I do it my way

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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.

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We woke up indecently early again (apparently Ireland is turning us into morning people), well-rested thanks to the Celtic House B&B. Our room came equipped with two double beds — which meant I could starfish myself across one of them while still having the other as a backup in case of emergency. Breakfast wasn’t until 8:30, so I did the noble thing: updated my blog and checked the news from home. Apparently, Carcassonne is bracing for another heatwave. Shorts weather awaits us there, but for now, we’re firmly in “sherry weather” here in Kilkenny — damp, chilly, and only missing the glass of fortified wine to complete the mood.

Breakfast itself was served by none other than Angela Byrne — painter, author, and, if I’m being honest, someone I had never heard of until she placed sausages in front of me. (Every day’s a school day in Ireland.)

Kilkenny was hosting a “Medieval Half Marathon” today. I was this close to joining but, alas, forgot my running shorts. (Also, I don’t run unless a Guinness is involved.) Instead, we settled for something less sweaty: Kilkenny Castle. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s a fine castle — but after you’ve seen a few, they do start to blend together. Turrets here, tapestries there, medieval draftiness everywhere.

Next up, we wandered through the Craft & Design Experience, peeked at Butler’s House and gardens, and then — brace yourselves — we boarded the little tourist road train.

Yes, we had already walked most of Kilkenny the day before, but when the opportunity arises to sit down and be driven in circles while someone tells you fun facts over a crackly speaker… you don’t say no.

Back in town, I stumbled into a men’s clothing shop and came out with a jumper (half-price in the sales — I ask you, what choice did I have?). Now the real puzzle: will Ryanair let me cram it into my already rebellious hand luggage? Stay tuned.

The Medieval Mile Museum kept us entertained until lunch beckoned.

Our friends A & S had already infiltrated Kyteler’s Inn, so we joined them. The place was buzzing, Guinness was flowing, and the beef stew of the day was calling my name.

Payment, however, was another story — the card machines were down, but by some miracle we had enough cash. A rare occasion, because normally our wallets hold just enough coins to operate a public toilet.

After lunch, we split up. Some of us went to the Smithwick’s brewery tour (where we learned the great Irish truth: Kilkenny = Smithwick’s in a tuxedo, sent abroad for export glamour).

The others went to Rothe House. The plan was to regroup at the legendary Hole in the Wall pub, but alas, it was closed. Plan B: the “Famine Experience.” Spoiler alert — it turned out to be a virtual walk housed inside a shopping mall. Nothing says famine like a food court.

By 4pm, energy levels flatlined. Four of us retreated to the B&B for tea, naps, and the illusion of productivity (yes, I typed this bit of the blog with one eye closed).

Evening brought us all together again at the Langston Hotel for apéritifs, dinner, and live Irish music.

The place was buzzing, the atmosphere cheerful, and the pints plentiful. Kilkenny does know how to do a Saturday night — and we managed it all without running a half marathon.

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🏰 Early Contacts (12th–16th centuries)

• 1169: The first Norman knights (invited by an Irish king looking for help in a local feud) landed in Ireland.

• This led to the Anglo-Norman conquest, with England’s King Henry II asserting control.

• For centuries, English rule was mostly limited to a small fortified area around Dublin, known as the Pale. Much of Ireland remained under Gaelic lords.

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⚔️ Tudor & Stuart Era (16th–17th centuries)

• From the 1500s, the Tudors (Henry VIII, Elizabeth I) sought full control.

• Henry VIII declared himself King of Ireland (1541), breaking from Rome and planting English authority.

• The Plantations began: confiscated Irish lands were settled by English and Scottish Protestants (especially in Ulster).

• Religious division hardened: Catholic Irish vs. Protestant settlers/administration.

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🌍 17th Century Upheaval

• Rebellions and wars (1641 Rising, Cromwell’s brutal conquest in the 1650s).

• Large land confiscations from Catholics.

• By 1700, Protestants (the “Protestant Ascendancy”) owned most of the land.

