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You Can Glamp in a ‘Bee Pod' In Ireland—and It Has DIY Pizza, Seaweed Baths, and Easy Access to a Stunning Beach
The cozy spa has hot seaweed baths, considered to be one of Ireland's only Indigenous wellness therapies.
The hosts serve rotating homemade breakfast boxes and evening dessert or cheeseboards every day.
There are only five pods, all of which are adults-only, which makes for a very exclusive and relaxing experience.
I've just finished hiking western Ireland's Sliabh Liag (pronounced as Slieve League), a nearly seven-mile coastal path that hugs the tips of sea cliffs that soar 1,972 feet in the air. It's chilly, the wind feels like it's trying to punish my very existence, and my knees are aching after a three-hour climb. But as I approach the seaside village of Rossnowlagh, located 50 minutes south in County Donegal, I can feel myself beginning to relax.
Its crescent-shaped beach (a popular surfing location with Blue Flag status, a certification that means the water is clean and healthy) stretches for over two miles and is powdered with sand so fine it feels like touching silk. Undulating mountains and cliffs, including those that form the Sliabh Liag, hug the horizon so that it feels like you're standing on the inside of a massive bowl. And, camouflaged among the hills that gently roll down towards the shore, are the Bee Pods, a group of five luxury, adults-only glamping pods and my home for the next two nights.
Founded in 2019 by Siobhan and William McGuckin, who also live on the property, the pods are completely ensconced in 3.5 acres of dense growth. The vegetation is not only very minimally landscaped but also actively planted in efforts to maintain and promote relaxation within the Irish wilderness—during my stay, William was in the process of planting 200 Golden Willows. The Bee Pods operate with sustainable principles in mind—the McGuckins shy away from weedkillers, continuously plant trees, plants, and bushes, and make their own fertilizers from plants such as seaweed, nettle, and comfrey.
'[We were] inspired by a need to recreate that deep connection to the natural world and share it with others,' Siobhan McGuckin told Travel + Leisure . She and her husband have been living in the area for some 30 years. 'Sustainability is at the core of everything we do here.'
Here, guests will find a pizza pod, spa, a family of pygmy goats, and several beehives from which more than 400 pounds of honey are harvested each year.
The pods are also in a prime location. The Sliab Liag is roughly 50 minutes north, while the medieval town of Donegal is only a 15-minute drive away. During my time at the Bee Pods, I visited a craft village to purchase a souvenir from a local artisan, explored the 551-year-old Donegal Castle, and munched on fish tacos at local haunt Blas. Above all, I took time to decompress in my pod after more than a week of some pretty taxing sea cliff hiking, enjoying the views of Rossnowlagh Beach from my king-sized bed and luxuriating in a hot seaweed bath, one of Ireland's only Indigenous wellness therapies, that left my skin feeling baby-soft.
The Bee Pods is a luxurious retreat to relax and recharge in the peacefulness of the outdoors, and the experience is only enhanced by the property's hosts, who exude a warm, classic Irish charm.
Here's what it's like to stay at the Bee Pods in Donegal, Ireland.
With only five pods, staying at the Bee Pods is a quiet, intimate experience.
All pods are designed to blend into the hillside and come equipped with a kitchenette (peppered with small luxe touches like Nespresso machines and Smeg kettles), waffle bathrobes, and an outdoor seating area. I stayed in The Hive, the largest and most private of the five. The room came outfitted with a king-sized bed, a dining room area with sea views, and a bathroom that had a rainfall shower, Voya organic products, and underfloor heating. The Hive also had an expensive patio with a fire pit, a Big Green Egg barbecue put, and a clawfoot tub tucked beneath a heated overhang. There were also tables and chairs with stunning views of Rossnowlagh Beach—the perfect spot to listen to the waves and watch the sunset with a crisp Irish craft cider.
