ASPEN . MARISKA HARGITAY .

SOUTH KOREA
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FEBRUARY 2024

Where you
can explore
windswept
Connemara,
along the Wild
Atlantic Way

THREE
PERFECT

Ireland
DAYS
 Horses in the
wild region of
Connemara;
opposite page:
a dish from the
tasting menu
at Ballyfin
Demesne’s State
Dining Room

THREE

Ireland
PERFECT
DAYS Anyone lucky enough to travel to Ireland will relate to Johnny Cash’s description
of writing one of his most cherished songs. As he drove through the country,
looking at the map on his lap, rhymes started to flow. “The names in Ireland
beg to be sung,” Cash said, “and for the title I looked out the window, and there
they were, ‘40 Shades of Green.’” On the Emerald Isle—where the poet-to-sheep
ratio rivals the natural beauty in legend and scale—memories are made from the
magical encounters along the way. Whether in the misty countryside or the cozy
confines of a pub, travelers road-tripping from Galway to Dublin will find warm
hospitality and stories told (with equal parts horror and humor) by what Cash
called the “fine, kind people.” May the road, and a raincoat, rise up to meet you.
By Victoria De Silverio • Photography by Joanna Yee
Credit
Credit

50 51
 1
DAY an area not designated on
a map so much as decided
on by ancient lore and vivid
imaginations, like that of
Oscar Wilde, who called it
“in every way magnificent.”
As the rain starts, I meet
local guide Máirtín Óg Lally
of Lally Tours, and we set out
from the city in his van. Along
the rocky coast he points
at people without wet suits
jumping off the Blackrock
Diving Tower and into the icy
Atlantic. “Sea swimming is
huge,” he says. “More people
come out on crazy weather
days than nice days—for the
wildness of it all.” Since the
pandemic, he notes, charity-
ba sed challenges like
Coldtober and Freezbruary
are all the rage. Rather than
make it Shivertember, we
stop in An Spidéal at Rúnda,
a cafe Lally’s brother Dónal
Back out on the Wild Atlan-
tic Way, the Aran Islands
emerge as ghostly silhouettes
across Galway Bay. Stunning
Inis Mór was a backdrop for
The Banshees of Inisherin,
and, of course, Lally has a
related story: His friends,
the Hernons, looked after
Jenny, the donkey, during
the filming. “They didn’t take
a single picture of her,” he
says. “They had no idea she
was the star!” Turning north
into Connemara, the rugged
coast gives way to rust-
colored scrublands marked
by ancient dry-stone walls
and endless boglands, with
odd piles of brick-shaped
earth that, if they ever dry,
will be used to warm homes.
The light rain makes the
grass seem greener, the
mountains more blue, the
whole landscape somehow

Courtesy of The Dean (Sophie’s)

just opened. “Genuinely, he
has amazing coffee,” my
guide insists. Appreciating
a family hustle, I join the
queue and grab some scones
made by Dónal’s best friend’s
mother, who lives next door.
more mystical and timeless.
“Waterfalls are reappearing,
and so are yellow flowers,”
Lally says. “In the winter, pur-
ple flowers are everywhere.
Each time I come here, it’s
different.” He tells me how

→ A drive along
the coast, working
sheepdogs, and a
Baby Guinness

I
s sunrise too early for a
Guinness? It’s not me ask-
ing; it’s the salty, savory
sausages, bacon, and baked
beans of my Irish fry-up.
It’s also the view. From The
Dean hotel’s rooftop terrace,
I can see the whole of Galway.
Along the brisk River Cor-
rib to my left, a king built a
fort 900 years ago, and as I
ponder the centuries of mer-
This page: Sophie’s chants and marauders who
Restaurant & Rooftop
Terrace, at The Dean have left their mark, I raise a
Galway; opposite page: respectable cup of tea toward
Joe Joyce with his flock
and a dog at Joyce where I’m headed today—to
Country Sheepdogs the west, to wild Connemara,

