“Born, bottled and celebrated in Ireland, this is an exquisite water; enjoy it”


Artesian multi-award winning source.

Nothing added & nothing removed.


Perfected by nature deep beneath rolling hills in the very heart of Ireland, Oscar Wilde Water is slow-filtered for over a thousand years through volcanic strata and limestone beds before rising up in artesian wells as a delicious spring water of exceptional purity and mineral composition.

A recipient of no less than 7 International Gold Medal Awards for taste, quality and excellence, this source imbues Oscar Wilde Water with a delightful balance that makes it one of the finest drinking waters in the world; simply the perfect compliment to any fine dining experience.

  • Uniquely pure & virtually nitrate free
  • Naturally high 7.7 pH (still)
  • Rock filtered for over one thousand years
  • Infused with a unique balance of minerals
  • Artesian water source
  • [Light] sparkling & still in 750 & 330ml

Glass bottled at source with nothing removed or nothing added to ensure 100% purity, it has a charm, providence and natural taste which piques interest like no other bottled water product.


MH: Well, I must confess this is the last place I expected to be talking to you – over a bottle of water, especially with your reputation for enjoying the finer things of life . . .

OW: My dear boy, that’s exactly why – because this is one of the finer things. I adore simple pleasures; they are the last refuge of the complex. No, don’t smile; I’m being quite serious for a change and this is an exquisite water indeed.

MH: And you really expect me to believe you?

OW: I’ve never been more serious in my life. The mere taste of it, soft as silk compared with what come out of our municipal taps, takes me back in an instant to my summer holidays as a young boy.

MH: Mmm . . . all right, I think I’m beginning to get the idea.

OW: Of course you are. Anyone with a drop of Irish blood and a scrap of imagination can see what I mean. You’ve spent half a day walking in the hills of Tipperary – one of those glorious Irish days when you can see forever, to the horizon and maybe beyond . . .

MH: Well, that’s true for a start. Not much has changed there since your day.

OW: Please don’t interrupt . . . now, where was I? Yes, it’s hot; you’re thirsty and suddenly at your feet is a spring. You cup your hands and drink, feeling the cool purity of the liquid revive you like a miracle. Nothing could be more delicious. Sheer perfection. Better than champagne even at that precise moment, which would have been all wrong and yet, in your mind as the water slips down. . .

MH: Aren’t you getting rather carried away.

OW: Perhaps, perhaps, but the pull of memory is strong and when I sip the water, even now I can see those purple mountains and silver rivers which were my childhood.  Do you know – it’s more than likely that I could have been there at the moment this water was already on its way through the . . . the . . . how do you call them today?  –  the aquifers . . .

MH: Come now, that’s a slight exaggeration surely. Next you’ll have us believe that you’re partly responsible for what’s in the bottle.

OW: Not at all. But since you raise the subject, one should never destroy myths: they often reveal
greater truths than reality itself.

MH: But getting back to what I said at the start, isn’t it a little strange to hear you extolling the virtues of water? – admittedly very fine water, but water all the same.

OW: On the contrary. There was a time not long ago when my image was used to promote what was called de-alcoholised sparkling wine. Can you imagine? Me? It was a form of purgatory. Either the real stuff or one of the best waters in the world and, d’you know – just now, I think I’ll settle for this.

We call ourselves a utilitarian age, and we do not know the uses of any single thing. We have forgotten that Water can cleanse, and Fire purify, and that the Earth is mother to us all. I feel sure that in elemental forces there is purification, and I want to go back to them and live in their presence.

From De Profundis by Oscar Wilde