EINN - Shannon Arprt, Clare, Ireland

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers – Clairseach and Chopsticks Edition: Flight Log #002
Date: Sunday, June 22, 2025
Weather: Low clouds. Atlantic drizzle. Crosswind strong enough to straighten a curly sheep. Visibility: just enough to see trouble coming.

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I don’t fly for fun. I fly for a mission. Today, the mission was whiskey and castles. If you’re with me, you’d better be ready.

We left Donegal in the DHC-5 Buffalo, wind howling, surf crashing, sheep watching us with that look—half judgment, half boredom. Cropduster was steady on the controls. He’s learning. He knows what happens when you let a Neeson near a whiskey run.

First stop was St Angelo. We landed, loaded up the hold with enough Irish whiskey to make a customs officer weep. Fiona checked the manifest twice. Lani sniffed every barrel. Kai, as usual, tried to stow away with the single malts. Mission: accomplished.

I made sure we had the good stuff. Bushmills 21 Year Old Single Malt, aged in Oloroso Sherry and bourbon casks, finished in Madeira. Deep amber, dried apricot, fig, toffee, toasted oak. Redbreast 27 Year Old Single Pot Still, matured in bourbon, sherry, and ruby port casks. Cask strength, tropical fruits, toasted oak, a finish that lingers and reminds you why you came. And Clare Island Single Malt Spirit Drink, small-batch, aged at sea, with a maritime character and a story in every sip.

We climbed south. Clouds low, green fields rolling beneath us. Castles and towers poked through the mist—bones of Ireland’s history. Over Sligo, Benbulben loomed. Over Galway, the Corrib sparkled and the Spanish Arch winked through the drizzle. Birr’s Great Telescope caught a glint of sunlight, reminding me that in Ireland, someone’s always watching.

But today, the castles called. Bunratty Castle, near Shannon, rising from the fields like a fortress from a dream. The O’Briens ruled here once. Now, it’s tourists and ghosts. I tip my hat to both. Dromoland Castle, gothic towers and lush lawns, eight generations of O’Briens, now a five-star retreat. I’ve stayed there. The whiskey is older than the bellhops. And Dromore Castle, hidden in wild woods, a ruin wrapped in silence. Built by Teige O’Brien, now claimed by moss and wind. If you listen close, the stones whisper secrets.

We flew low, VFR all the way, skimming over rivers and ruins, towns and towers. Every landmark a lesson. Every castle a warning. Ireland remembers.
We landed at Shannon. The rain eased just enough for us to taxi in. The hold was full. The logbook fuller. The whiskey secure. For now.

We barely had the wheels chocked before Fiona caught a scent on the Atlantic breeze—umami, ginger, chili. “Ramen,” she said. She’s never wrong. We followed the trail through the terminal, past the usual fry-ups and pints, and found it: a ramen bar tucked away, steam rising, bowls deep, locals watching.

The signature bowl was the Shannon Atlantic Ramen. Pork and chicken bone broth, simmered slow, a dash of local seaweed for that wild Atlantic tang. Handmade noodles, waiting. West Coast mussels, fresh from the morning haul. Slices of slow-roasted pork belly, caramelized at the edges. A soft egg, marinated in soy and Bushmills 21. Scallions, pickled ginger, toasted sesame, house chili oil shimmering like a Limerick sunset. And on top, a dram of Bushmills 21, poured at the table. That’s how Shannon does it.

First bite, briny and smoky, sea and land in perfect balance. The whiskey in the broth and egg gave it a warmth that lingered, like a good story told by the fire. By the third slurp, even the dogs wanted in. By the time the bowls were empty, we’d forgotten the rain, the wind, and the crosswinds that tried to chase us out of the sky.

If you try to take my ramen, I will find you. And I will order another bowl.
We picked up more than whiskey today. Three castle postcards, one already damp from the drizzle. Fiona traded a Tiger Shark Squadron patch for a private Dromoland Castle kitchen tour. Lani and Kai scored smoked salmon treats from the Bunratty gift shop. Seamus tried to fit a whiskey barrel in the Gopher Tank. Result: one happy gopher, one sticky cargo bay, and too many jokes about “liquid assets.”

The challenge was simple: the Triple Castle Challenge. Fiona mapped the route. Lani spotted turrets. Kai sniffed the whiskey. Cropduster landed smooth, but he owes the first round next time. I finished the challenge with the calm of a man who’s seen worse—and drunk better.

Today was about more than whiskey and castles. It was about legacy—O’Briens, Neesons, the stories we carry. The crew learned more about Ireland. I learned the hold can, in fact, fit three barrels and a gopher. Next, we go deeper into the heartland. More whiskey. More castles. More lessons. If you’re smart, stay tuned. If not—well, you know the rest.

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