Each pod also has at least one piece of upcycled furniture. The couch in The Hive, for example, belonged to Siobhan's great-grandmother, while a wooden side table in the spa area was William's grandmother's, and a beautifully-wrought wooden chessboard in The Queen B pod has been owned by the McGurkins for over 30 years. Make your own pizza at The Pizza Pod.
Donegal Wedding Photographer/Ghorm Studio/The Bee Pods
Every pod receives a welcome basket upon arrival. In mine, I found a small glass jug of milk, two eggs snuggled in knitted beanies, homemade marshmallows for roasting over the fire pit, homemade granola, and a small jar of honey from the property's very own bees. Every morning, the hosts stop by with a wooden box holding some breakfast treats that Siobhan herself prepares. Offerings rotate every day, but guests can expect food and drink like freshly-squeezed orange juice, overnight oats topped with berries, and parfaits, as well as croissants, ham and cheese toasties, or eggs. In the evenings, Siobhan will leave cheese or dessert platters to snack on.
The Bee Pods also have their own dedicated pizza pod with an Ooni pizza oven. For a small fee, you can request prerolled dough and pizza sauce, which Siobhan purchases in person from an Italian restaurant in Dublin, to make your own pies—all you need is to bring the toppings of your choice. For those who may not want pizza or to drive to Donegal for dinner, the pods come equipped with kitchenettes, and the grounds feature a greenhouse with vegetables and herbs that guests can freely pick for their meals. The seaweed baths treatment.
Asia Palomba/Travel + Leisure
The spa area is small but cozy, and has two clawfoot tubs that overlook an enclosed sandy garden area with lounge chairs. For roughly $40, guests can book a hot seaweed bath. You will need to fill out a quick health consent form beforehand, and bookings can be made in advance or once you arrive at the property. When I took mine, the spa was lit with sweet-smelling candles, and Siobhan left out some water and fruit snacks for me to munch on.
The bath may smell a bit briny at first, but the seaweed releases many minerals, like magnesium and zinc, into the water that are great for moisturizing the skin and hair. Don't be shy about rubbing the seaweed all over your body and face, and it's recommended not to shower for a few hours after your bath so that your skin can really absorb the seaweed's oils. I left my first Irish spa experience feeling rejuvenated and with incredibly soft skin. For guests who stay in The Hive pod, seaweed baths can also be arranged for the outdoor clawfoot tub.
The Bee Pods is an adults-only property, so this hotel isn't the best choice for a getaway with the kiddos. Beach views can be seen from the patio.
Donegal Wedding Photographer/Ghorm Studio/The Bee Pods
The Bee Pods do not have any rooms that are specifically designed to accommodate guests with mobility issues. Additionally, wheelchair users may find parts of the property difficult to navigate.
Sustainability is top of mind at the Bee Pods. For example, seaweed is only used once per guest. Once a bath is finished, Siobhan collects the seaweed, dries it, and then uses it as fertilizer, alongside nettle and comfrey, around the grounds. The property uses timber from their own trees for firewood, and plants at least 200 trees, plants, hedgerows, and wildflowers every year. 'This is for the bees, birds, and wildlife, [to provide] shelter for our pygmy goats, wild foxes, and other animals,' says Siobhan. There are also plans to install solar panels, rainwater collection systems, and electric charging facilities in the coming months. Scenic views of Rossnowlagh Beach from the Bee Pods.
Asia Palomba/Travel + Leisure
The Bee Pods are located in southern County Donegal and are within an hour's drive from many popular locations, both in County Donegal and in County Sligo. The nearest major airport, Donegal Airport (CFN), is about 55 miles away, or an hour and a half drive.
The property is five minutes away on foot from Rossnowlagh Beach, a popular surfing location and one of Ireland's Blue Flag beaches. There's a surf school nearby for those who are interested in learning how to ride the waves. Roughly an hour north lies the Sliabh Liag and the fishing village of Killybegs, while the town of Donegal, Ireland, and its many restaurants and shops can be reached within 15 minutes.
