“They are howlers,” says Aidan O’Sullivan of Spéir and Mairtín, the wolfhounds who became his constant companions during lockdown. They seldom bark. But full moon nights bring out their true sound. The family home is on an elevated site. Aidan and his wife, Maura, might be watching television or relaxing when the first sounds come. On cloudy nights, it’s impossible to tell where the moon is. “But them boys know,” Aidan laughs. They live in Islandeady, a gorgeous part of Mayo that is quiet as a graveyard at night. “And Mairtín will start. When they start howling, it really, really shivers your timbers. And you know you are hearing a big dog. It’s a beautiful howl. You would nearly want to sing along with them.”
The O’Sullivans run a guest house that is frequently populated with American visitors. The presence of the two giants, steeped in Irish mythology, is part of the attraction. Irish wolfhounds are relatively rare. Their size makes them a daunting prospect. Although there were always dogs in his house growing up near Castlewellan in Co Down, it took the trauma of lockdown to convince him to act on his long-held wish to own an Irish wolfhound. “They were such a big, powerful dog. I knew the nature of it.”
He got Spéir in Navan during Covid and was instantly smitten. He convinced himself she was lonely and needed a mate. Nine months later, Mairtín arrived. When he first started walking them, often in the grounds of Westport House, he could see people were intimidated by their size and strangeness. “Some people would nearly give you dirty looks.” He understood it. The Irish wolfhound is a striking-looking creature: lean, inordinately tall, mystic-eyed and radiating an immense untapped power.
“They have funny eyes. I reckon they can look into your soul. When they look at you, they really stare into you.”
Paul Howard: I said I’d never love another dog as much as I loved Humphrey. I was wrong
Gladiator II review: Don’t blame Paul Mescal but there’s no good reason for this jumbled sequel to exist
We had sex maybe once a month. The constant rejection was soul-crushing, it felt like my ex didn’t even like me
They would chat about it at home. He wanted people to understand that these dogs were, for all their immense power, eager to please and friendly. At Maura’s prompting, Aidan posted an advert on Airbnb Experiences where people could accompany him for two-hour walks with the dogs, stroking them, learning about them. He is convincing when he pleads that he is not a social media man per se. To his amazement, the inquiries and bookings started instantly and have never ceased. He does what we are doing now, strolling along Bertra Beach, at the foot of Croagh Patrick. An hour-long burst of sunshine has broken through the spitting July rain. It’s a stunning place. When not scrutinising your soul, Spéir and Mairtín are content, like most dogs, to act the eejit. Their master talks you through their various traits and the different reasons people have for booking a place on the walk.
“It is not all dog lovers I get. Sometimes maybe it’s the wife who wants to do it. And the husband comes along. And sometimes he’ll be a bit nervous. You’ll see him stiffening. And you’d walk alongside him and the next thing he is patting and rubbing the dog.”
He lets the conversation ramble where it may. Sometimes it will turn to centuries-old history. He’d heard somewhere that when Oliver Cromwell “came down through”, he admired the wolfhound: its imperial gait, its power. But then he heard that the Irish used it as a hunting dog: that it was a source of food. So he told his soldiers that they would get extra wages for killing wolfhounds. “They’d collect the tail in their bags, probably similar to the bag I have here,” he says, nudging the satchel he carries.
He will tell his guests about that. Or he’ll point across to the island bought by John Lennon in the early 1970s. It’s just a short boat ride away but it’s utterly inaccessible. It’s a famous local story, unforgettably illuminated in Kevin Barry’s novel Beatlebone. Lennon never lived there but, for a time, a sort of commune set up shop.
“Early ‘70s. They were on the island for four months. There is no water on that island. And the fishermen noticed the tents but didn’t see anyone. They thought maybe they killed themselves in one of those auld cults. But the hippies took what they could carry and left the rest over there. There’s still bits and pieces there.”
As we chat and ramble, he keeps a tight hold of the leash on the star turns, because there are other dogs and people on the strand and, if he lets go, they’ll run. They’ll gallop. It’s their nature.
He’ll point across to the island bought by John Lennon in the early 1970s. It’s just a short boat ride away but it’s utterly inaccessible
“They are a very loyal dog. They would let the burglar stand on their back to get in the window. They’ve lost a bit of weight in the heat. They are double-skinned. They are very warm. Mainly dried food. Don’t feed them chicken at all. In mackerel season I’ll buy 200 mackerel and freeze them whole. They’ll eat those. They don’t eat as much as you’d think. But when he’s full-size, Mairtín will come in at around 18 stone [114kg].”
