The Sustainable Sea Kayaking Project; Exploring Connections in South Connemara

 

West of Ireland Wanderings: A Campervan, Two Bikes, and a Pair of Sea Kayaks

There’s something both thrilling and liberating about packing your life into a second-hand Renault Master and calling it “home” for a week. Ours was kitted out with mountain bikes, sea kayaks, and enough gear to make us look like we were setting off on a three-month expedition rather than a week-long wander around the west of Ireland. But that’s the beauty of a campervan—you can bring it all, and then some.

We rolled out late on a Sunday morning, the last of July sunshine trying to break through a veil of clouds. Our first stop, to break the journey was the Limerick Greenway, a 40-odd kilometre cycle route along the old Limerick–Tralee railway line. While Kerry was busily dispatching Donegal in the All-Ireland football final, we were pedalling through peaceful countryside, feeling quietly virtuous for choosing exercise over the sofa. Forty-six kilometres later, with legs nicely toasted, we parked up at a quiet little campsite in Adare, Ireland’s postcard-perfect village. That night, with the camper purring in its new role as our mobile cottage, we feasted on a simple dinner and a glass of red wine. It tasted like freedom.

Monday saw us pushing further west, chasing the pull of the Atlantic, to Streamstown and the small eco-campsite run by Kris and Tatjana. By the time we parked up, the sky had shifted to its familiar Connemara palette: fifty shades of grey. But the ocean was calling. We slid the kayaks into the water and paddled out towards Turbot Island and Inishturk (the Galway one, not the Mayo one). As we pulled up on a small beach and looked around at the empty houses and wind-bent grass, it felt like stepping into another time. The islands of Connemara don’t just sit on the edge of Europe—they feel like they belong to another century entirely.

Back at basecamp, the rain began its familiar west coast percussion on the camper roof. Jon’s bolognese filled the van with warmth, and a second glass of wine made the sound of rain feel like an old friend rather than an intruder.

Tuesday brought more rain—because, of course it did—but that didn’t stop the adventures. Jon cycled to Cleggan for supplies and, heroically, fresh croissants. Later we saddled up for a 46-kilometre spin to Letterfrack and Kylemore Abbey, a gothic confection of a building tucked beneath the mountains. Built in the 1860s by a wealthy Englishman for his beloved wife, Kylemore is equal parts romantic and tragic: she died young, and the estate eventually became a Benedictine abbey. Today it handles the tourist hordes with grace, and the gardens are as perfectly tended as the rain will allow.

Back at camp, we dipped into the sea—because nothing makes you feel more alive than water hovering around 13 degrees—and rewarded ourselves with an hour in the tiny wood-fired sauna overlooking the bay. Life in the van had already settled into a rhythm of movement, meals, and pure contentment.

By Wednesday, we were finally ready to face the ghost of a failed adventure. Inisbofin had eluded us the year before, when our old van died dramatically on the motorway. Alayne’s first visit had to wait, and the island had lingered in our minds as unfinished business. The forecast from Met Éireann was hardly encouraging—fresh winds and rain—but we decided to trust the sea and ourselves. The kayaks were packed, the gear stowed, and we agreed to take the crossing kilometre by kilometre.

Sometimes, the Atlantic rewards the bold.

The day greeted us with that familiar Atlantic mist, wrapping the morning in a soft grey haze. This day was special: I’d first made the sea kayak journey from Cleggan to Inishbofin way back in June of 1996, with my great friend Donal. Now, almost thirty years and eleven trips later, I was eager for Alayne to experience this crossing for the first time. The winds, of course, decided to keep us guessing, but we took it all in stride. As with so many sea adventures, sometimes you just have to let the ocean decide.

When we got to Cleggan, the weather gods seemed to smile down on us. The winds eased, and we decided to go for it. Alayne savored a cappuccino while I swiftly packed the kayaks. As we paddled out of the tranquil waters of Cleggan Bay, we spotted the ferry making its way out, and it looked like they were having an easy time of it. That was our green light! We set off on a bearing of about 315 degrees, and midway through the crossing, we were gifted with the magical sight of a fin whale surfacing several times, as if to cheer us on.

Reaching Inishbofin felt like a triumph, especially after last year’s thwarted attempt. The island’s harbor, guarded by the old Cromwellian fort, was bustling with summer visitors, but we found a quiet corner to set up camp. After a quick meal, we wandered the western cliffs, taking in the stunning views of neighbouring Inishark Island and feeling like we’d truly stepped into another world.

Thursday dawned with a familiar Atlantic theme: mist, drizzle, and that low moan of wind that makes you question all your life choices—until the first sip of coffee. We emerged from the tent, bleary but determined, and wandered down to the beach. The tide was easing out, the grey Atlantic shifting to silver, and after a quick weather check (equal parts Met Éireann and gut instinct), we decided the day was ours to claim.

The plan was simple: explore Inishark, Inishbofin’s wilder, uninhabited neighbour. Inishark’s history is bittersweet—once home to a small, tight-knit community, it was finally abandoned in 1960 when life simply became too hard and isolated. The ruins still stand as a testament to a way of life lost to the Atlantic winds.

Launching the kayaks from the calm side of Inishbofin, we traced the cliffs westward, where the ocean’s raw power meets the land in a dramatic handshake. Guillemots and kittiwakes darted from the ledges, and a curious seal followed our progress like the local welcoming committee. Landing on Inishark felt like stepping into a time capsule: roofless cottages, stone walls leaning into the wind, and the silence of an island that remembers. We wandered carefully, taking in the melancholy beauty, before retreating to the modern comfort of our sea kayaks and the relative luxury of Inishbofin’s harbour.

Back at camp, the evening unfolded in classic island style. A pint in Day’s Pub, a stroll along the harbour, and finally some traditional music in the form of an impromptu session consisting of 10 highly talented musicians. The combination of fiddles, accordion, and the soft percussion felt like the perfect soundtrack to island life. Our little tent, snug and dry, cradled us for another perfect night.

Friday arrived with that rare gift on the west coast: sunlight. It sparkled on the harbour and instantly improved our mood, our photos, and our opinion of life in general. Before leaving, we hopped on the bikes for a lazy spin around Inishbofin, the salt wind in our faces and the Atlantic sprawling in every direction. The island is small enough to explore in a morning, yet big enough to leave you feeling like you’ve discovered somewhere truly apart from the modern world.

Packing up the kayaks for the return crossing, the Atlantic seemed to reward our week of patience with calm seas. Halfway across to Cleggan, a bottlenose dolphin appeared—an escort service we hadn’t booked but were thrilled to accept. It swam alongside for a few moments, surfacing and gliding as if to make sure we found our way home.

Back on the mainland, we shook the sand out of our gear, loaded the bikes and kayaks, and reluctantly pointed the camper southwards. The road back was filled with that perfect mix of t happy hearts, and a faint whiff of wet neoprene. Our first real adventure in the van had delivered it all: rain, sun, islands, wildlife, friendship and just enough uncertainty to make the memories golden. We cannot wait to travel together again.