For those who are interested in venturing further, Northern Ireland is only an hour away, while attractions like Irish poet W.B Yates' grave, the six-mile Gleniff Horseshoe loop, and the surfing beach of Strandhill can all be reached in nearby County Sligo.
Since the Bee Pods are independently owned, they're not a part of any hotel loyalty programs. They don't participate in any travel credit card programs, either. Guests should also keep in mind that the Bee Pods require a two-night minimum. It's recommended to book directly with the property for the best rates.
Every T+L hotel review is written by an editor or reporter who has stayed at the property, and each hotel selected aligns with our core values.
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It was a long way to go for a cheese sandwich. But what a sandwich! True, I'd just climbed the Puy de Sancy—90 minutes of huffing to the top of an extinct volcano—so anything would have tasted good. This was a special one, though: made with the renowned St.-Nectaire, bought outside the town in central France that gave the cheese its name. Tucked between slices of house-made bread pilfered from the hotel breakfast and savored with views of hawks drifting on mountain currents, it was better than anything I'd eaten in Paris on the first leg of my trip—and I'd eaten a lot. This was the moment I'd traveled for: a perfect bite on a stunning hike. In northern Italy's Dolomite mountains last summer, I'd discovered that the pairing of heart-racing views and happy exhaustion make every meal memorable—especially when the food offers a chance to both taste and explore the terroir. 'Hike to eat' became my new travel mantra. 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On my stopover in Paris, I noticed that some of the city's most exciting restaurants served beef from Auvergne's Salers and Aubrac cattle; cheese such as Cantal, Salers, Fourme d'Ambert, and Bleu d'Auvergne; lentils grown in the Puy region; and cult natural wines from the likes of Patrick Bouju and Marie and Vincent Tricot, who work with one of the largest concentrations of pre-phylloxera vines in France. Volvic water? From the Auvergne, too. Once I tuned in to the Auvergne, I began to see it everywhere. (Puy lentils: Now I get it!) François-Régis Gaudry's essential book Let's Eat Paris! details how the Auvergnats, following their arrival in the capital in the 1850s, came to run many of the city's most iconic restaurants, bars, and hotels—places such as Café de Flore, Les Deux Magots, and Maxim's, which are today synonymous with Parisian hospitality. The little-known region even inspired one of New York's best French restaurants, Libertine. Co-owner Cody Pruitt stocks Auvergnat water and wine, and mixes cocktails with gentian liqueur made from Alpine flowers at a bar backed by Salvador Dalí's Auvergne poster for French Railways. 'Auvergne is a little wild and rough around the edges—almost a little feral,' Pruitt told me. 'It's truly idyllic.' He's so in love with Auvergne, which he discovered through visits to winemakers, that he not-so-jokingly told his girlfriend that one day they would move to the side of a volcano. A few diners, impressed by the Auvergnat wines at Libertine, have followed Pruitt's advice to visit the area—some even DMing him selfies from outside Auberge de Chassignolles. 'I felt bad sending them into the middle of nowhere,' he said with a laugh. Luckily, they loved it. From left: Lunch on the terrace at Alta Terra; Peter Taylor, a former owner of Auberge de Chassignolles. Boarding the train at the Gare de Bercy, in Paris, my boyfriend and I got the first hint as to just how middle-of-nowhere Auvergne is. I was expecting an iteration of the station next door, the grand Gare de Lyon. Instead, the taxi dropped us in front of a squat 1970s terminal, where weeds grew from one of six platforms for trains serving the Bourgogne-Pays d'Auvergne regions. Three and a half hours later we reached Clermont-Ferrand, the region's main city and one of France's oldest, accurately described by Pruitt as being 'half ugly-industrial or generic-brutal—and not in a good way.' (The other half, he said, looked like a post-medieval village.) But once seated at a family-filled outdoor café near the dramatic Gothic cathedral, which was constructed from volcanic rock, I got a sense of the city's medieval charm. Or maybe it was my delight at the tartare of prized Aubrac beef and a bronze-capped wheel of broiled St.