52 53

his parents stumbled into
This page, clockwise
from above left: the guiding in the mid-1980s,
River Corrib flows
through Galway; oysters “by literally having too many
at Kai; The Crane Bar;
opposite page: Gifty
children—six boys and one
girl!” The growing brood
Kearns plays a bodhrán
needed a minibus, which
at Roundstone Musical
Instruments they’d park outside their pub.
“Bands and football teams
started asking for rides, then
tourists wanting locals to
show them hidden gems.” We
pull over near a fisherman’s
cottage, by a lake that looks
like a leprechaun’s hut. “Old-
school tour guides might
call it that,” Lally says with
another belly-shaking laugh.
Notably, it’s not a denial.
A t L o u g h N a Fo o e y,
we reach Joyce Country
Sheepdogs. Joe Joyce, a
third-generation shepherd,
waits for us with a broad
smile and border collie pup-
pies wriggling in his arms
and chasing after his feet.
His Irish accent is thick, the
rain is now “bucketing,” and
sheepdogs are barking their
faces off, leaping in their
pens like pogo sticks. They
know that strangers arriving
means it’s showtime. “They
54
all want to get goin’,” Joyce
says. The sheep, for their
part, look like they just real-
ized they left the oven on.
Joyce releases a dog named
Cody, and she tears, teeth
bared, toward the sheep,
who bleat and scatter like
bowling pins. The shep-
herd focuses the dog with
prompts—“steady, walk on,
combine, take time”—that he
delivers in whispers. Crouch-
ing low, Cody stares down
her marks, then maneuvers
them into formation. Job
done, she runs back over
to Joyce, who scoops her
up. “We don’t use treats,”
he says. “They just love to
work.” Suddenly, the sun
breaks free, and a rainbow
appears, framing the shep-
herd and his dog. I can’t help
but scream, “They’re after
me Lucky Charms!”
Starving, we drive to Let-
terfrack and grab a table
beneath a whale’s jawbone at
Veldons Seafarer. Antique
bells hang on wood-paneled
walls, the fireplace is blaz-
ing, and locals are deep in
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Around the bend is Round- heartbeat in with a hint of elderflower,
stone, a fishing village with and when I bite into the suc-
colorful cottages saluting
your guts.’” culent, aromatic Connemara
a snug harbor. Here, we lamb, I feel a wave of nostalgia
find Roundstone Musical Uplifted by our encounter, for the fluffy lambkin Joyce
Instruments, the workshop we drive back to Galway. I had me hold. It’s nothing the
of master bodhrán maker say goodbye to Lally and warm Kerry Pippin apple tart
Malachy Kearns, whose head to the artsy West End can’t cure.
wood-and-goatskin drums for dinner. On Sea Road, I For a nightcap, I slip into
have helped preserve and search for Kai, a Michelin one of Murphy’s recommen-
revitalize traditional Irish Bib Gourmand restaurant dations, The Crane Bar. Old
music. Sadly, the icon’s not that, according to its web- men in paddy caps play fid-
agefotostock/Alamy Stock Photo (The Crane Bar)
here, but his charismatic site, is “nestled between the dles in the corner, and a
wife, Gifty, graciously gives church and a gay bar.” Inside lady next to me at the bar
us a spontaneous perfor- the cozy stone walls, I thank orders something called a
mance. Her hands gently chef Jess Murphy for the Baby Guinness. I watch as the
graze the skin, producing a guidance. “I borrowed that bartender fills a shot glass
deep, haunting sound. “It’s from a Tripadvisor review!” with crème de café and tops
meditative, soulful,” she she says with a hearty laugh. it with Baileys to recreate the
says. “It hugs you like a baby, She seats me at a kind of iconic stout’s creamy foam.