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📜 18th Century

• Ireland had its own Parliament, but it was controlled by the Protestant Ascendancy.

• Catholics and dissenting Protestants were excluded by the Penal Laws.

• Growing resentment among Catholics and the poor.

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💥 1798 Rebellion

• Inspired by the American and French revolutions, the United Irishmen (Protestants and Catholics united) rose against English rule.

• It failed, but it showed a new idea: Irish nationalism.

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🇬🇧 Union with Britain (1801)

• After further unrest, Ireland was formally joined with Britain in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

• Irish MPs sat in Westminster, but Ireland remained politically and socially unequal.

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🌾 The Great Famine (1845–1852)

• Potato crop failure → mass starvation, disease, and emigration.

• Population dropped by millions.

• Britain’s slow response deepened Irish resentment and nationalist feeling.

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🟢 19th Century Nationalism

• Home Rule movement pushed for self-government within the UK.

• Leaders like Parnell gained momentum, but opposition in Ulster (Protestants fearing Catholic dominance) blocked it.

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🇮🇪 20th Century Struggle

• Easter Rising (1916): Irish rebels declared a republic in Dublin. It was crushed, but it lit the flame of independence.

• War of Independence (1919–1921): Guerrilla war by the IRA vs. British forces.

• 1921 Treaty: Ireland was partitioned.

• 26 counties became the Irish Free State (later the Republic of Ireland).

• 6 counties in the northeast remained Northern Ireland, part of the UK.

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⚡ Northern Ireland Troubles (1960s–1998)

• Tensions between Catholic nationalists and Protestant unionists erupted into violence.

• “The Troubles” lasted 30 years, with bombings, shootings, and heavy British military presence.

• Good Friday Agreement (1998) brought peace and a power-sharing government in Northern Ireland.

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🌿 Today

• The Republic of Ireland is fully independent, a member of the EU, and culturally thriving.

• Northern Ireland remains part of the UK, but questions about reunification linger, especially after Brexit.

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5👉 In a nutshell: 800 years of English involvement in Ireland saw conquest, colonisation, rebellion, famine, and partition. The legacy is still visible in politics, identity, and culture today.

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After an excellent night’s sleep, I woke with that particular craving only the British Isles can truly understand: a nice, strong cup of tea to shock the eyelids into action. Mission accomplished, our plan was clear — make it to the Galway City Museum for its 10am opening. Thankfully, it’s perched right on the seafront, meaning only a short stroll from our accommodation.

The weather? Grey, damp, and drizzly — in other words, Ireland being Ireland. But miracle of miracles, we made it without getting wet, which in Galway counts as a minor victory.

Inside, the museum turned out to be far more enlightening than expected. I’ve always been a bit muddled when it comes to Irish and Anglo-Irish history (to be fair, who hasn’t?), but this morning I genuinely learned a few things. For fellow history-heads or the historically-confused, I’ve prepared a neat little digest in a separate post (link here). Consider it my public service to save others from the same muddle.

By noon, however, the heavens opened. Strolling about town in biblical rain? Hard pass. Instead, we executed a tactical retreat  to Seasan Ua Neactain (do not ask me to pronounce it) pub for a couple of pints.

We book a table at Flanagan’s pub next door to our accommodation . Lunch there was classic Irish fare — hearty, satisfying, and perfect for six people wedged together at a table designed for four. The only disappointment was the wine. Bottles with screw caps flown in from Chile and Argentina — which felt less “rustic pub charm” and more “airport duty free clearance sale.” Honestly, Ireland, if you’re in the EU, at least buy wine from France, Spain, or Italy. Save the planet and our taste buds.

After regrouping in our rented house, the rain finally eased, and we set off to see Galway Cathedral.

Now, don’t be fooled: the word “cathedral” usually conjures up visions of medieval grandeur, flying buttresses, and a touch of incense-soaked mystery. Galway’s? Built in the 1960s. Solid, yes. Impressive in scale, certainly. But atmospheric? Let’s just say it has all the gravitas of a particularly devout bus station.

