Ireland’s Road Trip from East to West — Driving from One Coast to the Other

Here, the Atlantic puts on an overwhelming show, and pubs brim with the cheerful spirit of the locals. In Ireland, you can write an epic made of unforgettable moments. Starting in Dublin and crossing the country from east to west all the way to Dingle, the road trip begins now.

Words Hur Taewoo
Photos Lee Hankoo

Dublin
Dublin

Dublin is a city where Guinness flows freely, where the novelist James Joyce once walked, and where the music of U2 plays. On a drizzly afternoon, it looks much like any other big city: life runs on the clock of work. When the workday ends, people duck in out of the rain. They greet the bartender as a matter of course and receive a pint glass topped with about an inch and a half of foam. The whole sequence feels so natural that it might have been drilled hundreds of times.

The Palace Bar, which has preserved its Victorian style to perfection, was a haunt of Irish writers and journalists until the mid-20th century—a place to find material for a story or a scoop. Today, beneath the magnificent ceiling in the back hall, elderly gentlemen quietly talk over glasses of Irish whiskey and beer. Pale light filters through the skylight, and dust motes drift in the air. It would not look out of place in a local newspaper from 50 years ago. On the walls hang portraits of famous writers who once came here, including James Joyce, Samuel Beckett and Flann O’Brien. Every one of them wears a cantankerous expression and a glint in the eye. P. J. Murphy glances sideways at them and says, “Dubliners love to drink, sing and write. And we laugh a lot, looking each other in the eye.” It is an explanation that needs no rebuttal. It is no exaggeration to say that Dublin’s literature and music are perfected in its pubs. Joyce himself wrote in his book “Ulysses,” “It would be an interesting puzzle to cross Dublin without passing a single pub.”

Murphy resembles Doc Brown from the film “Back to the Future.” He is a renowned Irish authority on James Joyce and the keeper of Sweny’s, a space that preserves traces of Joyce, and he occasionally leads tours as well. A tour of Dublin’s pubs combs through events and episodes of the past. Beyond The Palace Bar, it unfolds like a kaleidoscope: the Brazen Head, a pub founded in 1198, and O’Donoghue’s Pub, the main stage of The Dubliners, the group that introduced Irish folk music to the world. Let your brief Dublin trip end not in a pub but at Sweny’s—by joining a James Joyce reading at this almost mythical place, or by quietly buying a bar of lemon soap. And all the while, picture the Dublin that Bloom strolled through on June 16, 1904.

Cork
Cork

The welcome tea at Garnish House in Cork is warm and sweet. Sunlight falls on the scones and brownies like studio lighting for a photo shoot. On the small table, tea, scones, brownies, jam and butter are neatly laid out. The brownies dusted lightly with sugar and the golden-baked scones whet the appetite at a glance. Unable to wait, I tear off a piece of scone and spread it thickly with apple jam. Every bite draws a sigh of delight; the flavor is almost perfect. This B&B richly deserves titles like “Ireland’s best afternoon tea” and “Ireland’s best breakfast.” Isn’t that the true charm of a B&B? Delicious home cooking that welcomes the traveler.

Garnish House is just one example of Cork. The city, in southwestern Ireland, seems to be settling into its role as the center of Irish gastronomy today. It boasts a culture as rich as Dublin’s, and a cheerful energy runs through the town. In fact, Cork cannot be left out of any discussion of Irish history. Corkonians call it Ireland’s “real capital,” or even give it the bold nickname “the People’s Republic of Cork.” That is because it was a major stage of modern Irish history, where independence and struggle were entwined. Michael Collins was from Cork. In 1922, during the Irish Civil War, Cork was a stronghold of those opposed to the Anglo-Irish Treaty—a time when people accepted armed struggle and terror as their fate in order to defend an ideal. It is hard to imagine today on St. Patrick’s Street in Cork, where every outdoor table is packed.