[ Kevin Barry: ‘This is a book about trying to make something’Opens in new window ]
This is the gossip that his walking guests want to know. For Americans, the two-hour walk and talk feels like a chance to brush against Irish myth. The life cycles of wolfhounds are dramatic and brief. At their peak, they can run at speeds of up to 40km an hour. But they rarely live past seven years of age.
“The first thing people ask is how long the wolfhound has been in Ireland. Realistically nobody can answer that. But they are one of the oldest dog breeds I know of. All you can do is guide them. These dogs fought in the colosseum in Rome. The reason they were so liked was that they were so good at their primary job. And that was killing wolves. They are a sighthound. Always watching. See Mairtín there, now. He is watching that dog up ahead. If I let him go now, he will run. And he will be gone. He’ll want to play. And if you see these boys ploughing down the road to you people don’t know they want to play.”
This is sheep country. If they get into that field, they would kill them very quickly and move on to the next one. Cows and horses, they are not interested in. But the sheep run if they come into the field. The game is on
Last year, Spéir had a litter of 14 pups. Aidan had cameras installed in the pen; during the pandemic, dog theft became rampant. He found himself studying the behaviour of his two dogs night after night. After the pups arrived, Mairtín left the pen that they had shared and wouldn’t return. “It was as if Spéir told him she needed a break from him. So, he is on his own. We took him into the house in the evening. And for three full months, he did not see those pups. Next thing he comes dandering in one day. And he takes a look at the pups, at me and at Spéir. As if to say: I had nothing to do with this. And he didn’t come back then for another month.”
Aidan found homes for the 14 pups. Wolfhounds are expensive – they sell for about €3,000. He didn’t advertise the pups, relying on word of mouth and ensuring they were going to a good home. He’s had frequent inquiries from Americans, but he can’t stand the idea of them being in quarantine. They aren’t yet an endangered species, but they do take minding. His main concern is for their safety.
“See those sheep in the field there?” he says, pointing towards a sloping field across from the beach. “This is sheep country. If they get into that field, they would kill them very quickly and move on to the next one. Cows and horses, they are not interested in. But the sheep run if they come into the field. The game is on. They are a hunting dog. The wolfhound is such a powerful symbol in Ireland. Chieftains were the only ones allowed a wolfhound.”
Before moving to Mayo, the family ran a farm in Connemara for 28 years. Nestled between the fishing sanctuaries of the Corrib and the Mask, it was a haven for Aidan. They bought a site of land. They started a house.
“All the jobs had to be done by ourselves – block work, electrics, plastering, plumbing. By the time I got it fully finished, our two daughters were married and my son was getting married. Me and my wife were in a four-bedroom house. And it looks powerful! But there is nobody in it.”
When the beach is quiet, Aidan lets Spéir off the leash. She immediately trots down to the sea and lowers herself for a dip to cool down
Then Maura headed for a weekend to Galway with her sister. “She got dazzled by the bright lights. She came back and said: I think we should move.” He shrugs. “I always say I put up the good fight. We stuck it out for three years.” They settled on a home close to the delights and distractions of Westport while surrounded by nature and solitude. They’ve noticed more and more visitors from Northern Ireland arriving since tourism reopened after Covid. The decades south of the Border have done little to dilute Aidan’s broad Down accent. And he has the ear. He can usually tell the background of his guests from accent if not surname. And he will notice that they will sometimes tense up when they hear his own accent. They had not expected to find anyone from the North in the heartlands of Mayo. So he does what he does well: he chats in a meandering, easy-going way. He sets people at ease. Soon they have the North in common and they happily quiz Aidan about the eccentricities they have encountered “down South”.
“Jesus it is wild expensive! How do you live down here!? The price of a packet of Tayto cheese and onion.”
When the beach is quiet, Aidan lets Spéir off the leash. She immediately trots down to the sea and lowers herself for a dip to cool down. Mairtín looks on impatiently. He doesn’t bother with the sea. “He’s a typical teenager. He knows everything.”
Last year he was contacted by Ellie Thorne, an American photographer who came across his page and wanted to take pictures of Aidan and the dogs. She sent the negatives back to him (her pictures are featured here). He decided to use one as a kind of advert for the trailer in which he ferries the dogs around. It makes for a colourful sight rattling along the roads beneath Croagh Patrick. Summer is busy and fun. But when asked about his favourite season, O’Sullivan doesn’t hesitate.
“Winter,” he enthuses, looking around Bertra Beach.
