Our last night in Ireland was spent in Cork, drinking Murphy’s, the local stout, while drifting between the pubs near our hostel. We caught a bus to Rosslare the following morning to meet our ferry to Cherbourg, France, and watched the rain drip down outside the window as we passed through the river ports on Ireland’s south east coast.

Boarding the Irish Ferry, amongst a trickle of other foot passengers, we sat down at the nearest available table, one of a long line stretching through a corridor, its carpet a dirty red. Fruit machines had been placed in the small space between every set of bolted down furniture. (Read on …)

Doolin, population 200, is a village on Ireland’s West Coast. It is renowned for its traditional music, hence the busloads of tourists trafficked through its tiny strip of small shops. Claire and I, eating Guinness stew outside one of the three village pubs, watched these branded coaches, with names like authenticireland.com, squeeze through the narrow country roads.

We had left Dublin earlier that day, travelled first to Oranmore, outside Galway, and from there to Doolin. The route is operated by Bus Eireann, Ireland’s only nationwide bus carrier. It profits from an inadequate rail network. (Read on …)

Heads aching, eyes burning and skin clammy, Iain and I took a bus from Belfast to Dundalk, far too early in the morning. It was actually ten o’clock, but our agony made the hour feel quite unsuitable for anywhere but bed. Our ailments had arisen from walking down Belfast’s University Road the previous night, and succumbing to the lure of a flyer handed to us on the street. “The Bunker”, it read, “Tuesdays – Student Night: Free Entry”, “Bulmers £1”. Being budget conscious travellers, we were sold.

Bulmers is an Irish cider, to which we had become accustomed in England (at £3 a bottle), where it is known as Magners, under license. A refreshingly crisp apple cider, usually served on ice from its pint sized bottles, it is lethal stuff. Needless to say we had a duty to make use of the give-away price. (Read on …)

Claire and I walked off the ferry from Stranraer to Belfast, through the strange contrivance that takes you from land to sea without seeing either, and queued at the escalator leading down to the baggage collection area. Ahead of me, a swarthy middle aged man, his bald, shiny head and large pointy nose swaying as he staggered, took a few steps forward, tripped, and bounced down the escalator, step by painful step, arms and elbows flailing.

He lay momentarily in a heap on the floor, chuckling, then stood. And immediately fell over. He was sitting, still chuckling, arms heaped on his marshmallow body, when we reached the bottom of the escalator. I watched as he refused all offers of help through a stupid smile. (Read on …)

I’m writing while on a train through the Scottish Highlands, from Mallaig to Stranraer, along a track cut close into jagged cliffs, skirting the ocean. It is a clear, sunny day, and the landscape reminds me of Cape Town.

Claire and I arrived in Aberdeen a week ago, to visit Peterculter, on its outskirts, where my grandfather spent his early life, and to properly meet his cousin, living about an hour away, in Ballater. We lugged our backpacks through long, grey streets to eventually reach the city’s only hostel, the Aberdeen SYHA. (Read on …)