-Nectaire cheese, scooped up with potatoes and charcuterie. As we drove out of Clermont-Ferrand, we took note of which villages we wanted to return to. We never made it back to any of them. Chadeleuf, where our first hotel, Le Clos Dagobert, was hidden, had enough appeal to keep us strolling until our dinner in nearby Montpeyroux, a restored hilltop town from the 11th century that, off-season, was heaven to explore in the golden evening light. While multiple parking lots at the base of this former wine-making town spoke to its popularity with tourists during the summer, in early October our fellow diners in the tiny square outside the restaurant L'Art-Koze were mostly local. The plating of the dishes felt almost as dated as the town's medieval tower, but beneath all the tweezered microgreen garnishes were delicious, proper French sauces—surprisingly hard to come by these days. From left: A horse grazing near the Puy Mary; a foggy hike through the Mont-Dore ski area. In the morning, it was tempting to linger at Clos Dagobert. The restored interior of this grand 1850s building is straight out of a French interiors magazine, from the Yves Klein–blue ceramics niche to the Memphis-style toilet that you will indeed find yourself posting videos of. Even the chickens roaming the pool area were stylish enough for their own Instagram account. (Also 'grammable: their delicious, orange-yolked eggs.) Yet it turned out the young hoteliers, Marine and Alexis Raphanel, were indeed human and extremely sweet, ensuring that there was always a slice of cake in our room and dispensing advice about the region with great pride. Montpeyroux, a restored hilltop town from the 11th century, was heaven to explore in the golden evening light. But the mountains were calling: it was time to fill our napkins from the buffet and go. Being just over an hour away from the Massif Central, Le Clos Dagobert makes a lovely base for village walks. The drives toward them were stunning and nearly empty. If we wanted to pull a U-turn to photograph a vending machine selling baguettes, or stop in the middle of the road to admire a sign with arrows pointing toward cheese makers in all directions, the biggest threat was the occasional tractor or a semi hauling pine trees. Most guidebooks will tell you that to reach the top of the Puy de Sancy, the highest volcano in the range at 6,184 feet, you can take the cable car. Not during our visit, you couldn't. Our options were to hike the steep service road until we reached the main trail, or to make our way through a valley with a trickling stream and wildflowers, over a pass lined with boulders that have been pixelating into geometric shards for millennia, and up to a dramatic scramble between rock formations that my boyfriend felt certain were the setting for an episode of Game of Thrones . We chose the Cinemascope route. Then we climbed the 864 steps to the top. From left: A vending machine dispensing baguettes near the Clos Dagobert hotel; preserves, wine, and sauces for sale at Clos Dagobert. Blitzed on adrenaline at the top of Sancy, I looked out at pristine views stretching in almost every direction and was reminded that the world can still feel pure. As I wiped away sweat and tears, the landscape came into focus. I began to notice the many trails snaking through a valley, saw the red cap of a hiker on another peak, spotted another lake in the distance, and realized: We can go to that perfect place, too! And there! And there. And there… And so the Auvergne addiction began, and we began plotting our move to the side of a volcano. Several of the young restaurateurs and winemakers who've moved to the Auvergne came to their fierce love of the region through Auberge de Chassignolles. This 1930s hotel in a village tucked away among the pines was bought by a British gastropub chef, Harry Lester, and his wife, Ali Johnson, in 2006. At the time, Lester did most of the cooking himself—but subsequent owners came up with the idea to invite chefs from around the world to cook and bake and make merry at breakfast, lunch, and dinner from April through October. The scruffy charm is considerable enough that rooms are still difficult to come by, especially in summer. The exterior of Alta Terra. A few years later, for his kids' schooling, Lester moved to Clermont-Ferrand, where he now runs the Comptoir Central des Bazars, a restaurant, wine store, and ice cream shop. The auberge is now owned by Poppy Saker-Norrish, a 34-year-old winemaker who worked in its kitchen and garden in 2022. Saker-Norrish had just been accepted into a creative-writing master's program in her native New Zealand when she was asked if she'd like to take over. 