hold it against me!) TripAdvisor lists three restaurants in Lauragh and the surrounds. Google Maps told me we were feet from a pub, but upon further investigation, we learned it had been converted into a private residence. Finally, we drove up to the gypsy wagon, three hours early, wearing our most apologetic expressions.

Our ruddy young Irish host was politely surprised to see us. He was also wearing Crocs. That’s just a detail I think is relevant.

gleeful in front of our lodging for the night

the ridiculously cute interior of our wagon

He told us there was a great pub called Helen's not too far ("Well, it's called Teddy O'Sullivan but really it's Helen's," he helpfully explained), which made me feel relieved and dubious at the same time, since we had just spent an hour driving from one end of Lauragh to the other, finding nothing but a sandwich place called Pedals and Boots and several roads that dead ended into private farms. He directed us past Derreen Gardens, where I had sworn the road ended in some sort of green thicket, and our little red car suddenly burst onto the Wild Atlantic Way, which I think is just the most deeply romantic name there ever was for a road.

self explanatory, i assume

We wound around the coast for a mile or so until we arrived at a red and white pub that said "Teddy O’Sullivan" on the wall, but "Helen Moriarty" above the door. It stood alone at a curve in the road. Across the way, along the waterfront, there were five wooden picnic tables and a dock for fishing boats. This is mussel country, so we ordered two Guinness and a bowl of tiny, sweet mussels, and we cracked into our selection of Durrus cheeses that we’d bought earlier in the day. We were giddily alone in a secret section of the planet until a fisherman and his young son came by with their mussel nets, father passing tradition along to son. I was very sure as we sat there that this perfect place was only there for this afternoon, for this happy hour, for this sunset, for this pint of Guinness. And then maybe just one more.