Never let the wild Atlantic weather put you off. The west coast of Ireland is wonderful in any season, says Gavin Conway.

The doubters said our road trip destination was just outright plain stupid. They said we should point our Lotus Esprit at Dover and France beyond, take in some Continental flavour, have a nice middle-England break. And, sure, the west of Ireland at the peak of winter was always going to be a gamble. A huge gamble, actually.

Still rubbing the sleep from our eyes, we stumble down the stairs to the diesel stink of the ferry's car deck. The giant steel forward hatch cracks open, revealing a slash of grey-black sky. Fair enough, as our overnight crossing has dumped us on the shores of Cork at 7a.m. It'll be dark for another hour, so we spool up the Esprit and make for Bantry down the N22 and onto the R585. Progress is quick and secure, but never has the Lotus needed its independent suspension more; the roads are fast, but surfacing can be a bit patchy. There's off-camber all over the place, too.

We are fairly mobbed in Bantry Square. School kids, young moms with infants, old men with puckered smiles, they want to poke and stare at the Esprit. We don't see a trace of malice or envy, just a lot of thumbs-up and that familiar bend-and-squint at the badge on the nose. Indeed, a Lotus of any kind is a hugely rare occurrence in the west of Ireland. A brand new Esprit GT3, though, looks like provoking a public holiday. Yeah, they like it.

So we know it'll be just fine, parked up in the middle of the square while we cruise around the place on foot. Bantry is a gorgeous little town, at least three hundred years old. Typical of towns in the West, Bantry's store-fronts and houses are painted in brilliant, Mediterranean pastels; it's a neat way of combating the grey that dominates at this time of year. It also reveals a sense of fun, a lightness of touch, that characterises the west of Ireland.

It shows in the people, too. We shelter from the drizzle in a Bantry pub, and within seconds, our host is showing us her family album, explaining how that one died, or this one simply couldn't deal with the business pressure, or the other struck out for America (a common theme throughout Ireland). There is an instant intimacy about the west Irish; folks come across as genuine and sincere. And they really want to hear your story.

We point the Esprit west again, toward the Beara Peninsula where we are told to expect scenery that'll leave us breathless. That's where I get an unexpected surprise; the road to Glengarrif along the southern shore has been widened and smoothed, courtesy of a much needed European Union grant. Locals say that it'll make it easier to get past the fish-laden trucks that creak along, but right now it looks like a chance to enjoy exactly what the Esprit was conceived and built for. Here, we can use just about all of the GT3's 240bhp through the long, lazy esses. Here, too, we can deploy that Lotus sense of composure and balance through some of the quickest corners I've seen. It is a fabulous drive.

The Healy Pass is monumental, too. Spearing across the very middle of the Beara Peninsula, the pass is Ireland on a grand scale, with towering peaks, endless vistas, alpine-style switchbacks and, of course, the occasional Madonna sheltering in a cove of rock. Roadside shrines are too numerous to keep track of, a not very subtle reminder of the Catholic church's hegemony.

Confusion. We pass a roadsign that says Kenmare is 47 miles, then a little further on it’s 24, then back up to 35, then down to 16. Somebody finally takes pity and explains that newer road signs are in kilometres and older ones in miles. Which wouldn't be a problem if they took the trouble to say which is which.

Kenmare is, though, worth the wait. Like Bantry, it is a riot of colour, and if you fancy a bit of a shop, its crammed with antiques, woollens, knitwear, linen and lace. And on the outskirts of town is the Kenmare Stone Circle, the largest in southwest Ireland. Stone circles are still a bit of a mystery, being connected with everything from ancient ritual to astral alignment.

We push northward and the rugged, rock strewn heights of Beara give way to the gently rolling, big hills of Magillycuddy's Reeks. The scenery is softer, more pastoral, but no less inspiring. The West of Ireland, in fact, contains a hundred different landscapes. Soon, our trek takes us toward the Dingle Peninsula.

We take the arrow straight R561 along the flat south coast of the peninsula, taking a rare opportunity to give the Esprit a pretty serious workout. And then we turn hard left into what must be California. Except it is the beach at Inch, miles of spectacular golden powder-sand skirted by dunes sprouting long grass. We park up and photographer Ian Dawson is hopping happy at the golden light burnishing the side of the Lotus. Until, that is, the tide comes sweeping in and I'm forced to move the Lotus. Quickly (I do not want to be That Guy).

So we keep driving, charging down the straight roads of the Peninsula, using the GT3's huge surge of turbo power to dispatch lines of slow traffic, the massive brakes to reel us in at the slightest hint of trouble. The town of Dingle looms, our western-most point on this journey - next stop New York city - and the Esprit once more draws a crowd.

Dingle amazes. It's a town of barely more than 2000 people and yet there are more than 50 pubs. Ask about the crazy number and people say that decades ago, pub licenses were very easy to get. Now, people are afraid to let them go for fear of devaluing their property. Besides, a lot of Dingle's pub are very simple one-room affairs.

Like O'Flaherty's. Fergus O'Flaherty's father ran the 160 year old pub before him, and Fergus wouldn't want to do anything else with his own life. On the night, he is rehearsing with his folk group, a trio that play to packed houses throughout Dingle. Fergus calls out the chords, plucks mournfully on his banjo, raising the tempo from gloom to exultation. It's a one-room pub, massive four foot square stone tiles on the floor and a couple of centuries worth of black and white photos, newspaper clippings and beautiful, ancient copperware line the walls and coves. It's warmed tonight by a coal burning stove, and as the evening proceeds, the golden light fills the room with a surreal glow.

The following morning, Fran Ryan spots us lurking on the quayside. Loves the car, and would I like to see a superb view of the Blasket Islands? I would, so Fran and I go sprinting off to Slea Head on the peninsula's tip. The view is obscured by sea fog, but a hole in the sky opens up briefly and I get a spectacular glimpse of Great Blasket Island. Fran is delighted, and insists on showing me where 'Ryan's Daughter' was shot. Like everyone we've met, she is ridiculously friendly, warm.

Time is running out on us, so we wheel the Esprit around and head back to Cork. Won't be more than three hours running and we're happy to do it; the Esprit's cockpit is comfortable and cosy, even for six-plus footers like us.

We make it with time to burn. Absence of traffic is another perk to off-season travel in Ireland. That, and you'll have the beaches to yourself and the full attention of hotel and pub staff who are unstressed and genuinely happy to see you.

So there it is; the west of Ireland in winter is well worth the gamble.

Words Gavin Conway Twitter | Instagram

ROADBOOK

CLASS: Coastal cruise

NAME: West Coast of Ireland

ROUTE: Cork to Cork

COUNTRY: Ireland

DISTANCE: 267 miles