Irish I was Drinking
The third leg of our Irish adventure brought us back to the Republic as we traced the Irish Sea southwards towards our return ferry home. One hundred and fifty Euros? Two hundred Euros? Those are the astronomical prices you’re looking at if booking anything with four walls, a mattress, and a soiled pillowcase within a hundred miles of Dublin. Luckily for us, we have two of those things ticked off already and so don’t need to bother ourselves with such unnecessary expenses. Park4Night once again pulled through, landing us on a free, quiet suburban street about a thirty-minute walk from the city centre, or a thirty-second walk from the Shelbourne Park Greyhound Stadium – the perfect location.
On our first day exploring the city, Lowri and I made a wager on whether we would behold more boisterous stag groups or unruly hen parties across our first weekend there, with the loser buying a round of Guinni (as is customary around these parts). She plumped for the hens and I opted for the stags but I was one-nil down within seconds when a large, luminous pink party bike comprising a cornucopia of perspiring middle-aged women crawled passed us playing Freed From Desire on full volume. As their combined speed barely surpassed that of our own on foot, we were treated to seventeen choruses of the aforementioned 90’s party anthem before we could seek refuge amongst one of the most famous libraries this side of Alexandria.
Located among the hallowed grounds of Trinity College, the Long Room is the extraordinary home of over two hundred thousand ancient books and manuscripts, some in excess of a thousand years of age. The magnificent double-galleried library makes any from Hogwarts look like Milton Keynes Community College, with texts stacked from floor to ceiling on chestnut shelves each served by its own extremely brittle, altitude-sickness-inducing rolling ladder. The library is also home to one of the last remaining copies of the 1916 Proclamation of the Irish Republic, the Book of Kells (an illuminated gospel manuscript written around 800 AD), and the national symbol of Ireland: the Brian Boru harp. If unsure as to what this particular harp looks like, and I would forgive you for doing so, buy yourself a pint of Guinness and take a look at its logo.
This leads us nicely on to the brewery itself, which no self-respecting trip to Ireland’s capital is complete without. Already four points down in our wager, here was where I was sure to reduce my deficit. Although my ambitions were quickly blown to shreds upon witnessing a profusion of feather boas and phallic straws adorning the many queuers queuing to get in. Whilst I had called on the Storehouse on a previous visit to the city, a stag do no less, I was more concerned with remaining on my feet rather than absorbing all there is to know about the Black Custard. This time was a far more relaxed affair, in which I could savour my top floor Guinness whilst encouraging/forcing my partner to finish her first… ever – which she did with only limited moaning and minor retching.
The remainder of our weekend, and indeed fortnight in Dublin, was somewhat of a blur as we flitted between our fortuitous parking spot near the centre and the outskirts of the city when searching for drinking water or when emptying our perennially packed Porta Potty. Of the seven current Wetherspoon utopias located in Ireland, we had visited six, and when we felt our livers, and dignity, were experiencing irreparable damage we decide it best to abandon the city and make our return to Rosslare Harbour, where our plucky journey began almost twelve weeks prior.
On the eve of our departure, we frequented one last traditional tavern to say our goodbyes. This gave me the chance to pay off my Guinni debt for the embarrassing fifteen-to-nine loss I experienced at the hands of the Dublin hens, as well as mull over our Irish experience. The warmth and welcome of the locals, although world-renowned, was even more profound than we could have imagined whilst many of the villages and communities that we encountered on the way felt more like home than home does. It is safe to say that Ireland will, indeed, hold a very particular place in both of our hearts, as well as our livers; a hold that may prove irresistible if or when our roots need planting. Slán agat, Éire.
J
