Hugh opens a bag and starts shucking. A silky shell soon sits in my palm, cradling a quivering gloop. I tip it into my mouth to be met with a creamy, straight-from-the-ocean sensation that surprises me with its sweetness and mineral notes.
The ocean, the weather, turning the sacks — oyster farming is hard work. “Guys who go to the gym wouldn’t last a tide here,” muses Hugh. We’ve been out an hour or so, and the wind feels like it would skin a dogfish.
Pip Lacey, former executive chef at London’s Guinness Open Gate Brewery, is among the group of visitors. She’s taken with the “brutality” of the situation — the science, the struggle with the elements and the simple, squishy mouthful that results. “I find these oysters very deep, very umami,” she says. “The creaminess, the meatiness of it — without being too weird — in your mouth, if you know what I mean.” “It’s very, very real,” says Hugh.
From Shell Middens to Michelin Stars
You’ll find oysters on menus all over Ireland. North along the coast, at the Mulranny Park Hotel, I’d previously sampled them with a chilli and lime dressing. Meanwhile, in Galway’s Kai, where chef Jess Murphy penned a seafood-forward cookbook titled A Love Letter to the West of Irelandthey were served with a tart mignonette made with tayberries rather than the traditional shallots. At Kai, dishes like local crab and curried scallops feel like more than just menu options; they’re links to landscape. But travelling to the source like this opens my eyes.
Mayo and Galway are western counties that wear history and harsh winters on their sleeves. On Achill Island I stop at Keem Bay, where basking sharks can be spotted in summer, and pass Slievemore, a deserted booley (transhumance) village. The tumbledown stone huts were last used in the early 20th century but date back 5,000 years as a seasonal settlement for farmers. Kite-surfers flicker like exotic birds in the skies nearby. Later, over on the mainland in Connemara, Kylemore Abbey is reflected in its lake, and roadsides spurt gorse and montbretia. As I drive, the sun moves like a searchlight across the peaks of the Twelve Bens.
Source: www.nationalgeographic.com