Stepping into the English Market, you find all kinds of ingredients assaulting your eyes and nose. Housed since the mid-19th century in a Victorian building, the market is like a guarantor of Cork’s culinary standards. Stalls confidently display quality meat, fish, cheese and vegetables and receive a ceaseless stream of customers. Especially in front of the fishmonger K. O’Connell, the crowd is unusually thick. Queen Elizabeth II visited in 2011, and she is said to have examined the monkfish at O’Connell’s. In Ireland, monkfish is also nicknamed the “mother-in-law.” It happened to be right after the Queen’s grandson Prince William’s wedding, and the quick-witted press played the story up with headlines along the lines of “Mother-in-law Queen meets mother-in-law fish after 100 years.”

An evening in Cork, ripening along the River Lee, naturally ends in a pub. SIN É, which opened in 1889, is not an easy place to walk into. The bar in its narrow interior is occupied by elderly regulars. Squeezing through, I hear unfamiliar music from somewhere. It is real traditional Irish music. A slender note rises from the uilleann pipes and fills the room, and the pub’s audience follows the melody with their eyes closed. As if reciting a poem over a minor-key melody, the close bonds of those who loved this city carry on in the music of the pub.

Ring of Kerry
Ring of Kerry

Killarney, in southwestern Ireland, draws a good many travelers. It is so popular that, by number of accommodations, it ranks second only to Dublin. Downtown, every other building is a hotel, and the rest are pubs, restaurants or souvenir shops. The first reason is Killarney National Park, Ireland’s first national park, and the second is the 179-kilometer Ring of Kerry road.

Flanked by Ireland’s highest peaks, including Carrauntoohil, the national park is rugged and grand, and somehow eerie. The deeper you drive into it, the stronger its primal appeal becomes. The narrow road winding around the lakes snakes through forest and bog. The woods of oak and yew are dark with density, and they shelter the only wild deer in Ireland. Before you know it, the road leaves the park boundary and crosses Moll’s Gap, and the scenery grows wider and deeper. Rows of grass pressed flat by the wind seem to stretch over the hills toward the thick clouds. The hidden charms of the Ring of Kerry are about to reveal themselves.

The Ring of Kerry begins in Killarney, passes through a national park, and loops back along the coast of the Iveragh Peninsula. It is, without question, Ireland’s finest driving route, a work in which the pleasure of the drive itself blends with dramatic scenery. Nationally famous sights such as Molls Gap and the Gap of Dunloe are only part of it. The Ring of Kerry threads cleverly through mountains, plains, and coastline, handing drivers one unforgettable moment after another. You brush past roadside trees, then suddenly emerge into the open North Atlantic, where your chest seems to expand. Now and then you come up behind a tractor in a country village and crawl along at 15 kilometers an hour, your patience put to the test. Before you set out on the Ring of Kerry, know this: Ireland’s countryside has almost no purpose-built roads. Paths that horses and carts, people and carriages used for ages simply became the roads. They are absurdly narrow, they run through every last village, and the curves leave no room for boredom.

Bewilderingly, the speed limits are generous, so generous that you could never actually push the accelerator that far. The drive goes on, grazing the deep blue Atlantic and its scattering of islands. Charming seaside villages and deserted beaches appear and vanish, filling your view. Thick clouds drift across the sky, interrupting the clear sunshine. There could hardly be a more perfect stage for the drama of a road trip.

Skellig Michael
Sceilg Mhichíl

Portmagee, a harbor village at Ireland’s western edge, has only about 400 residents. Travelers who make the effort to come this far share a single purpose: to visit Skellig Michael, which floats against the North Atlantic horizon as if drifting on the wind.

Leaving Portmagee, the boat weaves through the sea in search of whales, then reaches Skellig Michael escorted by seabirds. The captain, David, allows his dozen or so passengers a brief time ashore. The island, shaped like a jagged triangle, wears sheer cliffs like armor and hundreds of birds like ornaments. There is no sign of people, only the sound of chirping. And yet a Jedi is supposed to have trained up there.

