While brewing a storm, the Atlantic Ocean becomes a force-field of malevolence. Yet, on kinder days it glitters, enticing small boats to slip their moorings, to sail away across the sparkle of diamond-crushed waves.

The Irish west coast, like that of Scotland farther north, is proof of the wild Atlantic’s power, producing erosion, the ultimate cracking of the land creating splayed fingers of broken rock. On this shipwreck shore a terrible beauty bides its time.

It is that beauty that calls us back – to glistening harbours and noble headlands, to sand-sugared coves, to improbable golf courses perched or hunched around nature’s bunkers, to the taste-tingling food of the sea, found seared or sizzling or drizzled with brine in the growing coterie of fine restaurants where Irish cuisine aspires to be haut.

Just over a year ago, not long before she died, along with my wife I made stately progress along the Wild Atlantic Way from north Donegal to the Cliffs of Mohr in County Clare. Once home, we vowed to finish the job by driving north this year from Cork. But in the event, I travel alone, a memory pilgrim, doing the things her life-loving spirit would have relished.

At Fishy Fishy, fronting the harbour at Kinsale, I sup the best chowder I’ve ever tasted – and I have tasted chowder from Boston through Sydney to Ullapool and most food ports in between. Fishy Fishy is just one jewel in the crown that makes Kinsale a foodie’s heaven. With 25 pubs and 40 restaurants feeding around 3000 people, no one stays hungry, or possibly upright.

As small places go, this tiny port enclosed by a verdant, steep-sided valley is the perfect southern departure point, a repository of delights.

A tour of Kinsale with Barry Maloney – a compendium of wit and local lore, a man so confident his hijinks will have you hooked he doesn’t charge until it’s over – is the best-value entertainment Kinsale has on offer. As we follow the higgledy piggledy, dog-leg streets, Barry spins tales of a local giant, weaves in a connection with Robinson Crusoe, and almost gets himself run over by a truck while bringing alive the pivotal Battle of Kinsale in 1601. “It changed the course of Irish history.” England as usual plays the villain.

Next morning early, before my departure, I climb the tiered hill, passing sundry bookshops, outside one of which, Poet’s Corner, is written "Food is meant to be read; books are meant to be eaten." I gaze below me, across tipsy rooftops and doll’s house buildings, a church, a clock, the glossy black harbour, the toy-sized fishing boats, when from somewhere, the whiff of a turf fire reaches my nostrils, drifting and hovering, almost tasted, all my senses in cahoots.

Reluctantly I depart, and driving west, I see a road sign that points to "America" – not so strange when you consider how many 19th-century Irish fled this landscape, seeking not fortune but survival. The ocean is purring, the sky a plain blue without a cloud. I pass Roscarberry’s bright painted houses, and Trimoleague, amid dewy fields where once John Wesley preached, today dappled with black and white dairy cows making grass transform into milk.

I idle the hours away, dispensing with my map, and follow the sea, the islanded beauty of the horizon, passing through Baltimore, reaching Schull. There, some years ago, with my wife, I committed gluttony at the tiny Bunratty Inn. Today I have lunch there, forgoing the wine, and taste the deliciousness of memory.

Schull is lively, a hive of craft shops, galleries and tea rooms, but my sights are set instead on the capillary road due west to Mizen Head. I am distracted at Barleycove Bay where the beach is safe enough for a paddle. At Mizen Head Signal Station, the visitors centre gives chapter and verse on the history of the people who braved the elements to make this place a once habitable land.

From there, I skirt the Sheeps Head Peninsula, where beauty is twinned with bleakness and where an atmosphere of timelessness pervades (the singing of birds, a single sail on the pencil-line sea). I come upon Bantry, my overnight stop. In the town’s main square, surrounded by narrow, huxterish streets, stands the statue of Wolfe Tone, a United Irishman from 1798, gazing westward, forlornly pigeon spattered, waiting still for the French to aid his cause.

Bantry’s great glory is Bantry House, its fabulous gardens adorning the landscape, rising and falling towards sky and sea, with peekaboo views between giant tree trunks of distant peaks. It is restorative. The house itself is filled with the trophies of travel – Japanese chests, European tapestries – that reveal its owners’ wanderlust. The Whites have been here for almost 300 years, and now share their treasures with the public, allowing the character of the property to invade our imaginations.

I dine and sleep in the nearby Maritime Hotel (freshly caught fish, perfectly succulent) where my room and spacious terrace reveal the calm bay, the northern hills. The air is so soft, sleep is a banker. I dream of sunshine.

Alas, next morning a smear of rain rolls across the windscreen – the first of the trip as I slip through the town to the sound of bells, a receding ting that marks eight o’clock. Soon the Beara Peninsula looms, a ragged, shaggy, forested, under-inhabited limb of landscape at the entrance to which stands Glengarriff, a pretty town, backed by a nature reserve, and a coach park, the latter a testament to the town’s profusion of sweater shops. Offshore is Garinish Island, a scenic boat trip away, where sub-tropical vegetation surrounds a temple and where the seductive Italianate gardens on hot summer days make this corner of Ireland feel more like Umbria than Hibernia.

