LIFE IN FLUX

Travels + Expat Adventures with the Monroes and Moose

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From Luxembourg – Fin.

After a long grey winter, and a seemingly even longer grey spring, the early signs of summer were finally blooming in our little backyard. And as the unbelievably vibrant greens and blooms of Luxembourg burst forth, our apartment grew chaotic, then packed, then barren.

With only hours left in our home, come join us along one of our favorite walks.

This is the path that wound from our apartment in Hamm, an outskirt neighborhood of Luxembourg City, down into the channel of the Grund along the river, and up into Ville Haute.

We walked this many times during our two years. And on our final stroll was under the blue sky spring that reminded us so much of our arrival time in our adopted home.

Along with saying goodbye to the city, we spent final Lux time with some favorite pals: over macarons, mint and pacchetti pasta, and cremant and bocce enjoyed plein air.

And one of the last needed goodbyes was to a first magical spot. This vista between Kirchberg and Clausen was, like many things during this period, accidentally stumbled upon. During our first week in Lux, we snapped a selfie of two very stressed, tired, excited new expats. Remember this blog’s very first Lux post? I’ve become a less eloquent writer and a much improved photographer in that time, huh?

How to sum up two years of life in this tiny country? The further away I get from it, the more magical it feels: I longingly think of those beautiful stone streets, of cities heavy with history and art, of staggering varieties of foods and languages and cultures, of our apartment with the enormous tub and a backyard overlooking the forest and its changing seasons. I feel less keenly the aches of this time: tax anxiety, work angst, dryers that didn’t really work, frustrations with language barriers, feeling wrong-footed with differences in cultural humor, the fear of stalling out.

People have often asked where I loved visiting the most, and what I miss the most. A handful have asked if I would recommend the experience. 

The answers are these. 

First: Budapest and Copenhagen (cities that unexpectedly won my heart), Tuscany and Islay (places I long to return to), the Alps and the Cliffs of Moher (stunning natural wonders of awe), and basically everywhere that had a cathedral of dizzying stained glass (because duh).

Second: this answer is much larger and simpler and more complicated. I ache for big things, like the opportunity to travel so simply and easily, the potential to hop on a plane at any time and be in Rome, or Dublin, or Porto. And I ache for small things, like the sound of church bells echoing across our neighborhood; our Friday night traditions of grocery runs to Auchan, followed by a bottle of wine and a wheel of Camembert; the rhythm of seasons as snow, then flowers, then summer festivals, then amber leaves swept through our country. It seems impossible that I once spent Sunday mornings sitting in a cafe while the snow fell outside; or that I could sit in a movie theater and watch a film with two sets of subtitles; or that I hiked trails and replied to on-comers with “Moien” or “Hallo” or “Bonjour” based on how they greeted me.

I miss the period of having Andrew all to myself: our time in Europe was almost a second honeymoon – not free from cares, but free from things that pulled our attention away. There was a great impetus to take care of one another during this time: to deeply develop friendship and romance and support. Andrew, our marriage grew immensely during this period: I am so deeply grateful that this heart’s desire of living abroad was granted alongside you. It was more difficult and more wonderful than I could have ever imagined: and none of it would have been the same without your hand in mine.

And while I deeply miss, and still ache, for every one of these things (and countless more), there is something of rich goodness in that ache. The powerful experiences I carry from this period ignited something deep within me: a confidence in my adaptive abilities and in the providence of God; a deeper respect for and knitting together with my life partner; a profound love for the well-worn steps of home and the ever-going-on road of travel; an expanding appreciation for our world and what it means to be a human within it.

And the final question: would I recommend it? 

With all my heart.

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From Dubrovnik – The Close

Three days, sans commentary. 

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From Herzegovina – Y’all, we gotta wrap this up.

(So you know these final three posts have been sitting in my inbox unpublished for a year and a half. Which is objectively terrible. It’s time to pull the plug and move on. So for your enjoyment and my sanity, the next two will be minimal posts, a visual pastiche of memories from wine touring in rural Herzegovina and three rainy days in Croatia.)

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Kotor – Little Red Racer

At this point in our last European trip, we left behind our Celtic paradise, and headed for the Adriatic. A direct flight from Edinburgh landed us in Dubrovnik, where we immediately rented a tiny red car and crossed the border of Montenegro for an afternoon.

