We boarded the plane with a mix of anticipation and exhaustion. It was one of those smaller planes that board from both the front and the back, and you had to climb the steps outside like you were either a rock star or a political figure about to wave at a crowd. First time I’d ever done it, and I felt a little like the latter, minus the Secret Service.
Inside, the cabin was buzzing with Irish accents. Even the safety briefing sounded lyrical, especially when they repeated everything in Gaelic. I couldn’t understand a word of it, but it felt ancient, magical — like the airplane might transform into a flying pub at any second. The flight itself was short, just long enough to remind me that I’d picked the wrong snack before boarding. Before I knew it, we were descending into Cork, green patchwork fields rolling out beneath us.
At the airport we met Ken, our ride and guide. As the van wound through narrow roads, the scenery kept us glued to the windows: emerald fields dotted with cows, hedgerows curling around bends like something from a movie. Then we rolled into Kinsale, a postcard-perfect fishing town with bright shopfronts and bobbing boats. We had to stop and snap pictures, tourists through and through.
Eventually we arrived at the house, greeted by Rosita and Ruby — and the heavenly smell of dinner. That night, Rosita served us banana-stuffed chicken, which sounded like a dare but turned out to be delicious. Later, she drove us to The Killbrittain Inn, where a turf fire glowed in the hearth and an Irish football game played on the telly. And then came my first Guinness in Ireland. It’s creamier, fresher, alive somehow. I promise you it is the most delicious beer you will ever taste. Listen: Guinness in Ireland isn’t Guinness anywhere else. I was tipsy after the first pint and wrote in my journal that night: “I love, love, love it here.”
 |
| My first Guinness in Ireland |
On day two in Ireland, I slept later than everyone else, waking to find Sal and Dad finishing their porridge. I settled for Corn Flakes, and soon we were off. After prepping for the day, we were to go to Clonakilty. On the way, we made a stop in Timoleague out of curiosity, where we explored the ruins of Timoleague Friary, a crumbling monastery dating back to the 12th century. Mist clung to the stone walls as we wandered among arches and tombs, Dad filming every angle.
 |
| My picture with you at Timoleague |
Then on to Clonakilty, where a statue of Michael Collins stood proud. To think the man himself once rallied crowds there a century ago sent chills down my spine. We even saw the house that he lived in! Our next stop we won’t soon forget.
The day’s highlight was Drombeg Stone Circle. Built by Druids to align with the winter solstice, it looked like something out of a fantasy novel. While I was marveling, an American couple wandered in. Their accents gave them away, so I asked where they were from. Norman, Oklahoma. Of all places! There we were, in the middle of an ancient Druid site, meeting people from practically down the road. We traded stories, laughed about the coincidence. We talked about where we have been so far, and they told us where they had visited. Then the four of us sat for lunch — sandwiches and hot tea packed by Rosita and Ken earlier this morning. I ended up with the cheese sandwich last, grumbling at first, then grinning after the first bite. Irish aged cheddar with pesto on wheat, eaten by a stone circle? Absolute bliss.
 |
| Drombeg |
Back at the house that evening, we met Erin, Rosita’s dark-haired niece, and then changed to head into Kinsale again. Dad had clients, so Sal and I wandered the town looking for secondhand shops (none to be found). Kinsale, we discovered, was more of a tourist place where you find souvenirs and pubs. Instead, we ducked into a pub for a pot of tea, feeling like locals for a moment. Dinner was fish and chips eaten on a stone wall outside, followed by more pints. We had little room for them though because our bellies where about to burst after eating fish. We went home and went straight to bed that night, stuffed and content.
The next day, I woke to the smell of black pudding and eggs, a breakfast that really hit the spot. That day’s mission carried us to Bandon, where we met Lou — an American who had somehow made Ireland his home. We sipped coffee while he worked through a plate of eggs, watching people come and go through the café windows. As we sat there, Sal and I found ourselves daydreaming about what it might be like to live here. Lou seemed to know the person running the café, and I caught myself looking around with a sense of envy for the life he’d built in Ireland.
Later, over tea at his flat, we listened as he riffed on theology, conspiracy theories, and 2012 predictions — speaking like a man with one foot planted in this world and the other in another. He was magnetic, part sage and part eccentric uncle, and we were eager to keep picking his brain.
After sharing tea, we went for a walk through town. I tried, unsuccessfully, to track down tobacco for my pipe. Lou, meanwhile, was anxious to meet Dad, but I already had a theory of how that meeting might go, knowing Dad’s more judgmental side.
Lunch at The Early Bird gave me the best shepherd’s pie I’ve ever tasted. Dad, predictably, had mixed feelings about Lou, but I chalked that up to his usual judgmental streak. I spoke to mom while I was there to check on things. I told her how much I loved the country. Later, Sal and I explored St. Patrick’s Cathedral, dipped into shops, and even found a pub for tea (I swapped mine for a Guinness, naturally). Rosita came and picked us up at the end of the day.