and you feel its heartbeat in sturdy wooden table tradi- Clocking my curiosity, he
your guts.” tionally used, she says, for makes one for me as well.
2
DAY
→ Lunar landscapes,
heroic cliffs, and an
introduction to falconry
A
iming to hit the road
before sunrise, I grab
coffee in The Dean’s
lobby. While my best inten-
tion was to limit myself to
one Baby Guinness, an Irish
pub has a way of keeping you.
Chalking it up to “research,” I
go for a brief walk, letting the
cool wind and rain revive me
before I take the wheel. Exiting
Galway, I head south along
the coast on the Wild Atlan-
tic Way, stopping for a photo
of Dunguaire Castle, a 16th-
century tower house known
for hosting literary luminar-
ies such as W.B. Yeats and
This page: loaves of
bread at Hugo’s Bakery; George Bernard Shaw. Sadly,
opposite page: a it’s too early for one of the
hawk perches on a
falconer’s gloved hand castle’s signature mead-filled,
at Ballyfin Demesne medieval-style banquets.
56
Beyond the brightly colored
houses of Kinvara, I cross
into County Clare. A sign for
Hazel Mountain Chocolate,
Ireland’s sole bean-to-bar
chocolate factory, beckons.
Inside the farmhouse cafe, I
learn that the chocolatiers
source milk from free-
roaming, grass-fed cows,
“like the ones you see from
the street.” After purchas-
ing a box of vegan truffles,
I continue my journey.
Soon, sandy beaches and
patches of green grass give
way to the stark limestone
fields of The Burren. Shaped
by geological forces beyond
my comprehension, some of
these rocks date back 359
million years, when Ireland
was parked 10 degrees south
of the Equator—which goes a
long way toward explaining
the incongruous presence of
palm trees in Connemara.
Not to be outdone, The Bur-
ren has Arctic-Alpine and,
Mediterranean plants; it’s
the only place in the world
where these varieties grow
side by side. J.R.R. Tolkien is
said to have spent a great deal
of time here, and it’s easy to
see how he might have drawn
inspiration from this surreal,
lunar landscape.
Feeling refreshed by the
silence and solitude of this
otherworldly place,
I head to another
natural wonder, the
Cliffs of Moher.
At the parking lot,
I cross the street
to stroll atop the
magnificent cliffs,
which reach 702
feet in height and
extend nearly nine
miles from north to
south. Heeding the
comical signs that
depict people fall-
ing into the waves,
I stick to the paths.
It’s impossible to
fully convey the
beauty and gran-
deur of the cliffs;
I’m awestruck, left
trying to imagine
these giants rising from the
sea 90 million years before
the dinosaurs roamed and
what secrets the fossilized
ancient marine creatures in
the walls must hold.
Back in the car, heading
south once more, I stop for
lunch at Hugo’s Bakery in
Lahinch, Ireland’s surfing
mecca (another recommen-
dation from Jess Murphy).
Hugo is a big-wave surfer,
and he works with friends
at the organic Moy Hill Farm
to sell eggs and sourdough.
I grab a focaccia sandwich,
a chocolate croissant, and a
pastel de nata fresh out of the
oven, then continue my road
trip across the country to
County Laois, best known for
its plowing championships.
Two and a half hours of sce-
nic countryside later, I reach
the roadside entrance to Bal-
lyfin Demesne. At the press
of the intercom button, the
gate swings open, and I find
myself on another planet. A
tree-lined path winds through
gentle hills and manicured
lawns for a mile, heightening
the dramatic reveal of the ele-
gant Regency mansion. At the
sight of the household staff—
impeccably dressed and lined
up Downton Abbey–style, I
suddenly feel very Beverly
Hillbillies, what with my
57

