🇬🇧

Bacon, rain & self-congratulation

Another early night, another bad night’s sleep. Between nightmares and a stomach that behaved like a bodhrán at a ceilidh, I woke up more times than a nervous leprechaun guarding his pot of gold. So yes, “not feeling too fresh” might be the understatement of the trip.

Still, nothing quite snaps you back to life like the unmistakable smell of bacon wafting up from the B&B kitchen. If that doesn’t get you out of bed, you may already be dead. Breakfast wasn’t due for another hour, and my stomach was still filing official complaints—but let’s be honest, who in their right mind says no to a full Irish on the last day? Exactly.

Suitably fuelled (and possibly doomed), we packed up and braved the rain for a smooth 120 km drive back to Dublin. Rental car returned, hotel luggage dropped, and spirits still surprisingly intact—we marched off to EPIC The Irish Emigration Museum.

Now, EPIC is slick. It’s modern. It’s shiny. It’s also a bit like Ireland throwing itself a surprise party: “Look at us, we suffered terribly, but by God we also invented the White House lawn and gave the world U2.” I admire the optimism, but as a non-Irish visitor, I sometimes felt like I’d wandered into a family reunion slideshow where everyone insists you’re basically a cousin too.

History lesson absorbed (with mild scepticism), it was clearly time for a pint. Ryan’s Bar around the corner obliged: Guinness for everyone, food to settle stomachs, and the comforting hum of lunchtime pub life.

By 4 p.m., we were back at the hotel to check in. I, naturally, surrendered to the siren call of a nap while the others rediscovered the River Liffey.

Evening saw us regrouping, and suddenly my brain clicked into déjà vu mode—I actually remembered the way to Temple Bar from a trip two years ago. Yes, the area is touristy. Yes, the drinks cost as much as a small house in Leitrim. And yes, the live band at The Quays was loud enough to drown out existential thought. But you can’t really say you’ve “done Dublin” without passing through, preferably while shouting your order over a cover of “Whiskey in the Jar.”

From there, we ambled back in search of dinner, stumbling upon The Big Tree, a quiet sanctuary next to our hotel where the pints were cheaper, the volume tolerable, and the collective sigh of relief audible.

Eventually, we caved to the hotel restaurant itself before the kitchen bolted its doors at 9 p.m. Wine (Chile again, sorry Ireland) and whiskey rounded off the evening, because how else do you mark your last night on the Emerald Isle?

Stats of the day: 9.7 km walked, smashing our 11-day average of 7.5 km. Muscles sore, wallets lighter, livers slightly singed—but hearts full.

Tomorrow, the tour breaks up as half the crew heads airport-ward. For now, though, sláinte to Ireland: land of rain, bacon, and the occasional self-congratulatory museum.

Link back to my master Blog and main menu J²S