Our Croatian rental’s guidelines were: don’t speed. 

All along the drive, tiny Montenegrin towns nestle in the great mountains that drop dramatically into the bay.

If we are going to be in fishing towns, we might as well indulge in some local delicacies, right?

Armed with lunch and warm air, we headed into the walled city of Kotor, a fantastically preserved site: frankly, it’s hard to believe that such a place actually exists in this world. I’ll let the photos speak for themselves...

Right? This was really just a pit stop, but what a breathtaking one at that.

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Edinburgh – A City of Stone

After a puddle hop flight from Islay to Paisley, a shuttle bus from Paisley to Glasgow, and a train ride from Glasgow to Edinburgh, we arrived in this royal city of stone as late summer day deepened into night.

We tucked into our raddest little Airbnb and slept hard.

The next morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, we were ready to take on the city: we had a single day in Edinburgh and were determined to make it count.

This ancient city sits largely between two volcanic peaks: on the first is perched the grandiose Edinburgh castle; the second, in the background below, is Arthur’s seat.

Our day was essentially spent walking, beginning from the castle and ending at the crags.

I’m not kidding when I say Edinburgh is a city of stone. More so than any town I’d visited so far, this city feels almost hewn from mountains of grey. It’s very striking and feels deeply old world.

By now, you know we’re pretty nerdy right? Right. 

So when visiting Edinburgh, the home of JK Rowling, there are a handful of sites worth visiting to pay your respects. There are various cafes claiming Rowling wrote within their walls, but one of my favorite spots was in Greyfriars Kirkyard.

If you hunt around a bit (or wander behind one of the many walking tours), you’ll find this gravestone of a Thomas Riddell. Legend has it that Rowling would walk through this beautiful graveyard during her lunchbreaks, and the common name for her series’ villain was picked up here.

An overenthusiastic graffitist has connected the dots for you (though sadly spelled He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s name wrong):

There’s even a bit more Potterhead graffiti etched about.

After contermporary nerding out, it was time for some historical geekery. Very close to Greyfriars is the National Museum of Scotland. It is enormous (we barely scratched the surface in an afternoon), enormously good (deeply informative from ancient Scottish history to present), and free. I call that a win.

We even tracked down the origins of clan Monro:

After a quick fortifying bite to eat...

...we made our way to Holyrood Park. Beyond Parliament, the royal residence, and the referendum protestors, rises Arthur’s Seat.

And boy, I hate to be a one trick pony, but you guessed it: we had to climb the thing.

(Not gonna lie, there are a lot of photos of this because it was a doozy, and NEEDING to take a picture was a great excuse to stop and rest!)

But yowza, were the views of Edinburgh absurdly worth it.

I’d say we earned ourselves a nightcap, wouldn’t you? I was delighted to, once more on Scottish soil, have found a bit of Botanist gin.

Good night Edinburgh, and farewell to Scotland. The next morning our trip would take a turn south...much further south!

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Islay: Whisky and the Sea

From the harbor town of Ballycastle, we bid the island of Ireland a fond goodbye – of course, fortified by one last full Irish breakfast. After a week of island traveling, our transportation was finally turning aquatic...and Andrew had reached his long-desired part of the trip.

The freshly launched Kintyre Express ferry service is one of the few ways to cross the inner seas off Scotland’s western coast. Their new service connecting Ballycastle in Northern Ireland to Port Ellen in Scotland was a lifesaver. And aside from our two crew members, we were the only ones on board this morning.

About an hour later of ripping across the sea, we reached Scotland.

Welcome to the Isle of Islay (Scottish pronunciation hint: eye-la), a small, sparsely populated strip of peated land. People generally come here for three things: tranquility, bird-watching, and scotch.

If you hadn’t guessed, we were mostly here for the third attraction! This lovely little island holds seven distilleries, which produce some of the best whisky in the world. If you’re on a slight time crunch, as we were, it’s possible to do the island in a weekend – though more time would certainly be better! 

