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| By
Hay Brunsdon
(Updated on Sep 23, 2025)
It’s no secret that Ireland is a nation of storytellers. From my personal favourites, Van Morrison, Erin Quinn from Derry Girls, and Frank McCourt of Angela’s Ashes, to the OGs James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, Bram Stoker, and Samuel Beckett, spinning a yarn is practically part of the DNA. Conor McPherson sits firmly in that tradition, and his 1997 play The Weir—which scooped both the Olivier and Evening Standard Awards for Best New Play—shows exactly why.
The setting is a small, windswept pub in northwest Ireland – seemingly isolated from the outside world – the kind of place where the fire crackles against the howling wind outside and you half expect your pint glass to rattle from the gusts. At first it’s all weather talk, fishwife gossip about land sales, and the comforting routine of “just a small one” (or sometimes a “large small one”). Behind the bar is Brendan, pouring pints for locals Jack the mechanic and Jimmy. Into this comes Finbar, the flamboyant property man who’s essentially bought up half the village, strutting in with ‘Ninja Turtle’ karate chops and high kicks to introduce Valerie, a “blow-in” up from Dublin. She’s the outsider, and her presence nudges the men into showing off with their tall tales — first light, then eerie, then deeply personal.