The Irish Times, in association with Fáilte Ireland, is on the hunt for favourite food destinations around Ireland, North and South: places that combine memorable eating experiences with great local produce and beautiful surrounds.
We would like to hear from readers about the places they enjoy visiting where they can be guaranteed a couple of great food experiences. We’re offering four €250 Good Food Ireland vouchers for the submissions that inspire us most. Find out more, and submit yours, here.
To inspire you, here are some accounts by Irish Times journalists of their favourite food memories from around Ireland.
A culinary road trip around Clare: ‘The oyster shells piled up as the sun progressed across the sky’Rosita Boland
Linnane’s Lobster Bar: a seafood-based restaurant gem at New Quay in the Burren. Photograph: AirSwing Media
My mother was having a landmark birthday a few years ago and we wanted to do something different to celebrate it. Mainly, we wanted the celebration not to be in our parents’ home in Co Clare, because my mother was unable to repress her instinctive hostess gene there, even with her own family.
I claim the brainwave of deciding to hire a minibus with a driver for the day, and bringing our mother to locations in Clare she particularly loved, with stops along the way for refreshments. It also meant nobody would need to drive, and we could be together all day.
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And so, on a beautiful June morning, our family gathered from around the country at our parents’ home, and boarded the minibus that brought us first to Lahinch. There was a wind-tossed walk along the prom there, with takeaway coffees overlooking the wild Atlantic. My mother inhaled the briny air with joy.
We stopped again at glorious Fanore Cafe, south of Fanore Beach; a space infused with light, and overlooking summer’s rippling green meadows. There were more coffees and teas, and slices of cake, and we watched birds rising and fluttering in a kind of avian ballet from the long grass.
“Skylarks,” someone in the cafe said. When we went back outside, we could hear their calls clearly; a sweet, urgent, ceaseless trill. I had never knowingly heard a skylark before. My mother and I linked arms and listened together.
We drove among the familiar limestone walls and stone fields of the Burren, the Atlantic glittering a mercurial silver to our left. In the late afternoon, we arrived at Linnane’s Lobster Bar at New Quay.
We had booked a table at this unpretentious, family-run, seafood-based restaurant that we had all been to before. Our long table overlooked the terrace outside, and the sea beyond. Ordering was simple. Every one of us, from youngest (my nephew) to oldest (my father) ordered the cold seafood platter. I recall the freshest of crab claws, oysters, smoked salmon, mussels, prawns, brown bread, yellow butter and glasses of chilled white wine infused with minerality.
Cold seafood platter at Linnane’s
We sat there for a couple of perfect hours, in a harmony of conversation, as the oyster shells piled up, and the sun progressed across the sky. We raised our glasses as one, and toasted our mother, who sat glowing in the centre of us all on that unforgettable day; the brightest star of our small constellation.’
A carvery to rule them all at the Royal Hotel in Cookstown, Co TyroneRóisín Ingle
Royal Hotel, Cookstown, Co Tyrone
I’ve had a few memorable carveries in my time, but the carvery to rule them all was at the Royal Hotel in Cookstown, Co Tyrone, on the occasion of my mother-in-law Queenie’s 70th birthday. The Royal was chosen because she’s a queen but also because there’s no messing around at The Royal when it comes to their five-course carvery offering.
I knew they meant business when I saw there was both a hot starter and cold starter table. Cold starters featured the likes of egg mayonnaise, prawn cocktail and pasta salad. Hot starter highlights included home-made vegetable soup with wheaten bread, mozzarella sticks, chicken kebabs, BBQ ribs and mini pizzas.
After those amusing bouches, it was time for the main event. There is little more enjoyable in life than hot food carved under a heat lamp, queued for patiently with tummy rumbling – the pre-carvery fast is a crucial part of the ritual – all while clutching a large empty (but not for long) plate. The main menu featured an intimidating 10 options: roast turkey and beef, baked ham, pepper pork, stuffed pork, lamb, cocktail sausages, chicken goujons, fish and a Chef’s Special.
