Best 99 nominations: sunny days
The Irish Times is on the hunt for Ireland's best 99. Share your photos and stories with the hashtag #best99 or email firstname.lastname@example.org. The winner will be announced on the 21st of August
Is the best 99 in Buncrana?
Spillane's Bar and Restaurant, Fahamore
Jamie enjoying Ireland's best 99 in Spillane's Bar and Restaurant, Fahamore after a day of sand and surf near the Maharees. Jonathan Law
The village shop, Ballinascarthy, Co Cork.
The best 99 comes from The village shop, Ballinascarthy, Co Cork. We just spent 2 weeks near there. Nearly every day we went to the shop for cones, The photo was taken on Saturday evening after The Ballinascarthy Community Festival dog show. That day we had cones earlier in the day but had seconds to celebrate Bronwen's rosette. Bronwen loves cones but can't have a 99 as dogs shouldn't have chocolate. I don't think the shop staff realised one of the cones every day was for a dog. We had to wait for the machine to start up one day! and it was worth the wait.
Mary, Jon and Bronwen
Buncrana Ice Cream Shop, Buncrana
Here is a picture of local Buncrana people enjoying the best 99 ice cream in the country. It is called ‘Pink and White 99’s’ and people come from all over the counties of Donegal and Derry to enjoy this gorgeous treat!
There is nothing better than getting a delicious creamy ice cream and going for a stroll along the beautiful beach side and enjoying the views of the Lough Swilly, and the historic Father’s Hegarty’s Rock.
This photograph is taking beside the ice cream shop where local artist Rois Davis has painted a mural of famous paintings with a Buncrana twist including the renowned ‘pink and whites’.
Fiorentini's, Strand Road, Derry
I'd like to nominate Fiorentini's on Strand Road, Derry, for Ireland's best 99, with a recollection (Ps, it's still there, worth the journey and still the best)
"At the end of every day, after the takings are counted into cloth money bags, I help granda lift the three old wooden shutters into place in front of his butcher shop display window. We climb into his old brown Volvo, the worn hide seats warmed by the high summer sun. Through the walled city gates, the ancient stones baked, we make our usual way home.
Like clockwork, the same time, every day, we pull up outside the Italian's ice cream parlour just before he closes his own doors. Coins drop like keys from granda's hand into mine. Two 99s, he gives the order. There were once Macaris, Yanarellis and Battistis dispensing happiness on these streets. Only Sonny Fiorentini remains, still in his white apron, still always whistling. Legends are whispered about the secrecy of the family recipe.
My head cranes over the high counter to watch the daily ritual. The spatula hypnotically smoothes through the day's last batch and the alchemist curves out a scoop for the waiting cone. It is dressed in a flimsy napkin cloak and a thick chocolate flake is thumbed into place.