'Once I was home, all I could think about was the auberge and the Auvergne,' she recalled. She has maintained its rumpled confidence and genuine bonhomie, with its nine simple, just-right rooms and the impromptu community of guests, young staff, and visiting winemakers who smoke and play foosball in the tiny town square until late. Staying at Chassignolles felt a little like having a walk-on part in a regional theater production—one in which a French staffer in a bikini top and big glasses rushes in before lunch, exclaiming over the wild mushrooms she found in the forest that morning. Those cèpes starred in an excellent risotto at lunch, and at dinner, they surrounded a quivering egg yolk perfectly prepared by Mathilde Denuncq, a young chef who had taken time off from her restaurant near Biarritz to make lovely meals, including the warm baguettes and staggering fruit compotes, pots of just-made yogurt, and jars of granola that made up the breakfast spread. The coffee's legit. The teas are excellent. And the wine list reads like a who's-who of natural winemakers, with hard-to-get bottles that make the visiting owners of Parisian natural-wine bars sigh. Chassignolles isn't about mountain treks. Each morning, we would ask the bartender/sommelier if we could borrow the hotel's floppy laminated map, and then we'd just set out in any direction. Each walk felt like a tour of Middle Earth. The trails and narrow roads were empty, all leading through forests of whispering pine trees with soft moss beds and borders of blackberry bushes and passing through occasional clusters of stone houses that seemed empty, but not abandoned. From left: Soup made with foraged mushrooms at Auberge de Chassignolles; exploring Montpeyroux, a hilltop town that dates back to the 11th century. This balance of solitude and wild, unexpected beauty quickly became a theme. One evening, the owner of Auberge de Chassignolles booked us into Court La Vigne, a restaurant in the minuscule medieval town of Lavaudieu. There we were met by a friend from Paris, who had taken the train down to join the trip. The place was breathtaking—and empty. As was the restaurant, with no one answering the door, and no one downstairs once we'd hesitantly let ourselves in. We ventured upstairs and were greeted by a vision: a room lined with life-size paintings and witchy curios, where a woman in her seventies with kohl-rimmed eyes greeted us with glee as experimental accordion music played on a loop. The kitchen, with its heart-shaped door handle, sent out duck terrine, veal with mushrooms, and rockfish with greens. There was one other couple in the room. It was so odd, so lovely, that we tipped over into church giggles when the squeaky old cheese trolley was laboriously wheeled out. Our stomachs, sore from laughter, were comforted by lemon verbena sorbet doused in gentian liqueur. Tipsy in the moonlight, we explored the town. Look at this perfectly intact museum of artisanal crafts! We should come back! We read the note on the door: it had closed for a year of renovations, beginning that afternoon. From left: Extinct volcanoes along the road to the Puy de Sancy; country pâté and fried pizza dough with mushrooms at Auberge de Chassignolles. The next day, we briefly left the eat-hike-sleep idyll to drive my boyfriend back to the train in Clermont-Ferrand. Then, in search of another hike before dinner, we used the AllTrails app to select a walk along the drive back, once again parking in a lovely, one-café village. Yet again, we were entranced by the light and storybook scenery, attracted by the beauty of shaded glades and brooks until we reached the beginnings of sunset over the cow-dotted hills. By the time we neared Chassignolles—the roads becoming ever smaller and crazier until we were convinced there could be no town at the end—the sunset demanded that we pull over to marvel. We were also curious to find the nearby house for sale whose listing was posted on the auberge's bulletin board. We were thinking like Cody Pruitt and his friend, who had e-mailed him the listing the week before with one word: 'Halfsies?' The tinkling of distant cowbells that