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Is this another Irish pub story? You鈥檇 be forgiven for thinking so. But it鈥檚 Sunday morning, we鈥檙e hardly clothed, and one by one, we rise from the bench and throw ourselves into the sea.

Here at Power Saunas, I鈥檓 taking part in what has become an Irish sauna renaissance. This Scandinavian-style hut, the size of a small shipping container with a long, plate glass window that looks out across the Galway Bay to the Clare hills, is one of dozens that have appeared along the coasts in the last 18 months, part of a cold-plunging ritual that sends patrons between sweat houses and Ireland鈥檚 frigid seas.

The holistic hype around the practice has been well established, from Maine to Minnesota, and Finland to Tasmania. But there is something special about this island鈥檚 sauna revival, an energy that鈥檚 hard to articulate. You鈥檝e heard of the pubs, the late-night music sessions, the lyrical hospitality. But in these buzzy sweat houses, now ubiquitous across Ireland鈥檚 beaches, there is something truly special, perhaps, because it鈥檚 unexpected. A cold plunge and a sauna? On this climatically fickle island?

鈥淚t鈥檚 happening for people at a very primitive level, every time they go into a sauna,鈥� said Rosanna Cooney, whose book, 鈥淪weathouse,鈥� explores Ireland鈥檚 ancient and modern tradition. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a memory being activated there. This isn鈥檛 something foreign. It鈥檚 something Indigenous.鈥�

Indeed, Ireland鈥檚 sauna revival is less an awakening than a rediscovery. The sweat lodge was once a central tenet of Irish and Celtic life, before the 19th-century famine tore the island鈥檚 social fabric apart. Now, aided by a flood of new sea swimmers forged during the isolated years of COVID, the people of this place are rediscovering the joy of sweating, together.

But where to start? The island鈥檚 shoreline, north and south, is full of deserving destinations. I first began swimming in the sea in Galway, in the middle of Ireland鈥檚 famed Wild Atlantic Way, which runs from County Cork to County Donegal.

The journey was anchored by two popular tourist destinations: at the southern end, the Cliffs of Moher, in north County Clare, and, at its northernmost point, Achill Island, in County Mayo. It meandered along coastal routes, through the Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking) region and out to Inishbofin, a rugged island off the Connemara coast.

There is no 鈥渞ight鈥� time of year for the sauna, but it鈥檚 hard to deny the spirit that takes hold in Ireland as the seasons turn, when the weather grows wilder and sea temperatures plummet. My swim buddies and I call it the 鈥渂uzz,鈥� when the water starts to sting and our teeth chatter upon entry. Bounding between the fuzzy heat of a sauna and a churning sea, in the midst of an autumn gale, there鈥檚 a new (or perhaps old) Ireland to see.

By the time our tires crunch on the uneven gravel lot on the Clahane shore, my husband and I are a long way from the Zen afternoon we envisioned. The supposed 90-minute drive south from Galway (15 minutes from the Cliffs of Moher) has taken us far longer than expected, and we are a half-hour late for our sauna reservation, having endured this island鈥檚 time-honoured gauntlet of navigating rural roads during the tourist season. And inconveniently, we are already extremely hot as it is one of the warmest days ever recorded in the midst of a fickle Irish summer.

For the sake of all things good, holy and emotionally balanced, the last thing either of us thinks we ought to do is seal ourselves in a small wooden barrel and sweat.

But in Sauna Suaimhneas, a haven an hour south of the Cliffs of Moher, we step through a portal, enveloped by subtle hints of aroma oil and cedar in an hour-long session (15 euros, or about $24.40, in mid-week, 20 euros, or about $32.50, on the weekend). The eight-person, barrel-shaped sauna sits at the start of the walkway to Clahane鈥檚 elevated, rocky shore. It鈥檚 a mildly challenging, two-minute trek from the sauna to the water, but navigating it becomes part of the fun. On breaks from the heat, we scramble down the uneven stone shelves into the inky waters of Liscannor Bay, swimming between fronds of seaweed and dreamlike moon jellyfish.

Ireland鈥檚 sauna scene is inherently transient; many of these huts, such as Sauna Suaimhneas, are on wheels, movable to other shores. But Driftwood Sauna, about 20 minutes west of Galway in Spiddal, is an exception. Around since 2022, these sleek, Scandinavian-style sauna boxes have evolved on the village pier, and now have a rustic wooden boardwalk, plunge pools and changing huts. When we arrive on a quiet Sunday evening, the esthetic is clean, calming and authentic. The owners, Edward Corbett and Monique Tomiczek. are generous hosts, mindful of small touches such as large watering cans to use to shower off and cold lemon water.

Finally, on a grey August morning, I trek with my swim partner out to Inishbofin, a rugged, rocky island off Galway鈥檚 Connemara coast. The 90-minute drive from Galway to Cleggan goes through the heart of Connemara 鈥� a worthwhile pit stop is Oughterard, a small fishing village where Sullivan鈥檚 Country Grocer features some of the best cinnamon buns, a steal at 2.50 euros each, this side of the Atlantic. Once at Cleggan, we park near the pier and board a 30-minute pedestrian ferry to Inishbofin, taking a leisurely walk east past whitewashed cottages and sheep to reach the island鈥檚 East End Bay.

There, the husband and wife duo, Dave and Bronwyn Lavelle, have created a magical site in Sauna Bo Finne. With fairy lights, a barrel sauna and a tent with chairs, storage and room for changing, our 50-minute session of sweating (20 euros per person) feels otherworldly. By the time we鈥檙e sitting back at the harbour eating fresh squid, crab salad and fish burgers at the Beach Bar, a pierside pub, we are somewhere between relaxation and rapture.

Nursing two cold glasses of Guinness, as the mist rolls over Connemara鈥檚 distant Twelve Bens, I think back to an earlier conversation with Cooney, exploring the notion that Ireland鈥檚 saunas are its new pubs.

鈥淚n Finland,鈥� she had said, chuckling, 鈥渢hey say 鈥榠t鈥檚 the church.鈥欌��

Are they really so different? Salt in our hair, the sea breeze in our face and a pint of plain 鈥� this is just communion from a different altar.

This article originally appeared in .