Next, to the always urgent matter of potatoes. Crucially, they use ice-cream scoops to serve the mash, certain unspoken aesthetics being carefully adhered to in the elite carvery world. Also, carvery expert and fellow columnist Emer McLysaght says that in a proper carvery, at least two decent potato options should be on offer. The Royal has four: diced potato and onion, chips, roast potatoes and mash. Not to forget lashings of good gravy and crisp Yorkshire puddings, the latter often lamentably absent from your average Free State carvery.
After all that, dessert might seem superfluous but it was included in the £30 for adults, £14 for under-12s carvery charge so it felt rude not to indulge in one (or two) of the 24 desserts on offer: from pavlova to trifle, black forest gateau to profiteroles.
The dessert table at the Royal Hotel, Cookstown, Co Tyrone
Non-food highlights from that gorgeous day were the presentation of a remarkably lifelike Queenie doll crocheted by one granddaughter and a royal command performance of the entire libretto of Joseph and The Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat by two others. But it was the smiling faces, precariously piled plates and post-carvery food coma that I remember most fondly. In fact, writing this brought back so many excellent memories of Queenie’s 70th birthday carvery at the Royal that we’ve booked it again for Mother’s Day.
A death row-worthy meal at Ballymaloe House, Co CorkConor Pope
Ballymaloe House Hotel: an ivy-clad oasis with pleasingly terrible phone coverage, comfy sofas, roaring open fires, rolling dessert trolleys and guests that come with a soupçon of smugness
It’s more than a decade ago now that the doyen of dining in Ireland slyly slipped me what I’d forever choose as my death row meal, even though it had just disappeared from her menu.
It was summer in east Cork and we were fortunate enough to find ourselves in Ballymaloe House, one of the cosiest, old-school hotels in Ireland; an ivy-clad oasis with pleasingly terrible phone coverage, comfy sofas, roaring open fires, rolling dessert trolleys and guests that come with a soupçon of smugness.
I was pretty smug myself, truth be told, as we wandered into the diningroom with the sun setting, and that smugness was accentuated when I spotted a chalk board in a hallway boasting of the wild Irish salmon on special.
Now, wild salmon and farmed salmon sound similar, but in terms of taste and texture, the wild one is as far from the artificially pink, farmed fish that comes from far, far away as instant mash is from freshly boiled potatoes whisked with a heart-troubling river of melted butter and cream.
Decades of mistreating our rivers and seas has caused the cataclysmic collapse of Ireland’s wild salmon stocks, with the numbers found swimming in our fresh water falling by more than 90 per cent since the 1970s. And things are only getting worse.
So, to see this culinary delight making an appearance on a menu was an unexpected joy.
But that joy turned to sadness and my heart was quickly broken when the server explained that the chalk board I’d passed was from earlier in the week and the very limited supply of wild salmon they’d had had vanished.
Myrtle Allen, the formidable chef behind Ballymaloe and the first Irish woman to earn a Michelin star, had long since hung up her apron but she remained a commanding presence in the diningroom, and witnessed my crushing disappointment.
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She floated over to our table and whispered in my ear: “I think we might have a little bit left.” She patted my shoulder and wafted away before returning moments later to say we’d be looked after.
And we were.
What followed was one of the finest meals I have ever had, and one I will never forget. It was a masterclass in simplicity with the fish adorned with nothing more exotic than a subtle orange jus, a side of vegetables and a bowl of buttery, minty new potatoes falling out of their skimpy jackets.
I haven’t tasted wild salmon since that night – and may never get the chance again – but if Ballymaloe is to be its swansong, it’s as fine an exit as I could hope to give it. I can’t imagine the experience ever being topped.
The best fish and chips of our lives, eaten from cardboard cartons in DonegalFreya McClements
Fisk Seafood Bar offers the freshest seafood and the best local produce. Photograph: Ellius Grace/New York Times
Sometimes the best memories are made from the completely unexpected. We hadn’t intended to go to the beach that day, but when we woke to the first blue skies of the summer, we did what Derry people do on a sunny Saturday: we went to Donegal.
