Written by 
We cross a narrow strip of land under vast skies and follow a slim road. It cuts a straight line through the heart of County Clare’s only peninsula – a jagged spearhead-shaped piece of land that dangles downward, like a tail, right into the Atlantic. The landscape tapers as the mouth of the River Shannon appears to the south, and the ocean to the north, until we reach the tip of the spear at what seems to be the very edge of the world; and there it stands, defiant and elevated on an outcrop – Loop Head Lighthouse.
From some point in childhood, my introverted self romanticised the role of a lightkeeper. Maybe it was Robert Eggers’ psychological thriller The Lighthouse (2019) that wreaked havoc with that elysium, but a lightkeeper’s cottage rental offered a flavour of the experience without the carnage.
At the end of a deserted lane, the light tower and two cottages are huddled in a scrum around a courtyard, as though sheltering us from the Atlantic gales that are already starting to stir. Honey-coloured light spills through sash windows, and once inside, the wind is silenced with the clasp of the door, and the warmth envelops us. The whitewashed cottage walls are sturdy, mid-19th century, with dark, original walnut flooring and 1950s farmhouse fittings, right down to the blue-and-white patterned crockery and lack of wifi. Upstairs, between two bedrooms, is a small lounge overlooking the bay. Binoculars are perched on the deep windowsill in the hope of catching a glimpse of a whale or dolphin. I pick up a book beside them – a collection of paintings by artist Philip Brennan, who was one of my schoolteachers. I am at home.
Well, sort of; we have brought a couple of bottles of wine but little food. The plan? Walk a few kilometres to Keating’s Bar and Restaurant in Kilbaha village for dinner by the shoreline. It seems like a good idea. There is just one house on the stretch of road, and the winter season of forlorn beauty has arrived, but Keating’s had other ideas – it is closed. A short distance away, in the minuscule hamlet of Cross, Foley’s Bar breaks the darkness with a ghostly glow on the roadway. Inside, a group of tweed-capped locals gather on one side of the bar. The forthcoming County Clare Gaelic football championship finals dominate the conversation. The local team, Naomh Eoin, is vying for the cup. “We’ll close for most of the day for the match,” bartender Eileen Lynch tells us, before adding, with a bright smile, “and my son Owen is captain.”
Our hospitality options are dwindling by the minute. We veer to Carrigaholt, a harbourfront village with crisscrossing lines of pubs, punctuated by sandstone cottages. The Long Dock is empty – apart from the barman. A chef comes by to cook us dinner, and the barman rustles up the fire. The scent of timber smoke and seafood linger in the air and follow us back to the keeper’s cottage, where more fireside chat continues with our son and his cousins.
Then it’s upstairs by the back kitchen staircase. The ocean wind murmurs and growls as it claws over the roof, and the lighthouse sends dappled rays through our rain-speckled windowpanes every 20 seconds. We could shutter out the setting – but who would do that?
Mornings bring bright crimson skies streaked with purple and the empty threat of rain. A cycle pathway leads to a ridge overlooking the crashing waves. To the south, the lighthouse remains in view. Close to its perch on the cliffside, a giant sea stack sends white frothing waves spiralling wildly upwards. This was, according to legend, a place where two lovers, Diarmuid and Gráinne, slept for a night as jealous clan chieftain Fionn hunted them down.
Mary Geaney, the cottage caretaker, comes by to see how we are coping with our digital detox. We ask her about one omission – the arched rocks at nearby Bridges of Ross. “The weather took its toll on them,” she said. “They collapsed into the ocean. The elements can change anything in a moment here; except the lighthouse, of course.”
Loop Head Lightkeeper’s House (irishlandmark.com) sleeps six, from €520 for two nights