By dividing up the distilleries by geography, and by booking tours at least a few weeks in advance, visitors can effectively divide and conquer. You’ll want to do at least one distillery tour (to learn about the process), a warehouse tasting (to speak with the distillers and taste some un-purchasable drinks) and specialty tastings for any scotches that personally interest you. Other than that, most distilleries have tasting rooms where you can order flights without needing a reservation or special tour.

We began on the south end of the island, near the harbor town of Port Ellen, with the distilleries of Laphroaig, Lagavulin, and Ardbeg. If you fancy stretching your legs and hauling your bags everywhere, as we do – the walk from Port Ellen to Laphroiag is a great introduction to the Scottish landscape. (It’s also one of the only distances that’s walkable...you’ll want to get a cab for everywhere else.) Plus, you work up a thirst by the time you arrive!

But we weren’t just here to walk: we were here to find out what makes Islay scotches so special. 

Like most alcohol production processes, scotch is labor intensive and as much art as it is science. We began our education with the full Laphroaig warehouse tour (which included a tasting afterwards) – which was quite good. We were able to see the grains germinating in the cool Scottish air:

(Someday you might be drinking these grains that Andrew held!)

Once the husks are optimally dried, the grains are smoked above fires fed by peat. This ingredient, originally used purely for its sustainability as fuel, is one thing that imparts Islay scotches with their distinctive flavor. Neither warm nor smoky, the peat flavors taste a bit like bog – it’s a love or hate relationship for most drinkers!

After the grains are dried and smoked, brewing begins with the addition of water and yeast. These large vats contain the resulting mixture of wort. This mushy liquid is thick and sour, with alcoholic levels similar to beer – frankly, it tastes nothing like the scotch that will be our final product! One of the best ways to test at this point is actually not by taste but smell, as you can see below:

Later in copper vats shaped like pears, the wort is distilled: heated to evaporation, the alcoholic fumes are captured and condensed, and thus refined. We were given tastes at this point in the tour too – and although this is more recognizable as hard liquor, it’s still not quite scotch.

The next important step in the process is barrel-aging. Scotch is generally aged in oak casks that first held bourbon or port, brought in from Kentucky and Spain respectively. The flavors their former contents leave in the wood soak into the scotch as it ages, and further deepen the flavors. (Doesn’t it seem like cheating, imparting tastes from other alcohols??)

Additionally each of these barrels only get a single use for scotch aging, before the imparted flavors are gone. Crazy.

The last step in making liquor actually scotch is time. The liquid must be aged for at least three years and one day: until that point, it cannot be called scotch. 

So while each step of the process is set, the details are fluid and completely at the discretion of the master distiller. How many passes of distillation? Which type of barrel to age in (and whether to age in a single cask or multiples, and of what types in what order)? How long to let the scotch mature? Bottling a pure mixture from a single distillation and cask, or mixing multiple casks to create a new flavor? All of these decisions are purely artistic, and left to the distiller’s taste buds: and of course, the consumer palette.

This is why, though many of the Islay scotches start with similar ingredients of malted barley, yeast, and Islay water, the tastes vary wildly. Laphroaig, our first stop, relishes in its reputation for peat-forward, heady flavors – as its advertising proudly heralds above. I actually fell in love with Laphroaig on this trip – to my own surprise!

Our next stop, Bowmore, is a much friendlier distillation. As my friend John, who introduced us to scotch years ago, would say, “If you want to start drinking scotch, I will pour you a glass of Bowmore.”

We didn’t tour Bowmore – we simply enjoyed a flight in its quiet tasting room, overlooking the foggy sea. It was perfection.

We briefly paused our whisky touring to check into our accommodations: the loveliest little bed and breakfast, in the heart of Bowmore.

In addition to being upgraded to the largest suite, we were given two complimentary drams of Kilchoman by our host...what a day!

Man cannot live on whisky alone, and by this point we were famished! Some killer local flavors were in order, thanks to our dinner at The Harbor Inn.

More chowder, because can’t stop won’t stop. But now our chowder was served alongside this beauty of an appetizer: haggis, topped with mashed potatoes and a whisky au-jus. Guys, don’t listen when people tell you haggis is gross. We had nothing but excellently prepared haggis while in Scotland!

The following morning in Bowmore dawned, in typical fashion, a little dreary.

We began our day with the MOST wonderful breakfast made by our host...