had accompanied our hike was a Symphony in C Major. After a final breakfast—during which we both vowed, once home, to set out a bowl filled with mismatched egg cups à la Chassignolles—we headed southwest toward Cantal. This agricultural area is one of the poorest, and most sparsely populated, in France because of its isolation and dependence on fluctuating market prices. Tourism, while a promising way to reverse the area's fortunes, is mostly limited to French visitors, who go there to hike and bike in summer and ski in winter. After passing through the what-counted-for-bustling town of Murat, we stopped in the village of Dienne, enchanted by the houses' hand-cut, teardrop-shaped slate roof tiles, the 12th-century church, and the rumored presence of cheese makers. But an old man tending his garden told us that everything in the village had closed down. Only the signs remained. From left: Marine and Alexis Raphanel, owners of Le Clos Dagobert, a hotel in the village of Chadeleuf; breakfast at Le Clos Dagobert. And so we learned another lesson: if you see something open, stop! Bakeries, grocery stores, and restaurants are few and far between. Many communities lack essential services, such as schools, hospitals, and even pharmacies. That charming bread vending machine isn't Instagram bait; it's reality. Back in Murat, we found Tendances et Saveurs, a diner with a biker-bar aesthetic that happened to dry-age its own beef. We ordered our meat with a side of truffade, the regional specialty of garlicky, lard-cooked potatoes with melted cheese curd—a.k.a. the original cheese pull, a.k.a. my new favorite food, especially when served with rosy slices of local ham. 'I need a moment of silence,' said my friend, pointing her fork toward the truffade. Even the fries were perfect. From left: Preserves, wine, and sauces for sale at Clos Dagobert; bunk beds in a guest room at Alta Terra. Too early to check in at our next hotel, Alta Terra, we drove for a few more miles and took one of many trails winding up to the Puy Mary, an extinct volcano that's classified as a Grand Site de France and sees 500,000 visitors each year. Walking along a ridge path flanked by trees, we passed thick-maned horses and came upon a barefoot young woman in a tree, foraging for nuts to make oil. We kept wondering which fairy tale we had found ourselves in. Grateful for our hiking poles, we got as far as the snack bar at the base of the stairs leading up to the peak. We stood and admired the views of mountains and tree-lined valleys from beneath one of the red umbrellas that rippled in the wind outside an old-fashioned chalet restaurant and gift shop. Hikers, bikers, motorcyclists, and day-trippers all lingered, soaking it all in. The tinkling of distant cowbells that had accompanied our hike was a Symphony in C Major from the field opposite Alta Terra. On entering the century-old chalet, we were hit by the comforting scent of slow-roasting pork. A visit to the hammam and sauna coddled us further, and by the time we sat down to dinner at the communal table, where we were the only first-time guests, we completely felt at home. Co-owner Virginie Serre is as adept at steering conversation among strangers as she is at preparing delicious meals from local produce, be it a cabbage-and-chestnut salad with foraged mountain thyme or hearty squash lasagna on vegetarian nights. (Her cooking had just been featured in Le Monde .) Sleep came easily in the charming cabin for two built behind the hotel, with the sun rising from beyond the mountains as our alarm. A sustainable ethos permeates every aspect of Alta Terra, down to the reusable wrap used for the cheese sandwiches that Serre packed for the hike. After spending a few days in this pristine region, you wouldn't want to muck it up, either. After our picnic, my friend returned to her stylish life in Paris, her phone filled with addresses for next year's vacation in the middle of nowhere. After a few more formative hikes and filling meals, it was my turn to go. My last hike was comically picturesque, walking through a mossy allée into wildflower-dotted fields where cows dozed beside a stream, then up to a mountain pass, where one could keep going for days in any direction. Like the beauty of Auvergne, the options were endless. A version of this story first appeared in the September 2025 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline "Over the Hills and Far Away ."
