Ugh! You either love ’em or hate ’em. Guinness and oysters are a food-and-drink combination that only their respective mothers could love. Get a bad oyster and you’re done in for days. And Guinness is just for boys, right? I like to think of myself as a myth-busting foodie adventuress, so I headed to the picturesque Galway Bay for a crash course in molluscs and stout.

Oysters may be the pinnacle of the modern gourmet experience, but once they were inexpensive, plentiful and nutritious sustenance for the 18th and 19th-century masses. Disease and dirt dwindled supply, and the finest oysters became a titbit for the rich. Fast forward to 2009 and, while fish stocks are depleted, sustainable oyster production is on the rise.

Suddenly oysters are not just an ethical dinner option but also cheaper than a trip to the chippie. Bentley’s Oyster Bar in London has half a dozen rock oysters and a glass of wine for under a tenner on the menu. Will oysters and Guinness be the champagne and caviar for the credit-crunch generation? With new oyster bars opening across these islands, it certainly seems so.

The Kelly brothers of Galway Bay think so, too. Michéal and Diarmaid, following in the muddy footsteps of their father, farm oysters and supply them to local and international oyster-lovers alike. They also take the odd enthusiast into the bay to savour their catch first hand.

Travelling to Galway, on the West coast of Ireland, is an easy hop from the UK; reaching the famous bay at the right tide times is a bit trickier. Arrive too early and the oyster beds are inaccessible; stay in the beds too long and you’ll be stuck in dangerously thick mud as the tide returns. After double-checking the day’s tide timetable we waded in wellies to the native beds. The light at daybreak was weak but clear. Michéal Kelly bent down into the brackish water, pulled out a flat oyster, shucked it and offered its raw milky flesh to me. A squeeze of lemon and the gills twitched.

“Chew it slowly,” he said in his seductive lilt (apparently slurping went out when quality went up). I tilt and tip it in. Nutty, sweet and salty, its taste is like nothing else — I was seduced. But aren’t raw bivalves a potential digestive disaster? “Oysters are our native version of sushi,” Kelly said. “If they are fresh there is nothing to fear.” You can’t get fresher than plucking oysters from bay beds, so I dug in and helped with the daily harvest, hoping to be rewarded in bivalves.

Galway Bay’s climate produces not only superb oysters but some of the world’s finest oyster openers, too. The annual Galway International Oyster Festival attracts more than 20,000 visitors for four days of oyster-themed parties and competitions, including the world oysteropening championship. Michéal Kelly has twice held the world crown. This skill involves nerves of steel — and a glove of steel, too, unless you mind losing a finger or two.

Kelly talked me through his prize-winning technique and encouraged me to have a go. “Flat on the palm, slide the blade between the shells and slice the muscle,” he explained, “and keep the flesh whole and the briny juice inside.” I sliced one open, but with my horror-film knife skills it looked like oyster mince. Kelly kindly took over and perfectly shucked half a dozen in the twinkling of an Irish eye.

Back to work, this time on dry land, in the packing house. I was in charge of the ancient oyster-grading machine. Cranking the well-worn handle, I sent sizes from 1 to 3 down separate chutes, ready to be packed in poplar baskets nestled in seaweed and shipped around the world.

All that hard graft helped me to build up an appetite. Luckily we arrived at Moran’s Oyster Cottage in time for lunch. Vincent Graham, world champion oyster-opener in 1985 and 1995, oversees the 18th-century thatched cottage. He serves up plates of oysters and pints of Guinness at this waterside spot on the weir in Kilcolgan.

We perched at an outdoor table. Fergal Murray, Guinness master brewer, was on hand to pull my first pint of the dark stuff. My suggestion that Guinness was a boy’s tipple was met with disdain; Murray pointed to his wife, a former model who has drunk the stuff her entire adult life. It seems that sexism and stout don’t mix.

Padraig O’Maille, the chairman of the Galway festival, joined us for my virgin Guinness experience. The drinking rules of “don’t look down, bring your elbow up, suck liquid through the head” required deep concentration. I ruined my first attempt by sipping the head. My second try was better, although I looked at my pint too many times for Murray’s liking. By my third pint, I threw out the rulebook. I was enjoying my Guinness so much that I began supping it naturally, just like a local.

The banter breezed, and we ate and drank until we were exhausted by our witty charm . . . or at least that’s how I remember it. Two rainshowers, several dozen oysters and three pints of Guinness later, I was ready for a power nap.

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