Ireland's West Coast

The whole town faces the beach, and the beach takes care of everyone: schools in the whitewater, longboarders down the far end, proper corners for the rest on a clean autumn day. It works through most of the tide and picks up any swell going. This is where Irish surfing learned to walk, and the prom is still the best place in Clare to read the ocean with a hot coffee in hand.

A strip of golden sand at the foot of the Burren, where the bare limestone hills run straight into the ocean and the Aran Islands sit on the horizon. Fanore catches plenty of swell, keeps a friendly bank most of the year and stays quieter than Lahinch because the coast road winds and the car park is small. Watch the rips near the river mouth at low tide, and bring what you need: the village is one shop and a pub.

Bundoran's release valve: a long, open beach under grassy cliffs, a short walk from town past the sea arches of the Fairy Bridges. It swallows a crowd, gives the schools an easy inside and produces surprisingly punchy peaks whenever the reefs are too small or too busy. It is more exposed than it looks: when the rips switch on, they mean it, so stay in front of the access and keep a landmark.

A surf village in the truest sense: swimming is banned here because of the rips, so the ocean gave the main street board shops, surf schools and seaweed baths instead. The beach break below Knocknarea is shifty and punchier than it gets credit for, with banks that reward whoever walks furthest down the strand. Learn with a school, respect the current, and take the hot seaweed bath afterwards: it is the local recovery ritual.

A long left peeling off the limestone ledge near Doolin pier, with the Aran ferries sliding past and Crab Island detonating across the channel to remind you where you are. Getting in and out over the boulders takes a calm head and a bit of watching; done right, it is one of the longest rides in Clare. The reward on land is Doolin itself, the traditional music capital of Ireland, where the session continues in the pub.

The reef Irish surfing made pilgrimages to before anyone had heard of Aileens: a dark, peat-stained left wrapping along limestone below a ruined castle, with a right across the river mouth when the angle cooperates. Cold, consistent and far from everything, it is still the classic Sligo experience: park by the field, suit up in the drizzle, then trade long walls with a handful of others. Bring boots even in summer, the rock is unforgiving.

Ireland's most famous wave breaks in front of the town: The Peak, an A-frame over a flat limestone flag, a long hollow left and a shorter right, as good as reef surfing gets in this country. It is shallow, it is watched from the prom, and it is surfed superbly by a local crew who have seen every visitor arrive convinced they will get one straight away. Watch a full set from land first, then paddle out with patience and manners.

Under the Cliffs of Moher, where 200 metres of rock shade the lineup by afternoon, a right barrel unloads onto a boulder slab that changed what the world thought Ireland was for. Aileens is expert territory in the fullest sense: a goat-track descent or a ski from Doolin, serious water, real consequence. For everyone else the cliff top is the grandstand, and on a big autumn day it is the best free show in surfing.

A ledge off Mullaghmore Head that turns winter storms into one of the heaviest waves in the world, ridden by a small circle of big-wave surfers, mostly behind a ski. This is not a spot you work up to over a good week; it is a wave people apprentice to for years, with safety teams and a plan. When an XXL swell lights it up, park along the headland road with everyone else, castle at your back, and watch mastery from a safe distance.