...also, drams of Jura scotch at 9am. Because, Islay? 

Across the loch was our next tasting stop: Bruichladdich.

(Scottish pronunciation sounds a bit like Brookh-lahdee. Because sure, why not!)

This place was easily my favorite: the tasting room was beautifully branded (look at all that teal, derived from the family tartan) and they were offering complimentary tastings of their Botanist gin (which is a delicious favorite in its own right).

And, we did the warehouse tour, which was fascinating. Bruichladdich produces some of the least peaty of Islay scotches, and I adored the ones we tried. We learned tasting techniques, and gained lots of insight into the scotch-making process.

From Bruichladdich on one side of the island, we jetted to Lagavulin to make their mini-distillery tour and specialty tasting. (This is why you should book tours ahead of time...so you don’t spend your precious Islay time taxi-ing back and forth to fit it all in.)

At this point, just about scotched out, we made our last stop at Ardbeg – one of the few distilleries on the island that serves actual meals. With a dram from the bar and a solid lunch, we’d completed our mini weekend on Islay. 

And then...it was time to hit the road again. Two days was far too short to spend on this magical, unpretentious island. I hope to return someday, with more time to relax and revive.

Maybe we’ll even see some birds next time!

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Northern Ireland: Giants Along the Coast

IT had finally arrived: anxiously anticipated, the most ambitious transportation in our two years of European travel. Frankly it was a nightmare to plan – how does one get from the Irish capitol, to the remote reaches of Northern Ireland, to the even more remote inner seas of Scotland? And of course, how does one do it without back tracking, problems crossing three international borders, wasting precious vacation days, or paying exorbitant amounts of money?

The answer: a rental car, a bus, a train, another train, another bus, walking, two taxis, and a ferry.

And can you actually believe that transportation was NOT the most amazing thing of the day? True story.

Because bus schedules in remote Northern Ireland would be exceedingly limited, we were on a very tight time schedule for this day. Any errors or delays would mess up the whole process and potentially leave us stranded. (I’m not kidding when I say that all our experiences using public transport in foreign countries had lead us to this day.)

So our travel day began with a very early morning drive from Greystones back to the Dublin airport to return our rental car. Ironically the closest thing we had to a mishap was trying to find a gas station that was open in the bleary, pre-dawn hours, and would also accept non-Irish bank cards.

Fortunately we prevailed, got our car returned on time, and hopped on our first public transport: the airport shuttle bus back into central Dublin, where we caught a train bound for the Northern Ireland capital of Belfast. We even had time to grab coffee in the station...such luxury!

Our morning train rides (2 hours from Dublin to Belfast, and 1 hour from Belfast to Coleraine) took us through more serene Irish countryside and quaint cities. It was particularly meaningful for me as our train pulled into Northern Ireland’s capitol city: at the age of 17, Belfast had been the first place I’d ever visited outside of the US. It had been nothing short of magic to me: the lines of red stone rowhouses, churches springing from cobbled streets, accented words all around, and everything surrounded by the most verdant green countryside I’d ever seen.

Between then and now, I’ve been fortunate to have seen much more of Europe. In comparison, Belfast looked certainly less grand: but I could still remember and feel that potency, that excitement and that wonder at my first taste of the old world.

By the time we reached Coleraine, our carriage was stuffed full of families and teenagers headed for the beach – because no matter where you’re from, when the weather is beautiful you take advantage!

From Coleraine we hopped on a bus bound for Bushmills, a Northern Irish town most famous for its whiskey distillery. By this time we were famished: we purchased two enormous fish and chips takeaways on the Bushmills high street, pulled out our Highbank cider samples, and plopped down in a random field.

Despite the good food, this was a low moment in the day. We had planned on walking our way to the next stop – we’d become avid walkers in Europe, and a mile or two seemed doable when looking at a map online. But in person, the road we needed to traverse had zero sidewalks and deep, thick overgrowth crowding right up to the narrow traffic lanes – in other words, typical Irish roads with no possible way of walking safely. We ended up heading back into Bushmills proper, where we grabbed bus schedules and taxi listings from the tourism office. The solution was simply resigning ourselves to waiting around for the next bus a few hours later and taking a costly cab ride home at the end of the day (after all the buses had already completed their runs).