There was no plan; we went where the road took us, and found ourselves in Downings. Set on a perfectly curved inlet of Sheephaven Bay in north Donegal, that day it looked like something from a holiday postcard: sky blue, sun bright and sea turquoise. We spent the afternoon on the beach, reading, swimming and watching the yachts drifting peacefully on the water.
As the shadows lengthened, it was time for dinner. No plan meant no reservation; our only thought was to walk up the hill to the Harbour Bar. Surely, we would find something to eat there? Beside it, hiding in what must once have been an outbuilding, we stumbled across Fisk Seafood Bar.
Clearly, everyone else had the same idea. The tiny restaurant was jammed, with a long queue outside. They could do takeaway? Fine by us.
Founded by husband and wife Tony Davidson and Lina Reppert in 2018, Fisk – the Swedish for fish, in homage to Reppert’s Swedish origins – is all about the freshest seafood and the best local produce.
And so, we sat on the wall outside the Harbour Bar, two among the many perched anywhere they could find a seat, eating the best fish and chips of our lives from cardboard cartons with wooden cutlery, pints of Guinness from the bar balanced beside us.
It wasn’t just the food, though it was incredible: the freshest cod, succulent and tasty, flakes falling apart on your fork, wrapped in panko breadcrumbs and accompanied by chips good enough to dream about.
It was the setting, the view, the company of the people who sat dotted all around us, chatting and laughing as we looked out over the beach and the little stone pier below.
We ate together as the shadows lengthened and the sun slipped into the sea; a perfect Irish summer evening at the end of an unexpected gift of a day.
Dessert was a 99, of course.
Brunch at Baba’de in Baltimore, west Cork: The eggs were unforgettable, and so was the drama Nadine O’Regan
Interior of Baba’de Restaurant, Baltimore, West Cork, Ireland. Photograph: Andy Gibson
Our family of three were in Baltimore in west Cork, my husband and I delighted to have scored a reservation to meet friends at Baba’de, a casual dining restaurant in the village where brunch bookings in summer were hard to come by. For our toddler Oscar, we’d brought a toy train with magnets that snapped the carriages together to distract him. For ourselves, we’d brought big appetites and expectations.
Baba’de was beautiful. Situated in a mews building across from the castle on the hill down to Baltimore, Balearic music drifted out from a speaker. There were stone walls, fairy lights, fluffy sheepskin rugs and a minimalist feel; I felt like I had landed in Ibiza with more drizzly weather. The menu beckoned: an intriguing mix of the familiar and strange, from shakshuka and menemen to Turkish sucuk, spicy sausages made from beef. I plumped for the poached eggs with feta and lemon chilli. Oscar looked peaky so I let him order a treat of a breakfast: crepes with pouring chocolate, his favourite. But something was off. He was fidgety and restless, not himself at all.
Poached eggs with feta and lemon chilli at Baba’de in Baltimore, West Cork. Photograph: Nadine O’Regan
Within minutes, there was chocolate everywhere. On his face, his hair, his arms, my arms. Then he inexplicably started trying to remove his cow T-shirt. I could see a theatre impresario I knew from Dublin in a gathering to my left and to my right, the restaurant’s manager Maria circling and kindly ignoring our kiddo, the disrobing toddler. “It’s fine, don’t worry,” my friend said. “They’re used to it.” My eggs arrived. They were terrific. Perfectly poached with a blissful kick of chilli. But still. I hoovered up probably the best egg dish I’d had in my life like it was a pack of peanuts on the M50. We left hurriedly.
Twenty-four hours later we were in the surgery in Skibbereen, with a doctor who couldn’t have been kinder to our boy, now covered top to toe in angry red spots. It turned out he had picked up a virus that had brought him out in a full-scale body rash. Not dangerous. Just terrifying to two anxious parents.
When I look back on that holiday, I have a sequence of lush, Instagram-ready photos: purple hydrangea bushes, calming green landscapes, inquisitive horses poking their heads over fences, delectable eggs, and then 12 pictures of a boy with a breaking rash that I’d sent to my mother in a panic.
We’ll get back to Baba’de one of these days. But next time with a bit of luck, the only drama will lie in deciding what to eat.
Ireland’s favourite food destinations: we want to hear about yours here
Ireland’s favourite food destinations