I stretched out under my yellow duvet. A scented breeze off the sea blew the curtains in and out, in and out. Bacon sizzled downstairs. An Irish voice somewhere below in the yard spoke, “Ah, no. Lord, love yeh. Not a’ tall, not a’ tall,”

Was I dreaming? No, I was in Westport, Ireland.

I have been traveling to Ireland for more than 10 years, as a tour guide and teacher. Westport, a designated heritage town situated between the cities of Galway and Sligo on the west coast, is my favorite town in all of Ireland.

Upon landing in Shannon, I drove northwest 100 miles (160 km) to Westport. I was restless from sitting in the car, and decided to take a nice long walk to an old pub. I could have driven to the pub, sure, but I would have missed the fresh sea air, the tang of the newly cut hay and the exercise. As my Uncle Jim, a resident of Limerick, likes to say, I stretched the ol’ legs a bit.

Visitors today will find open fields and peaceful views on Clare Island, home of Ireland’s pirate queen, Grace O’Malley.

I started at Westport’s heart, a shady boulevard along the Carrowbeg River called “The Mall.” Turning onto James Street, I headed toward the Octagon Monument, in the center of the round-about at the base of Tober Hill. The monument is a statue of Mayo County’s most sacred visitor, St. Patrick.

Rounding the monument, I made my way up the steep, three-block incline of Tober Hill. At the crest, I paused for a few deep gulps of sea air and the view took my breath away: sea, green fields and stone walls ahead of me, the town behind me.

From the hilltop, the path winds down to the ocean through fields, past horse pastures, and behind houses. I paused to rub a horse’s nose, smelled a few late-blooming lilacs and sighed over the graffiti left by school kids on sheds. The path was dense with green leaves and bees, the air rich with the moist scent of growing things. A tractor putted along just behind the hedge, a hedge so dense I could not see the machine itself.

Twenty minutes later I popped out at the waterfront, and walked Quay Road to The Towers. The pub is a “James Joyce Pub Award” prizewinner, lauded for its sense of Joycean tradition. The Towers serves up a delicious fish-bake pie.

Now, if you know your Ulysses, I should have ordered the gorgonzola sandwich and red wine, the choice of the protagonist in the great novel. Each year the novel is celebrated in Dublin as thousands eat this meal — but really, who wants a cheese sandwich when there’s hot, savory pie?

After dinner, I journeyed out for a few pints at Matt Molloy’s Bar, on Bridge Street. The pub is named for and operated by Matt Molloy, flutist with the Chieftains. Playing together since the 1960s, this band has shaped today’s Celtic music. I have been told that if I am lucky, Molloy, himself, might even play.

It’s been known to happen. I have not been so fortunate. However, I will persevere, and I make plans to return to the pub each time I visit Westport. A pub crawl in this town is a fine thing — like Galway used to be, before it was “discovered” by the partying hordes.

Another lovely benefit to a Westport visit is the proximity of Clare Island (population 143). The next day, a 30-minute drive west of town brought me to the Roonagh Quay. The passenger ferry, the Pirate Queen, is named for Grace O’Malley (in Irish, Granuaile), Clare Island’s most famous former inhabitant.

She is one of my heroes — a chieftain who controlled the west coast of Ireland during the English Renaissance. When her husband gave her trouble, she locked him out of the castle and called down to him, “I divorce you!” When England gave her trouble, she sailed up the Thames to confront Queen Elizabeth I, queen to queen.

There are miles of inviting roads to walk on the island, all with views of rugged hills and sheep-filled fields. The main “town” of Clare is near Grace O’Malley’s castle ruins, near the harbor. There are a few B&Bs, a shop and a pub. While there’s not much to buy or eat, there is so much to see. I hiked the flat gravel roads with clear views of sea and sky.

Birds of all descriptions flew overhead. An occasional car drove by, and when it did, I waved. People waved back. Tiny wildflowers grew in the cracks of the stone walls that were laid out in the times of my chieftain hero. Clare Island is beautiful, but it is a hard place. Even on a lovely late spring day, I felt the sting of the winter in the winds that blew steadily off the ocean.