This page, from left:
the Cliffs of Moher;
ornate decor at Ballyfin
Demesne; opposite
page, from top: the
historic mansion at
Ballyfin Demesne;
tableside preparation
of an Irish coffee
When costume designer
Eimer Ní Mhaoldomhnaigh
was flooded with requests
for a woolen sweater Colin
Farrell wore in The Banshees of
Inisherin, she suggested The
Tweed Project’s Aoibheann
McNamara (pictured) and
Triona Lillis start making it.
“She knew that she didn’t
want them mass-produced,
and that each of our pieces
is handmade to order,”
McNamara says. Working with
Kerry Woollen Mills, as well as
mills in Ardara and Donegal
County and an Aran Island
hand-knitter, the duo weaves
58
mud-splattered rental car
and drowned-rat hair. To
make matters worse, as I
step out, croissant crumbs
scatter like confetti onto the
decidedly not-to-the-manor-
born purple wellies I borrowed
from Máirtín Óg Lally.
Inside, general manager
Peter White takes me through
a captivating show-and-tell of
Ballyfin’s arduous nine-year
restoration, sharing detailed
THE TWEED PROJECT
notes on craftsmanship and
materials that demonstrate
an astounding level of com-
mitment. As he delivers me
to my room, he informs me
that Tom, the falconer, awaits
me in the grotto. But first, a
Cinderella moment: a pair of
classic Dubarry of Ireland
leather boots for my stay.
Finding the perfect fit, I take
a golf cart down the long,
forested path.
modern design into heritage
textiles. The Colin, with its
traditional style and jaunty
collar, fits in perfectly with The
Tweed Project’s aesthetic.
“They take four to six weeks to
make, you’ll wear them your
whole life, and they come with
their own stories,” McNamara
says. The same ethos applies
at Ard Bia at Nimmos, a
restaurant she runs in Galway:
“Nothing is wasted,” she says,
“not a scrap of food or fabric.
These sustainable practices
were normal 50 years ago, and
we want to bring them back.”
thetweedproject.com
“A tree-lined
path winds
through gentle
hills and
manicured
lawns for a mile,
heightening
the dramatic
reveal of the
elegant Regency
mansion.”
Tom lets me hold his avian
crew one by one, regaling
me with each bird’s unique
personality traits and skills.
There’s Gizmo, an owl the size
of a Fabergé egg; Sal, a tawny
owl who was once called Psy-
cho Sal but had the name
shortened “because she’s soft-
ened up”; barn owl Eugene,
whose gold-flecked feathers
inspire local dressmakers;
and Lincoln, an angel-winged
owl known to “take a piece
of flesh off.” The symphony
builds to a crescendo with a
hawk named Maude. Tempt-
ing her with morsels of meat,
Tom commands the bird to
fly to a distant tree before she
circles back, straight toward
my head. Inches from con-
tact, she effortlessly lowers
her talons onto my extended
arm. Tom is beaming. “As a
Anti
Anti-Aging.
Pro
Beautiful.
kid,” he says, “I read every
book I thought might mention
hawks, falcons, or falconry
cover to cover.”
After a quick change into
formal attire, I enjoy an Irish
Manhattan by the fireplace
in the Gold Drawing Room
before moving on to the State
Dining Room. Hypnotized
by the server’s descriptions
of vegetables sourced from
the eight-acre garden and
wild mushrooms foraged
from the 614-acre estate, I
opt for the six-course tasting
menu with wine pairing—it’s
Ballyfin, after all. My favor-
ite of Michelin-starred chef
Richard Picard-Edwards’s
creations are the melt-in-
your-mouth Higgins beef
cheek and the dessert of
Tipperary Brie with pickled
beet and beet sorbet. For a
finale, the waitstaff prepares
an old-fashioned Irish coffee
tableside. When the Baileys
hits the piping hot skillet, a
theatrical poof of fire sets off
a chorus of oohs and aahs
throughout the room.
59
3
DAY
→ A haunting jail,
a little museum,
and a comedy show
I
n the spirit of Edwardian
leisure, I enjoy a lengthy
breakfast and an archery
lesson before heading to Dub-
lin. Marksman Glenn walks
me through the basics—“let
the bow do the work, keep
your elbow down, sight along
the arrow”—and, of course, I
miss badly. “It takes practice,”
he assures me. “You’ll get
the hang of it in the last five
