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Seven drunken nights

July 24, 2013

This blog post title refers to a song hubby used to sing to the children – and they loved it.  It is a raucous Dubliners song about a man who returns home the worse for wear every evening and all the evidence of his wife’s affair is ridiculed by her as being due to his inebriation. Lovely nursery stuff. He only ever did five of the nights as they get too rude for under tens, but on our week long tour of the West of Ireland, one of the many, many bands we saw did the whole seven and brought the house down.

We landed in Cork and spent the first night in Clonakilty – home of the famous black and white pudding. Which we unfortunately had as a starter for our first evening meal. It was billed as a terrine of black and white pudding with a tomato relish. A slab of tasteless pap arrived in a disgusting Marie Rose sauce circa 1973 prawn cocktails. My steak was no better nor hubby’s fish, so we were made more wary of all the accolades from the various guide books including the Michelin one. Perhaps this was actually the Michelin one for rating what to do with old tyres rather than for good cooking. So a very disappointing start. But luckily the evening was saved by traditional singing in a tiny pub. Locals taking turns singing with musical accompaniment as required. Some cracking party pieces and impressive to watch and hear the handing down of these tales – often about their history, or losses or drunkenness -to the next generation.

We moved on to Glengarriff, to another fairly anonymous hotel but again the music came through loud and clear. Not to mention the beauty of Bantry Bay and the surrounding area – surprisingly bathed in glorious sunshine. The following few days were based in Dingle – the most fabulous party town with bars and live music and clubbing even on Sunday nights. Good food here – particularly at the Global Village, but others were tasty too. And the wonderful beaches – huge wide sweeping miles of fine white sand. We revelled late in to the nights and lay sleeping on the beach on the day. This could be Ibiza not Ireland.

And finally to a shushi hotel in the centre of Galway. All plush furnishings, velvets and chiffons, great showers, cocktail bar and huge bed. More live music every night and in loads of places – including a 15 piece orchestra crammed in to the window of a bar – absolutely awesome and all for free. Well, the cost of a few drinks you’d be having anyway. Two more meals out  –  and I have to be honest I am starting to struggle now with eating so much and drinking so much  day after day after day.

No more!

No more!

Day four I am fine, Day five I am still good to go. Day six I am flagging and Day seven I hit the wall. I cannot squeeze in another drop of alcohol. We are at the third pub of the night after the restaurant for the evening meal (which the waitress described as ‘having a bit of jizz to it’. Hubby nearly choked although it wasn’t a phrase I was familiar with. Suffice to say my googling it listed numerous porn sites) and the singer is taking a break. It is half past twelve after all on a Tuesday night. And I crack. When offered another drink I refuse. “Are you OK?” Hubby is concerned. “I’m full.”

So we head back to the hotel for a nightcap and he squeezes two more whiskeys in. I may be full. But he’s the Full Irish.

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2 Responses to “Seven drunken nights”

  1. Kathryn Says:

    Quite relieved to hear you were flagging by the end of the week!


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