Guinness, Grudges and Grazing Sheep: Tracing McDonagh's Ireland Without Losing Your Fingers
There's a particular kind of British tourist who lands in Ireland and immediately starts narrating their trip like they're in a dark comedy. You know the type. They order a Guinness, pause dramatically, and say something like 'Ah, but what's the point of it all?' before taking a sip. If that's you — congratulations, you're already halfway to the McDonagh pilgrimage. You just need a map, a raincoat, and a healthy respect for island ferries that don't run when the weather turns.
Inisherin Is a Lie (A Beautiful One)
Let's get the big confession out of the way: Inisherin doesn't exist. The fictional island from The Banshees of Inisherin was stitched together from Achill Island and Inis Mór, the largest of the Aran Islands, both real places where the wind has opinions and the sheep simply do not care about your cinematic pilgrimage.
Achill, in County Mayo, is where much of the filming happened. Purteen Harbour, with its stubby stone pier and cluster of fishing boats, became the island's port. Keem Bay — a horseshoe of white sand wedged between cliffs that would make Cliffs of Moher tourists weep with envy — is where the lads supposedly lived. There's no plaque, no gift shop, no man dressed as Colm selling 'postcards from the edge of a friendship.' Just you, the Atlantic, and the creeping realisation that Martin McDonagh looked at this view and thought: 'Yes, but what if two men fell out badly here?'
Practical tip: Achill is connected to the mainland by a bridge, so no ferry anxiety. Drive from Westport, stop in every village that looks like a postcard, and prepare to spend more on wool products than you intended. It's the law.
The Aran Islands: Where the Sheep Have Seen Things
Inis Mór provided the more windswept, otherworldly shots. The ferry from Rossaveel takes about forty minutes, during which you'll have ample time to contemplate your own mortality — a McDonagh staple — before arriving on an island where transport options include bike, pony and trap, or your own two feet and a prayer.
Dún Aonghasa, the clifftop fort, is worth the hike even if nobody in your party gets into a sustained argument about the emptiness of existence on the way up. Though honestly, with the wind up there, you'll find conversations trail off into silence anyway. Very Inisherin. Very fitting.
The Bruges Problem
Now, here's the wrinkle: the site's editorial calendar insists we mention Bruges, and we shall — but let's be clear, Bruges is about as Irish as a Belgian waffle. Which is to say, In Bruges is the great McDonagh anomaly: the one film set somewhere green and gorgeous that isn't the west of Ireland. The medieval lanes, the canals, the Belfry that Harry so memorably disapproved of from a height — it's all there, and it's all a two-hour Eurostar plus a hop from London, which is why half of Britain's stag parties have accidentally retraced Colin Farrell's steps.
But here's the thing McDonagh understood: Bruges is an Irish story in disguise. Two men stuck in a small place, wrestling with guilt and the afterlife, while a local tells them the history of everything. Sound familiar? Swap the Minnewater for a rocky headland and Ken for a pub full of people who already know your business, and you're back on Inisherin.
The Suggested Itinerary (McDonagh-Approved, Mostly)
- Day 1–2: Westport, Co. Mayo. Matt Molloy's pub for the music, Croagh Patrick looming in the distance like a judgmental relation.
- Day 3–4: Achill Island. Keem Bay, Purteen Harbour, and the Atlantic Drive — a road so scenic you'll pull over every four minutes.
- Day 5–6: Ferry to Inis Mór. Rent a bike. Fall off it. Tell everyone you meant to.
- Day 7 (optional, for the brave): Bruges. Compare and contrast. Note that the Irish version has better crisps.
A Word on the Weather
The Banshees of Inisherin looks sun-drenched in the stills. This was a cinematic lie of the highest order. Pack layers. Pack a waterproof. Pack the emotional resilience of a man who's just been told his music means nothing.
Because that's the real magic of a McDonagh pilgrimage: the landscapes are stunning, the pubs are warm, the people are hospitable — but somewhere between the cliff walk and the last pint, you'll find yourself staring out at the Atlantic, quietly wondering whether you've done anything with your life that anyone will remember. And then a sheep will bleat, the Guinness will settle, and you'll decide that's a problem for tomorrow.
Which is, if you think about it, the most McDonagh ending of all.