minutes.” Sure enough, as the
hour wanes, I find my inner
Katniss and hit the bull’s-eye.
This page: Grace After bidding a bittersweet
Gifford Plunkett’s farewell to the enchanting
painting on the wall
of her cell at the staff, I begin my 90-minute
Kilmainham Gaol drive to Dublin. At The
Museum; opposite
page: the main hall at Merrion Hotel, doormen in
the Kilmainham Gaol Georgian-era top hats and
60
long coats sweep me inside
with witty banter and thick
brogues. I drop my bag and
head over to the city’s west
side and the Kilmainham
Gaol Museum. A tour guide,
Daniel, greets my group with
a somber nod, foregoing the
usual hammy chatter. “This
is a national monument,”
he says, “and it holds great
significance for the Irish peo-
ple.” From 1796 to 1924, the
infamous jail housed revo-
lutionaries who participated
in several armed rebellions
and a civil war, he explains,
emphasizing the intertwined
history of the jail and Ireland’s
political struggles.
Focusing his narration on
the pivotal 1916 Easter Ris-
ing, he leads us to the chapel
where Joseph Plunkett mar-
ried artist Grace Gifford just
hours before his execution.
The artist was later impris-
oned for her role in the Irish
Civil War, and she painted
a haunting portrait of the
Madonna cradling the baby
Jesus on the wall of her cell.
(It’s still visible through the
peephole of her locked door.)
As the tour concludes, we
enter Stonebreakers’ Yard,
the grim site where 14 rev-
olutionaries met their end
by firing squad. A light rain
falls as Daniel reveals a tragic
irony: Initially, public opinion
had been against the rebel-
lion, but as stories from the
jail began to surface, senti-
ments shifted. “These men
went from rebels and traitors
to heroes and martyrs,” he
says. “The flame for indepen-
dence was lit. Our history as
an island, as a nation, changed
here in this very yard.”
Moved beyond words, I seek
comfort in food and drink. On
the recommendation of The
Merrion Hotel’s concierge, I
join the properly old-school,
two-whiskey-lunch crowd
at Matt the Thresher on
Pembroke Street, where I
feast on buttery Dublin Bay
prawns and a pot of steam-
ing mussels.
Replenished, I stroll down
Grafton Street and pass
through the gates of the
sprawling campus of Trinity
College Dublin. Watching
students with backpacks
shuttling through courtyards
framed by Gothic buildings
makes me feel romantic about
higher learning. I imagine
debating with Bram Stoker
over whiskey, or breaking into
the wine cellar and popping
an Hermitage La Chapelle
with Mary Robinson—neither
of us knowing she’d one
day become Ireland’s first
female President.
Lured by the promise of
history, humor, and wine, I
head south to partake in an
After Hours Tour at The Little
Museum of Dublin. Set inside
a Georgian townhouse, the
61
Above, from left:
The Little Museum
of Dublin; the Trinity
College campus
The Dean Galway
Down the street from Eyre
Square, this boutique hotel
combines a Brooklyn-esque
design with historic elements
such as an 1890s brick railway
tunnel. Partnering with the
Irish Museum of Modern Art,
the property features works
by Irish artists in its public
areas and 100 guest rooms.
Mingle with locals at Sophie’s
Restaurant & Rooftop Terrace
or with fellow guests at the
heated outdoor pool and
sauna. From $140, thedean.ie
62
museum is filled with oddball
memorabilia and historical
artifacts, all of it donated by
Dubliners. There’s a letter
from Samuel Beckett to the
boy who lived in his childhood
home, a facsimile of James
Joyce’s death mask … and
also an unopened bottle of
lemonade from 1918. Our
host, Declan, appears like a
WHERE TO STAY
Ballyfin Demesne
Guests will find unforgettable,
time-capsule luxury—without
a hint of stuffiness—at this
country estate. The mansion
and its lush 614-acre grounds
have been restored to serve
their original purpose:
the sheer pleasure of
entertaining. Twenty-one
individually designed rooms,
horseback riding and falconry,
world-class dining, and a
serene spa are among
the dreamy offerings.
From $890, ballyfin.com
jack-in-the-box, wearing an
outfit straight out of Gulli-