“See here in winter? Well, you’d want to wear your woolies. But I can open that trailer door. The beach is empty. And the dogs can run.”
The two-hour tour with Aidan, Spéir and Mairtín costs €40-€55 depending on the size of the group. Book through airbnb.ie/experiences
Walk and talk: More great walking tours around Ireland
Smithfield homelessness walking tour
Dublin 7 is teeming with tales of the city. This hour-long walk is devised by Secret Street Tours, a non-profit enterprise that trains people affected by homelessness to become walking tour guides of their neighbourhoods. It’s at once an authentic local tour and an opportunity for visitors to learn more about the most pressing social issue in the city. The tour starts at Collins Barracks and finishes in Smithfield Square, taking in Benburb Street and highlighting the burgeoning street-art scene. The tours also include a visit to a homeless food hall. Guides such as Shane Howell explain to visitors the relationship between the streets and those who find themselves living on them. At Croppies’ Acre, he talks his guests through what it means to be homeless: hopping a wall, pitching a tent out of sight in all weathers. For Shane, it has been a transformative experience, helping him to build his communication skills and to feel part of society again. The tour costs a mere €15 and if sombre at times, has drawn glowing reviews from those who signed up.
Hour-long tours of the northside or southside of the city are €15 per person, secretstreettours.org
Cultural tour of a private art country house with an art historian
When Dr Angela Alexander and her husband, Malcolm, took ownership of Moyglare Manor nine years ago, it had fallen into semi-dereliction. The Maynooth house had lain unoccupied for the previous decade after its time as a popular country house hotel came to an end.
For the couple, the restoration was a labour of love. Angela is an art historian with a specialist interest in Dublin cabinet-making from the early 1900s. The house was built by a French Huguenot family in the 1770s. Over the years the Alexanders have brought the rooms back to life and begun researching the various families who lived there before them. In its hotel years, the house had guests such as Robert Redford, Larry Hagman and Bette Midler staying. The Alexanders are filling in the gaps of the previous century. Now they have opened their rooms to guests on Airbnb and other platforms. Angela gives tours of the house; the longer tours conclude with coffee and scones.
“When we came here, people’s memory of it was as Moyglare Manor Hotel, a wonderful hotel run by a woman who was ahead of her time. We still have people coming here the odd time asking if we are still doing lunch. And we have people coming who used to work here when it was a hotel. But the memory of the house previous to that had vanished.”
They encourage local visitors to try to re-establish the link between the house and the surrounding countryside. The tours are busy, but the sound of a big house filled with voices and footsteps makes it worthwhile. “A great big house like this might be very dead otherwise.”
A 90-minute tour of the house is €30 per person. Book via airbnb.ie/experiences or see moyglaremanor.ie for more information
Guided woodland walk with an Irish witch and folklorist
Lorraine O’Dwyer is a witch. She is cheerfully reclaiming the dark fairy-tale connotations of the word. More accurately, she is an eighth-generation bean feasa, inheriting passed-on knowledge of woodland plants and remedies and trees. Since she started giving woodland walks, some 20,000 trees have been planted by walkers inspired by what they heard.
Covid pushed her life in this direction. She was “a regular old driver guide”, bussing and talking tourists around Ireland before all of that ended with the pandemic. She found herself out of a job. What she had was this store of knowledge that the family can date to her grandmother’s own grandmother.
My theory is that we lost our foraging skills after the famine. Because eastern Europeans are amazing at foraging, still
“My great-great-grandmother made painkillers and cough medicines, which she learned from her mother. Meadowsweet is a common herb and painkiller. Plantain has antibiotic properties – the “goodbye plant” in Irish. Unlike England and America where they had witch trials, all our witch trials were held in English-held towns with English women. The bean feasa kept going. Today people still call to the house looking for a salve or ointment.”
Tentatively, she advertised woodland walks, and she was taken aback by the response.
“I really – I cannot stress this enough – did not think people would want to know about this. I grew up being called a heathen and a bit mad! And here we are in 2023 and people want to know about sunburn cures, about hangover cures, what trees to plant.”
Lorraine thinks the walking epidemic during lockdown has reframed people’s thinking about nature.
“They might know the oak is the father of the forest. Or that Brehon law protected the trees. But they don’t know the details. My theory is that we lost our foraging skills after the famine. Because eastern Europeans are amazing at foraging, still. And I wonder if after the famine it was a badge of shame – searching for food in hedgerows. But it is coming back in a big way.”
A 2½-hour foraging and folklore woodland walk is €35 per person, gallivanting.ie