I dawdle there, then catch the ferry back. Fifteen minutes later I’m on the R572, the Beara Way, towards Castletownbere, a retreat for Buddhists (free meditation sessions offered). But, if I stop, I’ll miss my digs for the night and be stressed, an ironic conundrum. I turn the car towards the tipsy terrain of the Slieve Miskish Mountains, and the R571 which leads towards Kenmare and the Ring of Kerry.

The Ring is worth a day to itself, but the first 20 miles from Kenmare due west are a serial dullness. But then the coast appears, topped by scoops of ice-cream clouds. I slipstream through Sneem, stop for a coffee, reaching Waterville, with its pretty coloured cottages, and suddenly as I round Ballyskelligs Bay, there they are, the cathedral-like Skelligs, bursting upwards, piercing the ocean. The tallest island, and most dramatic, is Skellig Michael, now a World Heritage Site, and star of the latest instalments of the Star Wars franchise.

In summer this road is a crawl of traffic, cars sandwiched in carbon monoxide hell, tour coaches looming, snarling, blotting out the best views, caravans stuck or overheating. It is best to come during spring, or maybe in August or early September, or even October, before the light goes. I cross the short bridge to Valentia Island, where traffic is sparser, approaching the point where the world’s first transatlantic telephone cable was laid, destination New York.

My destination is thankfully closer. I reach Killorglin just before dark. This hilly town lies in the shadow of Carrantuohill, the highest mountain on the island, roamed by Ireland’s friskiest goats. Every August one of these billys is caught and worshipped by the locals, placed on a specially built tall tower atop the town square where he stays for three nights (fed, watered and checked by vets in accordance with European directives!) while Killorglin goes bananas (no European banana directives are in force).

“The goat is given the title King Puck; he behaves impeccably. It’s the humans that act the goat,” says Declan Mangan, festival chief. “The festival’s roots, undoubtedly pagan, are lost in time.” Declan looks mystical, not even hinting that the town has one of the finest restaurants in Kerry and perhaps the most picturesque golf course (with the unpromising name of Dooks), where every hole has a view of the sea.

With some reluctance the following morning I drive to Limerick, now distinctly in decline, its Georgian grandeur stretched down O’Connell Street (the main drag) in disrepair. I notice bookmakers’ shops, two casinos, a moneylenders, a pawnbrokers, all in the space of a 10-minute walk. A speedy trip to the Frank McCourt Museum lends perspective. McCourt’s bestseller, Angela’s Ashes, tells of even worse days for the city, and Frank’s museum revives that bleak picture.

But where there is grit there are also pearls. Both the City Gallery of Art and Limerick City Museum tip the balance; both are marvellous and free, and I leave the city perked up for my upcoming balneotherapy bath in Kilkee.

In a previous era Kilkee drew holiday crowds from Dublin. Now it caters for more sophisticated tastes while losing none of its County Clare charm. The Thalassotherapy Centre is also a B&B, so I get the full service under one roof. My balneotherapy bath sees me lying in slippy seawater being massaged by turbo-charged water jets from the soles of my feet to my neck. Soon my muscles feel like dough, but in a good way, and my newly heightened appetite leads me straight to Murphy Blacks restaurant. A gem of a find where generosity matches flavour. Fed and lubricated with shiraz, I fall asleep two hours later in my room above the spa.

In my opening dream I am on the road again, not in a car. I am driving a bath. The water sloshing around me feels soupy. My hands look like hooves as I grip the taps. When I drive uphill the water pours backwards, leaving me naked and when I yell I make a bleat. “Quit acting the goat!” a man’s voice shouts. I might be talking in my sleep.

TRAVEL NOTES

Getting there

Ryanair (ryanair.com) flies from Glasgow to Dublin from £30 return. Cars from Dublin airport with rentalcars.com from £44.58 for five days.

Where to stay

The Old Bank House, Kinsale (theoldbankhousekinsale.com) has double rooms from £120 per night. The Maritime Hotel, Bantry (themaritime.ie) has doubles from £70 per night. The Bianconi, Killorglin (bianconi.ie) has doubles from £56 per night. The Clarion Hotel, Limerick (clarionhotellimerick.com) has doubles from £76 per night. Kilkee Thalassotherapy Centre has B&B from £36 per person per night.

What to do

Kinsale Walk (historicstrollkinsale.com) costs £5 per person. Balneotherapy at Kilkee Thalassotherapy Centre costs £28 per person. Bantry House garden pass (bantryhouse.com) costs from £8 per person.

Further information

Visit wildatlanticway.com