Didn’t sleep much last night—around 11:30pm, a gang of lads decided the quiet Limerick street outside our Airbnb was the perfect place for an impromptu five-a-side match. Thumping footballs and echoing shouts bouncing off the tarmac well past midnight. Not ideal.
We hit the road groggy but determined. First stop: Cork—though we didn’t make it to the city centre. Instead, we found our way to The Lough, a big urban lake tucked into a residential area. What a spot!
We planned for a quick look, ended up staying a couple of hours. It was packed with birds—swans, ducks, geese, pigeons, and at least a dozen other feathered creatures I couldn’t identify. Some looked prehistoric.
Charlie had a blast watching them squabble and glide around. It was peaceful, in a slightly chaotic, honking kind of way.
From there, we cut across the country to Waterford, which turned out to be properly pretty. Compact, bright, and full of little winding streets and river views. Great spot for a mid-afternoon wander.
Next up: Kilkenny. And wow.
The castle looked like it had been airlifted out of a fantasy film—stone towers, grand lawns, and more pigeons (always pigeons).
As soon as we got close, Charlie grinned and shouted:
“Oh my God! They’ve killed Kenny!”
Absolutely nailed the reference. I nearly cried laughing. Definitely one of the day’s highlights.
As the sun began to drop, we made our final push up to Carlow, winding into the outbacks, down narrow lanes where phone signal feared to tread. Our final Airbnb host greeted us with a warm smile, handed over the keys, and that was that.
...We slept for twelve solid hours. Didn’t even stir. Not even if Kenny himself had come back (again).
And then came Thursday morning, and with it, the rain.
The weather we’d managed to outrun all week finally caught up with us—sheets of it, falling hard and fast across the Carlow countryside. No official storm name, but it felt like it deserved one. Let’s call it Charlie’s Curse.
We didn’t hang about. Packed up the car, zipped our coats tight, and hit the road. It was a 90-minute motorway blast up the M9, then the M7/N7 into Dublin, wipers screeching and Charlie navigating through steamed-up windows and crumpled road maps.
In the capital, we dropped the hire car with all the subtlety of a getaway crew in GTA
“Ditch it and go!” Charlie shouted, half-laughing as we legged it toward the city centre.
Somewhere between chaos and catharsis.
With a few hours to kill before the ferry, we explored Dublin—Grafton Street, lively as ever with its mosaic of buskers and shoppers; stood by and looked dizzyingly up at the Spire. Had a wander through Temple Bar, cobbles slick with rain but spirits high. Dublin’s got that energy that doesn’t pause for weather or reason.
We ducked into a pub—classic Irish wood panelling, gold trim, a fireplace in the corner and red-faced drunks at the bar saying 'Feck' a lot. It was here that Charlie, always the opportunist, covertly sampled Guinness for the first time.
His verdict?
“It’s like fizzy gravy.”
Not quite a fan. But a rite of passage all the same.
Eventually, we made our way to the port for the 2:45pm ferry. The rain softened to a drizzle as we boarded, the boat rumbling to life beneath us. Ireland slowly faded from view—green hills blurring into sea mist.
It felt fitting.
A week of stories, diversions, birds, castles, and barely working wipers.
We left the Emerald Isle behind and cruised back toward the green green grass of home.
Final thoughts?
A cracking trip.
We may have zigzagged half the country, missed a few turns, and paid far too much for pizza—but we also saw things we never expected and laughed every single day.
Charlie’s already planning the next one.
Can't wait
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