Sayonara

Okay, it's time for sayonara. Go on, Yankee, break my heart...

Now that my liver and I are on speaking terms again, it's probably safe to tell the tale of the end times:

We rumbled down to Galway from Westport, stopping for a mid-day pint in Clifden. Galway presented the most significant rain of the trip, and made our short walk from our guest house to the tourist center of the town both wet and cold. We barely made it to the Quays, which was an old church that tried to fool us by hanging a toilet seat from the cathedral ceilings and apothecary bottles behind the bar. A waitress handed me a paper napkin with which to towel off, and we warmed ourselves with pints and oysters that we forgot to pay for. (Al took us back the next day to pay for them and apologize for the dine n' dash. Who knew, til then, that Al had scrupples. I was a little crestfallen, actually.)

We drank more and read the papers in Tir Non Nog, around the corner, where Mike and I enjoyed giant bottles of Bulmer's cider. They had a huge aquarium behind the bar, filled with fish you'd swear were actual living, swimming things. Should you happen upon the Tir Non Nog, be sure to ask the bartender if the fish are real.

Later that night, we walked around in the rain and my liver rebelled, conspiring with my slight cold to take me out of the evening's final pint.

Day 8's Round Round-Up:

• 1 at Mannion's Bar, Clifden
• 1 at the Quays, Galway
• 1 at Tir Non Nog
• 1 at Busker Brown's
• 1 at Murphy's
• 1 at Maxwell McNamara's
• 1 at Fox's Bar
• 2/3 at P.J. Flannery's, across from our guest host, while yr faithful correspondent lay his weary head as those other fools imbibed another.

The next day we did some shopping -- the first significant such in 9 days -- and then drove to the Cliffs of Moher. On the way there, we had great smoked fish and good Guinness at the Irish Arms Hotel in Lisdonvarna, then stopped at the nearby smokehouse to buy more fish. (Should you need smoked salmon, readers, seek out the one called Schnarsky: he bought the bushel.)

The Cliffs of Moher are some big ol' cliffs, which must have belonged at one point to Moher, or perhaps were discovered by him (or her). Probably there was information that would nail this down in the tourist center, but a bus of small wrinkly people had just let out, so we just walked up the cliff. Mike was very speedy, so I never quite got the right angle on him to heave him into the sea.

Another pint and the rerun of the Grand National race -- everyone was betting on it -- at a bar in Gort whose name is as lost to me as the name of the winning nag. The Grand National is a kind of steeplehorse race -- of the 40 horses and jockeys that start the race, only 9 finished. Lost of slow motion footage of horses and riders falling on their heads.

We spent the evening rambling 'round Galway, but the bars filled up with kids so we headed back to P.J. Flannery's, where we spent our last Euros on Fat Frogs. Nice craic, there at Flannery's, though.

Round Round-Up, Day 9:

• 1 at the Irish Arms Hotel in Lisdonvarna. Al has the t-shirt.
• 1 at unknown bar in Gort
• 1 at the Bunch of Grapes, which wins the day for best pub name and for hospitality
• 1 at Richardson's
• 1 at Fibber Magee's -- first frog of the night, surrounded by wee Irish lasses sporting their pelmets.
• 1 at M.T. Pockets, which loses the day for best pub name but gains points for their deaf patron's display of Irish Sign Language, which I'd read about in the paper the day before.
• 3 at P.J. Flannery's

Round Round-Up, Day 10:

• 2 bitter and sad excuses for Irish stout/ale at the airport bar, on the other side of duty free.

Now, then: when shall we go a-roving again?

This was our happy ever-after, so motherf*cker kiss the ground.