“Star Wars: The Force Awakens” and “Star Wars: The Last Jedi” revealed a little-known island to audiences around the world. It was where Luke Skywalker lived in seclusion and where the heroine, Rey, honed her skills. Does that island really exist? Of course it does, about 15 kilometers from Portmagee. Skellig Michael was already inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1996, a treasure trove of Irish history and nature. The island fully preserves a monastic settlement believed to have been built between the sixth and eighth centuries, a case that is hard to match anywhere in the world. A lighthouse built in the nineteenth century still stands as well. Because the island is so remote, it escaped the heedless tread of visitors. David slowly circles the island as he explains. “Until a few decades ago, they say residents lived in the quarters next to the lighthouse. Now only researchers who study the ecosystem remain on the island, and the public can’t go in except at set times.” Lately, setting foot on Skellig Michael has become even harder. Perhaps the power of the Force has taken effect since the films, but booking the island landing tour, which runs only once a day, is next to impossible.

Fortunately, simply sailing around Skellig Michael is reason enough to have come this far. You may occasionally spot endangered North Atlantic dolphins, and rare seabirds such as puffins are often in view. Even Little Skellig, the island right next to Skellig Michael, is astonishing. Some 20,000 gannets blanket it like cream on a cheesecake, and the sight of them swirling will give you goose bumps. Forgetting how you might dodge the droppings they release, you can only keep your eyes fixed on Skellig’s snow-white cliffs.

Dingle
An Daingean

“They still speak a lot of Irish in that area. The road signs were only in Irish, so travelers complained a lot. So a few years ago they replaced them all with signs that have English too.” That is how a local I met in Cork described the Dingle Peninsula. Ireland’s native language, Irish (Gaeilge), belongs to the Celtic family. It is an official language alongside English and is formally taught in schools, but not many people actually use it. Its alphabet, vocabulary, and word order differ from English, so outsiders find it nearly impossible to understand. That the language is kept alive probably means that traditional culture is part of everyday life in Ireland.

The Dingle Peninsula is counted among the most beautiful regions in Ireland. At the same time, it is known as the end of Ireland. Dunquin, the country’s westernmost village; Dunmore Head, its westernmost point; and Conor Pass, its highest mountain pass. Travelers on the Dingle Peninsula pass through these places almost like pilgrims, marveling at each.

Once you cross Conor Pass, where curves and precipices pile up, a calm coastal landscape suddenly appears. Green lowlands spread out wide, and houses stand here and there among stone walls and flocks of sheep. A dark cloud sprinkles rain for a few minutes, then drifts east. Below it, a road that juts out runs through Dingle Town and carries on westward. The vast North Atlantic pushes waves against the coastal cliffs, throwing up white foam. The coastal road stretches out as if racing into the middle of the sea. The occasional passing car glints in the sunlight and stings the eyes, and the shimmer on the Atlantic is endlessly dizzying.

At last, Ireland’s western edge comes into view: Dunmore Head, and beyond it, even farther out, the Blasket Islands. The Blaskets were once called “next door to America,” and a small number of people lived there. Living at the end of the Irish world, they are said to have spoken only Irish and held fast to tradition. Though only about 2 kilometers from the mainland, they lived a distinctly different communal life. That continued until 1953, when all the residents were forcibly relocated inland.

On the water breaking against the Dunquin coast, the late midsummer sun leaves a dazzling trail. The wind blowing in from the Atlantic ceaselessly stirs unnamed grasses. On the meadows of Great Blasket Island in the distance, sheep move at a leisurely pace. Now they are the island’s masters, walking into the backyards of empty houses and making only their bleating sounds. Slightly off to the right, Inishtooskert looks like a giant lying down. Is it the last trace of humanity left on the island? The scene before you leaves a very long afterimage, as if to say that this is the end of Ireland.