Why is it that on the rare occasions I don’t photograph pastry it ends up being annoyingly good?

Such was my plight when I spent a few nights in Wicklow during my month long solo road trip through Ireland. Driving the entire circumference of the country featured my attempts at finding hidden pastry gems in small towns. I was often left wanting—though much to my friends’ surprise, I never once tried sticky toffee pudding my entire trip—but on rare occasions I was left pleasantly surprised.

One memorable occasion—which bears no relevance to this particular post—was in County Sligo just outside of the cemetery where W. B. Yeat’s was laid to rest. In the small Pink Clover cafe I ate the best focaccia of my life. Pillowy soft with a beautifully crisp crust, it made me weep between bites of the chicken sandwich that bread so lovingly protected. Yes, I may have alarmed the family at the adjacent picnic table, but sometimes bread warrants tears.

But who cares about bread! You’re here to read about dessert!!!

Long before I was in Sligo, I spent a few days just south of Dublin in Wicklow. One day I decided to head to the nearby Wicklow Mountains National Park to undertake a hike I instantly regretted starting, and before arriving I hit up Firehouse Bakery—a cafe, bakery and outdoor gear shop rolled in one—to get coffee, pastry, a pre-hike sandwich, and post-hike vegan falafel bowl.

There were danishes, various croissants, some tarts, and a nondescript roll without a placard denoting what it could be. I pointed to it and asked the cashier for some explanation: She said it was a maple cinnamon roll (danish? I’m not sure, I’m going with roll but not the American kind), and I thought it sounded like a solid, simple choice so I went for it.

When I made it to the park I was in a fugue state from not having breakfast or lunch, and knew I needed something in my system otherwise I would expire on the trails. The roll was sticky in its paper bag, so I ripped the paper apart and ate it unseeing in the parking lot while a man in a nearby caravan looked alarmed by my primal state.

“Agh, dammit, I fucked up,” I muttered to myself in my car, because of course it was anything but simple.

What I worried could be cloying ended up being far more subtle than anticipated, making it great breakfast pastry. It was a little sweet, a little crunchy, the maple and kiss of cinnamon tasting like the most perfect, delicate pancake you’ve ever had translated to rolled, laminated dough. The lamination was flaky and light, and after finishing it, I regretted not buying two of them to savor a little longer.

Dusting the crumbs off my lap, I walked for twenty minutes to find a picnic table and eat my sandwich. Fueled and overly confident, I continued my two hour hike and hated my past self for selecting the trail, as an early steep incline knocked the breath out of me. Multiple self-pep talks got me through the remainder of that hike, but I guess my interpretation of “moderate” is far different from the general consensus. But what kept swirling through my mind as I sweat through my clothing was the memory of that maple cinnamon roll.

I knew I had to photograph and write about it before I left Wicklow, so I went back on my last morning to buy that, a delicious morning bun (no photo and no write-up, oops!), and drove them with me to Rosstrevor, where I ate my second maple cinnamon roll while a horse on my host’s farm munched on grass.

Now I’m writing this in Limavady, wishing I had a third roll to graze on while watching the trees bend from Storm Floris’ blustery winds.

Originally published on Instagram August 4th, 2025. It has since been edited for the web version.