“We’re at completions of the earth,” states Hugh O’Malley. I’ve drawn in at a filling station along Clew Bay, to make a call asking for the last instructions to Achill Oysters. Continue, Hugh informs me– along the misty twisting roadways and turf-coloured hills of the Corraun Peninsula, crossing the bridge to Achill Island, threading the cars and truck down a needle of a boreen lane till … well, up until it goes out. “If you see an indication stating, ‘Here be dragons’,” the creator of Achill Oysters jests. “Go beyond that!”
This wonderfully desolate bay, where the dark rows of his oyster farm’s trestles– bridge-like structures utilized for intertidal shellfish farming– line up in seas frothing over an ancient, sunken peat bog, might pass for such a location. I would not be amazed to see a dragon back up above the corrie lakes here in County Mayo– a main stop along Ireland’s appropriately called Wild Atlantic Way. The nation’s longest specified seaside touring path covers 1,600 miles along the western coast and, on the mid-point of this windblown roadway, County Mayo and neighbouring Galway are jewelled with a few of the world’s finest oysters.
Discovering Achill at the ends of the earth, some minutes later on, it’s shortly before I’m wearing in waders and oilskins. I sign up with a group that Hugh leads onto the squelchy sands towards a web of trestles, where we choose our method through a series of difficult mesh sacks. Inside, we discover countless gnarly rock oysters, each of which can filter around 10 litres of water an hour.
Hugh opens a bag and begins shucking. A smooth shell quickly beings in my palm, nestling a trembling gloop. I tip it into my mouth to be met a velvety, straight-from-the-ocean experience that surprises me with its sweet taste and mineral notes.
The ocean, the weather condition, turning the sacks– oyster farming is effort. “Guys who go to the health club would not last a tide here,” muses Hugh. We’ve been out an hour or two, and the wind seems like it would skin a dogfish.
Pip Lacey, previous executive chef at London’s Guinness Open Gate Brewery, is amongst the group of visitors. She’s taken with the “cruelty” of the circumstance– the science, the battle with the aspects and the basic, squishy mouthful that results. “I discover these oysters really deep, extremely umami,” she states. “The creaminess, the meatiness of it– without being too unusual– in your mouth, if you understand what I suggest.” “It’s really, extremely real,” states Hugh.
From Shell Middens to Michelin Stars
You’ll discover oysters on menus all over Ireland. North along the coast, at the Mulranny Park Hotel, I ‘d formerly tested them with a chilli and lime dressing. In Galway’s Kai, where chef Jess Murphy penned a seafood-forward cookbook entitled A Love Letter to the West of Irelandthey were served with a tart mignonette made with tayberries instead of the conventional shallots. At Kai, meals like regional crab and curried scallops seem like more than simply menu alternatives; they’re links to landscape. Taking a trip to the source like this opens my eyes.
Mayo and Galway are western counties that use history and extreme winter seasons on their sleeves. On Achill Island I stop at Keem Bay, where basking sharks can be found in summertime, and pass Slievemore, a deserted booley (transhumance) town. The tumbledown stone huts were last utilized in the early 20th century however go back 5,000 years as a seasonal settlement for farmers. Kite-surfers flicker like unique birds in the skies close by. Later on, over on the mainland in Connemara, Kylemore Abbey is shown in its lake, and roadsides spurt gorse and montbretia. As I drive, the sun moves like a searchlight throughout the peaks of the Twelve Bens.
The food along this cut of coast seems like it’s increased an equipment recently. From Michelin-starred dining establishments like Galway’s Aniar to gastropubs like Cronin’s Sheebeen outside Westport, chefs and restaurateurs are re-engaging with regional landscape and active ingredients. They appear revitalized.
“You’re consuming the land of Connemara,” owner Dean Gibson when informed me at the Connemara Sands Hotel, as I scoffed scoops of Jimmy’s ice cream flavoured with regional honey and utilizing carrageen seaweed as a binding representative. This time, when I go back to consume at its friendly dining establishment by Mannin Bay for lunch, there’s a map of neighboring manufacturers on the menu and more stealthily casual cooking, which lets regional active ingredients sing– lobster pie, slow-braised lamb shoulder, DK Connemara oysters shining in their shells with an easy shallot vinaigrette and olive oil.
