This Man Claims He Can Tell Where In Ireland He Is By Smell Alone


YOU may be able to tell where you are in Ireland based on whether or not you can see the Cliffs of Moher or the Boyne Valley Bridge in Drogheda, but one Waterford man claims that he can determine which county he’s in based on the general smell in the air!

Derek Fee, 45, states that each of the 32 counties on the island of Ireland has an individual scent and that just one blindfolded whiff is enough to tell him where exactly he is. In alphabetical order:

Antrim can be identified due to its proximity to Scotland by the giveaway scent of deep-fried Mars bars on the breeze.

Armagh consumes more Buckfast that any other county, creating an unmistakable smell in the air.

Carlow is the most forgotten county in Ireland, so all Mr. Fee has to do is ask himself what does this place not smell like. Running through the list of other more interesting counties leaves Carlow as the only option left.

Cavan is identified again by the absence of smell. No hot dinners in the air? No copperish smell of money? Dead giveaway.

Clare was once a tricky county to pin down, but we’re told that the amount of people kissing Donald Trump’s arse has given it a telltale aroma.

Cork just smells like you’d imagine it does.

Derry can be identified by the smell of pure sectarian tension, which hangs thick in the air.

Can’t smell any trains? Can’t smell any public transport, buses, things like that? Must be Donegal.

Down can be pinpointed by the strong scent of southern reg cars heading to Newry for cheap drink and fireworks.

Mr. Fee accepts no brownie points for being able to identify Dublin.

The air around Fermanagh still holds the smell of hundreds of pellet-burning stoves running 24 hours a day from back in the ‘cash for ash’ days.

Weed + rain = Galway

Kerry’s distance from Dublin gives it a refreshing ‘far away from Dublin’ scent.

Kildare hums with the electric scent of static from Intel, at least for another while.

With Kilkenny being the stag capital of the country, the smell of public urination down the side-lanes of the city make it unmistakable.

Laois holds that unmistakable ‘Electric Picnic festival toilet pong’ all through the year.

Leitrim has the Shannon running through it, and smells lovely. No complaints.

Limerick reeks of American warplanes.

Longford has the densest culchie population in the country, and can be identified easily because of this.

Louth cannot escape the smell of the old Harp brewery in Dundalk, which the locals still claim to love.

The smell of bitter defeat makes Mayo easy to spot.

Meath is very easily mistaken for Kildare, except instead of actual electronic factories there’s data centres, so it all just smells like a waste of electricity rather than the use of it.

If you’ve ever smelt laundered diesel, you’ll know when you’re in Monaghan.

Same with Offaly, except replace ‘laundered diesel’ with ‘a member of the Cowen family’.

Roscommon reeks of desperation.

Sligo smells like any coastal county, except without the tourism.

Tipperary smells strongly of the second-best hurlers in Ireland.

Tyrone is one of the foremost GAA counties in Ireland, and can be identified by the smell of Lynx, Deep Heat, O’Neill’s leather and hushed-up accusations.

Waterford is home to Mr. Fee, so he doesn’t even have to rely on the smell of drunken brawling to know where he is.

Westmeath is the centremost county in Ireland, and as such smells like a bit of everything.

Wexford is strawberries, of course. And incest.

Wicklow smells like Dublin, but just the people.