So. You’re probably wondering what on earth were we going to all this trouble to see. And could it possibly be worth so much headache?

In short: yeah, it was worth it.

The natural wonder of Giant’s Causeway sits on the northernmost edge of Northern Ireland. It faces Scotland, and the legend goes that an ancient giant named Finn built the causeway as a bridge between the two isles.

But the science is possibly more spectacular than the legend: the causeway is notable for it’s naturally occurring, hexagonal rock formations. These spectacular shapes get their form from ancient cooling magma, and stretch high up the cliffs and down into the Atlantic Ocean.

And holy cow, did we have the best weather to enjoy this natural wonder.

There are a few hiking trails that wind around the various craggy faces, both at sea level and cliff level.

And really, who are we Monroes if not people who love climbing to the tops of things?

Yup. Always climb to the tops of things.

Mini causeway!

(Somewhere out there is Scotland...we’ll see you soon!)

On my aforementioned trip through Belfast, I actually got to visit the causeway – which was part of the reason I was so desperate to get Andrew here. And I must admit, it was even more spectacular than I remembered it. 

As wonderful as the views are from above, being able to hop all over the amazing hexagons at sea level is the real causeway showstopper. It’s just impossible to get over that these rocks are naturally made. Our world is flat-out incredible.

We spent an entire afternoon exploring this landscape to our heart’s content.

From Greystones to the Causeway, it had been a very long day: I’m both proud of us for tackling it, and grateful that we survived without any great disasters. Wearied and full of beauty, we caught a cab to our hotel for the evening, and prepared to bid the island of Ireland the fondest farewell. 

From glen to glen and down the mountainside...this island will ever be in my heart.

And Scotland was waiting.

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Eastern Ireland – The Un-Ireland of Wicklowin’

From our restful morning in Kilkenny, our road continued east into new Irish wilds: the mountains and lakes of Glendalough and Wicklow.

The national parks of Glendalough and Wicklow are protected areas lying nearly back to the coast. The first is comprised of walking trails, church ruins, and two lakes nestled between mountains.

The second is much wider and wilder: and frankly, it’s hard to believe you’re in Ireland. In some places, the hills roll arid and alien as far as the eye can see.

Other places are dotted with stands of trees and lakes, untouched except for the two-lane winding roads. After a week of driving through roads choked with greenery, this expansive and open landscape was unexpected – even a little thrilling.

I honestly cannot even tell you where we drove – we simply wound our way all over the backs of these mountains, only loosely guided by an eastward direction.

It was a wild, wonderful day of driving.

Eventually, we arrived in the coastal town of Greystones as the long Irish daylight was fading. We strolled through the quaint stone streets under a brilliant sunset.

Lo and behold, we’d found the Greystones mecca: The Happy Pear.

Health food in Ireland is a bit of a misnomer. Rather, that should be past tense: was a misnomer. The twin brothers who founded The Happy Pear, originally a greengrocer focused on delivering the best quality produce, is now one of the most famously viral veg restaurants on the island. Everywhere we went, when the Irish asked us about our itinerary, they would ask if we were going to The Happy Pear.

Well after hearing about it from one end of the island to the other, we had to stop here. And thank goodness we did. The Pear atmosphere is friendly, communal, unpretentious, and saturated with flavor. It was beyond just a great dinner – it was a delightful evening. The restaurant even served Highbank Cider (and we’d been asked to deliver the message from our previous hosts that the next batch of ciders would be arriving soon). We’re practically locals, har har.

And we now own (and can highly recommend) our own piece of the Happy Pear: the brothers’ cookbook. It’s hands down one of my favorites for healthy, flavor-packed veg meals – and perhaps more significantly, it’s a deeply happy memory of our last night in Ireland.

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Kilkenny: Of Farmers and Pubs

After our time kicking around Blarney castle, it was time to see how another 1% lives – this 1% being the organic Irish farmer. Spoiler alert, the life is pretty damn good.

This was one of those happy travel accidents. A day earlier, our Airbnb host in Kilkenny called us to say that she was having plumbing issues and wouldn’t be able to host us. Rather than turning us out in the cold, she assured us that she had spoken with a friend’s bed-and-breakfast nearby: they would host us, and she would pay the difference our stay would cost.