That evening, Sal and I decided to walk twenty minutes back to
The Killbrittain Inn. The journey wasn’t glamorous — think manure, overflowing bins, and hedged lanes — but the pint that awaited us at the end made every step
down this windy Irish road worthwhile.
Moments after getting there, we were indulging on the unmistakable, dark, creamy ale that had us in a positive emotional state immediately. Ireland was on the tele playing football, and we were knee-deep in an engaging conversation. Sal had the Idea of playing darts, so we played a few games of 301.
 |
| Playing darts like the Irish |
We were mid-darts game, riding a good buzz, when Dad and Rosita showed up to drag us out for dinner. I had just ordered another round when Dad interrupted — record scratch. Sal was a little peeved, thinking we still had more time. I started gathering myself to leave, and Rosita, trying to help, picked up my pint but abandoned it with a third still left. Criminal. I downed the rest and headed for the door.
Dinner that night was at Fishy Fishy, a spot made famous the year before when Johnny Depp dropped in. Dad splurged on a 150-euro lobster, while I kept it modest with crab claws and rice. I didn’t run into Captain Jack Sparrow, but I did meet Deirdre, a lively local who joined us on our evening stroll before we turned in.
 |
| Us at "Fishy Fishy" |
Today was to be Cork Day. We had plans to see Cork City. It was also Ken and Rosita’s anniversary! They walked to the beach together, while Sal and I stayed at the house with dad. Once they returned, we headed out with Ken. This was the day I’d been waiting for: The Blarney Castle.
 |
| Blarney Castle |
What a sight to behold! It was so neat. I had high hopes for the castle and they were surpassed. The grounds looked like something out of legend — caves, dungeons, winding staircases. There were so many stories surrounding the castle. At the top, the view stretched for miles. I lined up for the famous stone, leaned back with someone holding my legs, and kissed it. Supposedly, that gave me “the gift of gab.” Jury’s still out, but I’ll take it. I wondered around outside the castle and took pictures and video.
 |
| Kissing the Blarney Stone |
 |
| Picking a shamrock |
Afterward, we wandered into a little gift shop, where I picked up a few things to bring back for people. As I browsed the shelves, ‘Galway Girl’ floated through the speakers, and I couldn’t help but think of my friend Alex back home— he’s always loved that song. When we regrouped outside the souvenir shop, we shook off the chill with bowls of leek-and-potato soup, steaming cups of tea, and, for me, a neat Jameson to set things right.
Later, Rosita spoiled us with homemade apple pie and it was outstanding!
Our next stop was Cork’s city center. We paused at the old Beamish brewery for some photos, then ducked into a cathedral before wandering the busy streets. It was clearly a college town — full of energy, with no shortage of attractive women passing by. At one point, we even spotted a pair of stormtroopers casually having tea on the street, which only added to the scene’s surreal charm.
Ken led us through a sprawling market, where we picked up Irish cheddar and fresh bread to go with the bangers he had cooked earlier. We also browsed a movie shop with a massive Irish film section, eventually buying Rat for them to watch that evening. Ken suggested I check out The General as well.
For dinner, he took us to a spot that proudly claimed to serve the best fish and chips in all of Ireland — and I had to admit, they lived up to the hype. Before leaving Cork, I grabbed some Guinness to bring back home.
That night, we watched
Rat back at the house. Ken and Rosita rather enjoyed the movie. Afterwards, dad “relieved Rosita’s stress” with his tapping method. I nursed a few Guinnesses solo and turned in, content.
The next morning, I walked around filming their house and property with a heaviness of departure. Rosita sent us off right with salmon and eggs. Bags packed, we made one final stop at the beach, taking in the scene as the wind whipped off the Atlantic. Ireland had worked its magic on me — ancient ruins, green hills, pints in cozy pubs, and conversations that felt timeless.
Still, my heart ached for Liam, my girlfriend, and for my own bed. However, I didn’t want to leave Ireland. If only they’d been there with me, I wouldn’t have wanted to leave at all.
At last, we made our way to Aer Lingus and flew into Manchester Airport. Sal and I split a couple of Boddingtons before bracing ourselves for what turned out to be the worst night’s sleep imaginable. I fed three pounds into a slot machine, came up empty, and resigned myself to the long night ahead.
Sleep was a cruel joke — picture me sprawled across a row of hard plastic chairs, legs dangling, while the PA system blared every fifteen minutes: ‘Attention: to avoid security measures, please keep luggage with you at all times.’
Our next stop would be a layover in the Netherlands.
Comments
Post a Comment