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A love letter to Ryanair’s luggage policy

Ah, the final golden rays of Occitan sunshine are gracing my face like a farewell kiss from a lover who knows I’m about to cheat on them—with a raincloud. Yes, tomorrow I leave behind the seductive warmth of southern France and fling myself into the damp, chilly arms of the British Isles. Specifically, the glorious, green, and slightly soggy embrace of the Island of Ireland.

Now, before we go any further, let us get our geopolitical ducks in a row. Ireland is an island (not to be confused with an island—this one’s capitalized and comes with centuries of drama). It consists of:

• The Republic of Ireland, where people say things like “grand” and mean it,
• And Northern Ireland, which is part of the United Kingdom, but not Great Britain. (Don’t worry if you’re confused. So is everyone else. Including, occasionally, the UK.)

With that thrilling primer in international relations complete, I return to my more pressing problem: packing.

Ah, packing. Once a straightforward task of rolling up your clothes and stuffing them in a suitcase. Now? It’s a full-blown competitive sport—complete with tears, heartbreak, and weighing scales. Why? One word: Ryanair.

Bless their blue-and-yellow hearts, they have turned minimalism into a mandate. I believe their current cabin baggage allowance is “one thimble and a whisper of hope.” So here I am, trying to fit a week’s worth of weather-appropriate fashion into what is essentially a glorified pencil case on wheels.

The list, naturally, has become an art form:

• A raincoat, obviously. Possibly two. One to wear and one to dry while the other is soaked.
• Passport, to prove I am who I say I am.
• Credit card, because I am under no illusions that I will not buy another scarf “just in case.”
• A sturdy pair of shoes that scream, “I hike… emotionally.”
• And a deeply personal vendetta against drizzle.

Of course, I’m trying to pack light—as light as possible. There’s something noble about embracing the minimalist life when you’re about to be pelted with Atlantic rain sideways. Maybe I’ll become a better person. Maybe I’ll just become very damp.

In conclusion, as I soak in my final Mediterranean sunset and stare longingly at my suitcase (currently giving me the side-eye), I remind myself: It’s not what you bring—it’s who you become when you forget your adapter and have to negotiate with a stranger in Galway for one. With any luck, I’ll land on Irish soil as a smarter, humbler, slightly colder version of myself.

Next stop: Ireland. With 73% chance of rain, 100% chance of tea, and the very real possibility of regretting that I didn’t pack a second pair of socks.

Wish me luck—and dry feet.

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