Some 70 miles south, I’m quickly back in waders, being led by Diarmuid Kelly, joint owner of Kelly Oysters. “You’ve become aware of terroir,” states Diarmuid. “We’re calling it
merroir.” I can’t see any mermaids in the water here at Galway Bay, however this is definitely a charmed seascape. Displaying pitchforks, our little group of visitors follows Diarmuid out for a collecting trip of his household’s oyster farm, making our method from a little stone pier down onto a coastline squirming with concealed sea life.
Amongst the group today are going to chefs and restaurateurs seeking to get in touch with little Irish manufacturers, consisting of Robin Hancock, co-founder and director of age-old UK seafood providers and dining establishment group Wright Brothers. Robin is taken with how these contemporary oyster farmers are wading back into custom– bringing modern-day approaches and science, however fighting the very same ageless, callous components: “Brave males like Diarmuid, who are similar to: ‘Let’s grow oysters’.”
The farm here’s a little closer to civilisation than Achill, with Clarenbridge (well-known for a September oyster celebration) simply a brief drive from Galway. It feels beautiful. “You’re strolling on life,” Diarmuid states, before holding up a rock oyster. “That’s the shape you’re trying to find: a teardrop.”
Red-beaked oystercatchers search in swimming pools as he combs about, getting periwinkles and pepper dulse. “Crunch that up in your fingers, smell it and taste it,” he states, handing me a sprig of the seaweed. “It’s like truffles.”
The group stoops over his palm like seabirds. They gather, smelling and tasting, questioning if it could include in a meal … butter, mayo, possibly a garnish? All sound succulent to me.
The Star of the Show
Oysters here weren’t constantly thought about specials. Individuals were shucking them here countless years back, chucking them into shell middens you can still see today (there’s a sandy bank filled with shells at Culleenamore in County Sligo). Previous generations understood them as ‘pauper’s food’, Diarmuid informs me– a fundamental staple fished from wood currach rowing boats and brought home in containers.
More just recently, native stocks were overfished, and aquaculture companies like Kelly’s and Achill Oysters mainly farm Pacific rock oysters. You can still discover locals– flatter, rounder, sweeter, richer– concealed in the sand and on menus with a premium connected. The guideline that oysters can just be discovered throughout months with the letter ‘R’ (September to April) originates from locals replicating throughout summer season, and not being consumed at this time– when, at any rate, they taste more acidic. Irish rock oysters can be delighted in year-round.
On the pier at Kelly’s, we tuck into locals and rock oysters, try out squirts of lemon, shallot vinegar, gin and Tabasco, and even a spray from a diffuser of bourbon. “It draws out the peatiness,” Diarmuid states.
His oysters deliver to areas as varied as Dubai and Dromoland Castle in County Clare, though my next stop is better. Straight throughout the waters of the close-by Kilcolgan estuary, Moran’s Oyster Cottage is a dining establishment grown over numerous generations from a thatched riverside home. And seafood is the star of the program. ‘But initially, Kelly’s oysters!’ is the line at the top of the menu, which uses locals, rock, grilled and thermidor choices.
Reverse the bar, I find a handwritten poem by late Irish poet, Seamus Heaney. It explains a plate of oysters enjoyed in ‘the cool of thatch and dishware’ of Moran’s and provides a melodic meditation on easy satisfaction, on benefit and political dispute. I stick around on the line ‘My tongue was a filling estuary/ My taste buds hung with starlight’.
Heaney was a routine visitor to this part of the world. “We believed he was simply a common farmer,” states William Moran, child of Willie to whom the poem is committed. One day they saw his picture in the paper with a Nobel Prize. “Seamus, you never ever informed me you were a poet!” stated William’s father. “You never ever asked,” was the reply.
Outdoors, the dam cleans on. My own journey takes me more south along the Wild Atlantic Way, previous landmarks that rejoice in such names as Flaggy Shore, to my space for the night at The Armada. Here, in this seaside hotel in County Clare, I check out a menu under the moody lighting of a contemporary brasserie and mixed drink bar. I select oysters ‘handpicked from the Atlantic coastline by Hugh O’Malley and his group’ and they show up on ice, in a shallow stoneware meal. All the method from completions of the earth.
Released in the November 2026 concern by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
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