Our last evening in Galway was low-key: dinner at home with provisions from the corner shop and 3 take away pizzas as well as a far better bottle of wine than Flanagan’s could ever dream of stocking.

Sometimes, the simplest nights in are the best. Tomorrow, new adventures beckon — hopefully under slightly less soggy skies.

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From Donegal crowds to Galway busy charms

Now, about Donegal. Officially, it has a modest population of 2,800. Unofficially, however, it feels like 20,000—because, of course, the town is currently hosting the entire tourism board of the United States. Coach after coach disgorges cheerful Americans, and you can spot them from a mile away: the sneakers, the baseball caps, the “Oh my GAAAD, look at this castle!” delivered at a volume sufficient to reach Dublin without Wi-Fi.

I’m starting to suspect they all failed a collective hearing test. Why else would one need to shout at a friend standing precisely six inches away? It’s either that or they’ve mistaken Donegal for Times Square on New Year’s Eve and feel the need to make themselves heard above the non-existent fireworks. Either way, it’s a curious cultural phenomenon.

But enough anthropology. Galway awaits! Stay tuned—there will be music, there will be Guinness, and quite possibly, there will be dancing (though hopefully not by me). As the Irish say: “What’s seldom is wonderful”—so let’s hope Galway delivers plenty of seldom and an extra dash of wonderful.

The Wild Atlantic Way carried us south-west, the Nissan Qashqai heroically soldiering on despite its sulky rear indicator light. I drove the first 150 kilometres under moody skies, while Chris nobly handled the remaining 100. Showers came and went, clouds brooded, but the road was kind enough.

Galway welcomed us at the peak of lunch hour chaos. Our lodgings? A fully renovated three-storey townhouse tucked in the old quarter. We claimed the ground-floor bedroom with direct access to the street—perfect for discreet snack-hunting missions.

Barely had we dropped our cases before the Latin Quarter beckoned. Less than 200 yards away, a proper old-fashioned pub lured us in with its jaw-dropping whisky collection.

Tempting as it was to explore the entire shelf, I remained faithful to my current favourite, accompanied, of course, by a brace of Guinness pints so smooth they practically applauded themselves.

Groceries were procured (tomorrow’s DIY breakfast: secured), a brief nap was taken (civilisation: restored), and soon it was time for an early apéritif. Dinner had been cleverly booked at Kirby’s restaurant two minutes away—just far enough to justify another drink on arrival. I began with an Old Fashioned cocktail, graduated to excellent fish and chips, and then sabotaged the entire meal with a Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon that can only be described as “ambitiously unpleasant.” Lesson learned.

Back home, we cracked open the Bushmills bottles procured earlier in the trip. I was the last to bed at the almost virtuous hour of 11 p.m. Reflections of the day? Galway charmed, Guinness delivered, and Americans remain both ubiquitous and mysteriously loud. Prices, too, seem to rise in direct proportion to decibels. Coincidence? I think not.

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Castles, shoes, Seals and a surprise pub queue

We started the day in what I like to call a “civilised hour” — 9am. Any earlier and it’s breakfast, any later and it’s brunch, and frankly, I can’t handle that kind of existential crisis on holiday. A short stroll brought us to a café called Cold Stone. Don’t worry, it wasn’t as bleak as the name suggests — coffee and eggs were as warm and reassuring as an Irish welcome.

By early afternoon, we were inevitably lured into McCafferty’s Pub — purely cultural research, of course.

Two pints later, we were off for something nautical: the Donegal Bay Waterbus. At 3:30 sharp, we set sail (well, motored) downriver toward the Atlantic. We bagged seats outside on top, which was scenic and bracing, but mercifully a crew member appeared with drinks. Nothing says “I’m at sea” quite like clutching a gin & tonic while squinting at seals. Along the way we spotted a few blubbery locals sunbathing and some enviable houses perched along the riverbanks, the sort of places you only own if your ancestors invented Guinness or at least the paperclip.

