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With Ryanair and warm saké along the way

Our departure from Dublin was at the positively luxurious hour of 10 a.m. — a time that allowed for the smug satisfaction of not having to stumble bleary-eyed into an Uber at dawn. The Hotel Dublin 1 had served us well: spacious room, central location, and — most importantly — a bathroom that didn’t require me to attempt yoga positions just to turn around in the shower.

Security at the airport was mercifully swift, though boarding came with the now-familiar Ryanair ritual: a ten-minute stairwell pause, as if preparing us for the discomfort that awaited.

The plane left thirty minutes late thanks to a wind-inspired game of aircraft queueing, and the next two hours proved every bit as bone-rattling as Ryanair has conditioned us to expect. The two gin & tonics did nothing to dissipate the pain. I am this close to swearing them off entirely, though I fear that such an act of rebellion would not boost my domestic popularity.

Landing in Carcassonne was like stepping from monochrome into technicolour: 32°C, blazing sunshine, and the immediate shedding of long trousers in favour of shorts. 🩳

With the fridge at home standing as empty as an Irish pub at 9 a.m., the solution was obvious: dinner out. My brother and his wife will join us at the local Japanese spot, where I may even raise a cup of warm saké 🍶 — purely in honour of our safe return, you understand.

Tomorrow, of course, I resume my virtuous life of moderation and no alcohol. But tonight? Tonight, I’m home — and that’s worth celebrating.

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