A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

"Are these the things we think of, when we think of the Irish?"

Originally posted March 17, 2004.

St. Patrick's Day, for me, ceased being a 10-hour cavalcade of inebriation around the same time I stopped being enamored of elbowing my way through crowds of what Tim Robbins would call a bunch of "amateur night drunks" to get a pint. In other words, about when I turned 23. I may only be half Irish, but even I know when to throw in the towel.

I still have fond memories of one particular March 17, however. So if you'll allow your humble author to indulge in a bit of wistful nostalgia, I'm going to dim the lights here at APCB and tell you of My Favorite St. Patrick's Day.

The year was 1999, when everyone was eagerly looking forward to that new Star Wars movie and a wholesome young Britney Spears enchanted America. The Wife (who is of sufficiently Irish extraction she knew which ancestral hometown of hers we needed to visit) and I (descended from Protestant Ulster teetotalers) were making our first trip overseas together and, after a few glitches involved in getting lodgings and a cruel joke of a Houston to London flight, had settled nicely into the Irish way of life: do stuff until 3:00 or so, then drink. Repeat. We'd scheduled our visit for the week of St. Patrick's Day more or less by accident, but this still meant we had to bug out of Dublin and drive across the Emerald Isle to Galway, where we'd managed to secure a reservation. That was March 16.

St. Patrick's Day eve turned out to be pretty hairy in its own right, as we careened from Galway to the Cliffs of Moher as fast as yours truly, driving on the wrong side of the narrow hewn-from-the-living-rock road and taking a short cut suggested by the Jury's Inn desk clerk, could take us. We had to catch the sunset, you see. In the end, we survived, even though none of my pictures really turned out to my liking.

The 17th was clear, cool, and dry. In short, a bit of an anomaly in the British Isles. Rather than continue the weeklong tradition of pub crawling for the day, we decided to take a charter flight from An Spiddal out to the Aran Islands. More specifically, Inis Mór. The Aran Islands (Inis Mór, Inis Meáin, and Inis Oírr) are really little more than big limestone slabs, covered with a thin layer of soil, that jut out of the Atlantic off the western coast of Ireland. They're windy, barren, and - once you leave the small town of Kilronan - almost entirely bereft of touristy crap. In short, the perfect place to avoid other drunk Americans.

We rented bikes. Apparently you can also take a tour bus, or walk, but bikes suited us fine. We meandered along the roads and rock walls, admiring the ruins of old churches, and frankly marveling that anyone could live someplace so desolate. At the same time, we were often the only people in sight. Something you never had to worry about in Dublin.

The big attraction on Inis Mór is Dun Aengus, an Iron Age fortress that is slowly but surely being devoured by the Atlantic. Large sections of its outer ring walls have already fallen prey to the implacable sea and wind, which means that visitors can walk right up to the precipice and check out the 300 foot drop into the ocean. Not me, of course. I crawled on my belly like an iguana until I was able to get a look. We hiked around, giving the edge a wide berth, while I commented on how a similar attraction in America would have warning signs spaced every 8 feet, and probably a 10' high security fence as well.

In what seemed like very little time, we had to head back to Galway. We took our time on the return trip, preferring to meander from An Spiddal back to the hotel. We had to get an early start the next morning, so we contented ourself with spending the evening in the hotel bar, where a group of drunken old men serenaded everyone with songs I couldn't even try to name. Yours truly gave his best effort to "American Pie," the better to appease some rather demanding French tourists, but that's probably something better left alone.

The Wife and I have done "Irish" things for St. Patrick's Day since, but - and quite understandably - nothing measures up to that one. You guys feel free to cram yourselves into Griff's or Kennealy's, I'm going to spend the evening with a pint or two of Guinness and look through the photo albums from 1999.

Sláinte.