Back on dry land, we regrouped with the noble intention of more pubbing. The Castle Bar was our first target… only to discover it has a waiting list for drinks. A waiting list. For a pint. I’ve seen many things in pubs, but this was a first. Plan B: O’Donnell’s, where we successfully hydrated before moving on to the Grand Hotel for dinner. Dining was lovely — until a table of very vocal Americans behind us treated the entire room to what I can only assume was a rehearsal for Broadway’s next big musical.

For the nightcap, we skipped the pubs altogether and went DIY: two fine bottles of Bushmills whisky, opened in Acky & Sylvia’s spacious family room. A civilised 11pm lights-out capped yet another Donegal day brimming with castles, history, unexpected footwear emergencies, and the occasional seal.

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The day began with a fairly sharp start, which is travel-speak for “too early but necessary.” The cure? A Full Irish breakfast—a meal so calorific it could power a small village, or at the very least, keep six tourists upright until dinner.

First stop: the Giant’s Causeway. UNESCO World Heritage, world famous, and—under today’s dark clouds and gale-force winds—world dramatic.

Our guide Philip was cheerful, informative, and strangely comprehensible. Later we discovered why: he was from Yorkshire. That explains it. We marched a couple of miles over, around, and occasionally against the rocks before collapsing gratefully over a cup of tea—proof that tea is indeed the national first-aid kit.

Next up, the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge. Or at least, the path to it. The bridge itself was closed thanks to the wind (and my vertigo sent it a thank-you card). Still, the 1.2 km walk gave us astonishing views and me a respectable photo album to prove I “bravely approached” the bridge without actually stepping foot on it.

By mid-afternoon we were Donegal-bound, showers and all, and crossed back into Ireland just before 3 p.m. Our B&B, Riverside House, won immediate approval… though we only admired it for five minutes before setting off on foot for more pressing business: finding a pub.

The Olde Castle Bar provided a lively pint, another pub on the town square offered a second, and by then our dinner plans had to involve an Indian restaurant—because why not? It turned out excellent. On the stroll home we passed “Pub Number Two” again, and, well, resistance is futile. A whisky nightcap sealed the deal: Donegal, 1. Liver, 0.

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A Titanic start and a whiskeyed finish

The alarm rang cruelly early, but when you’ve booked six people into the Titanic Experience for 9 a.m., you either rise with purpose or you sink without trace.

Belfast’s pride and heartbreak, the Titanic, was built right there in the docks, and the museum is a proper immersion—plenty of information, slick displays, and just enough drama to make you feel you’ve stepped into history without getting your feet wet. I nearly emerged with a captain’s cap, but a calming cup of tea proved more seaworthy for my wallet.

From maritime tragedy, we shifted smoothly to liquid triumph: Bushmills. With time to spare before our afternoon distillery appointment, we fortified ourselves with an outstanding burger-and-IPA combo. Proof, if any were needed, that Irish hospitality extends well beyond the pint glass.

Our B&B, a mere 5 km away, welcomed us like long-lost cousins. Luggage deposited, we hatched a plan for the evening: procure supplies for a makeshift snack in the pub downstairs. (Because nothing says civilised travellers like sneaking your own picnic into licensed premises.)

At precisely 3:30 p.m.—punctuality being the politeness of whiskey-lovers—we presented ourselves at Bushmills Distillery.

The tour was a sensory delight, particularly the air itself: warm, malty, and faintly intoxicating even before the tasting. Naturally, the finale involved a glass or two. For me, a 12-year-old Bushmills: smooth, complex, and just cheeky enough to suggest another might follow later.

Evening saw us reunited with Guinness at our B&B’s bar, where time flowed as generously as the taps. Conversation, laughter, and another small nip of that 12-year-old rounded off the day. By the time we headed upstairs, the world was pleasantly blurred and very, very Irish.

Tomorrow may come early again, but tonight, we sleep like sailors after shore leave.

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