ver’s Travels, and proceeds
to squeeze 100,000 years of
Irish history into a paragraph,
interspersed with terrible,
triumphant puns and cracks
on the Brits.
Stopping at the year 1729,
he reads a passage from
Jonathan Swift’s savage “A
The Merrion Hotel
Occupying four townhouses
near Merrion Square, this
142-room-and-suite Dublin
institution epitomizes old-
school class. If you can’t get
a reservation at the two-
Michelin-starred Restaurant
Patrick Guilbaud, drown your
sorrows in The Cellar Bar
(located in an 18th-century
wine vault), or indulge in
an Art Afternoon Tea with
pastries inspired by the hotel’s
impressive collection. From
$340, merrionhotel.com
Modest Proposal,” and asks:
“So, does he want us to eat
children? No! He was attack-
ing the government’s callous
treatment of the poor in a
revolutionary way. This here
is the greatest example of
sustained irony in the his-
tory of the English language.”
Buoyed by the resilient
rebel heart of the Irish, I walk
to Portobello, a residential
neighborhood named for a
British victory and bearing
the marks of another more
genteel local conquest—by
the hipsters, in search of cool
coffee shops and thrift stores.
On Camden Street, I step into
Frank’s, a natural wine bar
with the original name and
signage of the butcher who
once occupied the cozy space.
Grabbing a stool at the com-
munal table, I work my way
through the menu, so con-
cise it could fit on a postcard.
A flurry of small plates—
Carlingford oysters with a
tart blackcurrant granita;
Above, from left: an
oyster with blackcurrant
granita at Frank’s;
O’Donoghue’s Pub
The Emerald Isle Awaits:
United offers year-round
nonstop flights to Dublin
from New York/Newark and
Washington Dulles. During the
peak summer travel season,
there’s also nonstop service to
Dublin from Chicago O’Hare
and to Shannon from Chicago
O’Hare and New York/Newark.
64
chicken thigh in a chicory,
oregano, and caper stew; and
surf clams with al dente peas
and bacon—is paired with
glasses of vinho verde. Infec-
tious laughter fills the air.
Perhaps it’s the rain that fuels
the Irish humor, or maybe it’s
the eight centuries of British
rule (and the attendant fam-
ine, troubles, and rebellion)
that echo in the Irish psyche.
Comedian Jason Byrne once
quipped about performing
here: “Everyone in the room
already thinks they’re funny,
so you’ve got to prove to them
that you’re funnier.”
Excited to witness this
phenomenon firsthand, I ask
my neighbor about nearby
comedy clubs; he directs me
to Cherry Comedy, down the
road. The tip feels like a four-
leaf clover, which reminds me
of Máirtín Óg Lally, and how
he’d meet my every men-
tion of leprechauns, pots
of gold, and the lore of Irish
luck with a kindly eye roll,
“Like a snake
charmer, Fiona
Frawley extracts
details from
the audience,
cleverly weaving
them into
innuendo-
laden riffs
between acts.”
insisting they are all Amer-
ican fabrications.
The tiny club is on the sec-
ond floor of a music venue,
Whelan’s. I’m told the show’s
about to begin, but it’s sold
out. Hoping for a no-show, I
have a Guinness at the bar,
and before I can finish it, I’m
ushered inside, as host Fiona
Frawley takes the stage.
Like a snake charmer, she
extracts details from the
audience, cleverly weaving
them into innuendo-laden
riffs between acts. Aidan
Greene, self-billed as “Ire-
land’s foremost stammering
comedian,” runs through a
hilarious set, deftly play-
ing with his speech disorder
both to shock and endear
us. Headliner and TV reg-
ular Deirdre O’Kane gets a
big round of applause, and
with the casual confidence
of a pro she workshops new
material, playfully jotting
down in her notebook what
lands and what bombs.
Back on Merrion Row,
the clamor coming out of
O’Donoghue’s Pub lures me
inside. A cornerstone of the
1960s Irish folk revival, this
was once a hangout for The
Dubliners, and in one corner
there are lads with fiddles,
carrying on the jamming
Courtesy of Frank’s (oyster)
tradition. As more than a
few patrons teeter like fawns
finding their feet, I toast to
my lucky charms (sorry,
Máirtín), uttering a heart-
felt Éirinn go brách.