Once again, Irish hospitality saves the day.

Our replacement bed and breakfast was located at Highbank Orchards, a family-run organic farm just outside of Kilkenny. Arriving in the waning evening, we quickly checked in and headed into town for dinner. 

Finally, nearly a week into our trip, I got to hear some live Trad music (what the Irish call their traditional folk genre)! The food was passable, but the atmosphere at Kyteler’s was a delight – the walls and ceilings cluttered with memorabilia and musical instruments, the patrons lively, and the band rollicking. And of course, the Monroes were finally NOT in the car, and decidedly happy about it.

After dinner we strolled through town looking for the famous bar, Hole in the Wall.

(Check out that ticket above for Irvine Towers. Small world, weird world.)

We had quite a night at this place. While we may not have gotten drunk for a penny, we did enjoy a few excellent pints, and conversation at the tiny bar. Around 10pm, the owner came in with great pomp. Over the next few hours, he engaged the entire bar in conversation: about politics, history, science, engineering, and music. For each country of origin (but especially France), he had songs to share. 

Full of stories and brews, and satisfied with having shut down at least one Irish pub (though it was the tiniest one we visited our whole trip) we headed back to Highbank for the night.

The next morning dawned bright and early at Highbank. Check out our plush digs!

A breakfast of bread, jams, and Highbank apples was waiting for us:

And also waiting for us was a tour of the farm with Rod Calder-Potts, the owner and farmer. Each morning, Rod walks his dog through the groves, and inspects the trees. Guests at the Highbank B&B are welcome to come along with him for a conversational leg stretching.

Among the topics of conversation were the family and farm’s intertwined stories, the history of Kilkenny writ large, and his philosophies on farming. The latter really stuck with me: Rod was adamant that the farmer is the least important factor in raising crops. He deeply believes that the farmer must stimulate nature to take its own natural course, with subtle guidance, thoughtful innovation, and communal support.

It was a lovely mix of rootedness in old practice and forward thinking sustainability – a combination I hadn’t expected to find in the heart of Ireland. But really, is there any other place it so rightly belongs?

Highbank also does a thriving trade of post-farming business: a portion of the apples are set aside for fermenting and distilling into spirits of all varieties. Keep an eye out for the Highbank Drivers Cider in future posts: this organic cider will make two appearances!

Highbank made Kilkenny a truly remarkable diversion in our trip, a delightful change of subject and pace. I can only wish we’d had more time to whittle away there – and who would’ve thought I would ever be grateful for plumbing emergencies?

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties: The Road Goes Ever On

When researching Irish roadtrips, you’re bound to come across the Ring of Kerry: this stretch of road wraps around the Kerry peninsula, and is heralded as one of many beautiful drives on the island.

Of course, with popularity comes tourism, and with tourism come crowded roads (already tiny and winding in Ireland). Notice anything here?

Thanks to our Killarney host’s suggestion, we instead opted to trek the lesser known Ring of Beara, which wraps around the peninsula just south of Kerry. Instead of crowds, we had open road. Instead of tourism, we had tiny, quiet, nearly untouched Irish towns. This was our longest driving day, but it was well worth it.

Most of the drive looked like this: rolling countryside, dotted with small towns under drifting cloudcover.

However at our loop’s end, the scenery suddenly changed as we entered the village of Eyeries:

Suddenly the winding road burst into colors of crayon-box painted homes. We parked the car and allowed ourselves a wander through the quiet streets. It’s easy to believe the town’s claim as Ireland’s Most Colorful Village.

Before hitting the road again, we stopped at the tiniest market and picked up some lunch provisions: a hunk of quality Irish cheddar, local bread, and apples. (I don’t know if the apples were local, but they were pretty good too!)

Turning back east for the first time in four days, we continued our loop of the island. Two hours of countryside later, we had arrive at one of my long-dreamt destinations:

Blarney Castle, home of the Blarney stone, is a pilgrimage my bestie Charlotte and I dreamed of visiting together. The stone at the top of the castle, which you have to lean backwards out a window to reach, is said to bring eloquence to anyone who kisses it.

Truth.

One of us is a little nervous about heights – can you guess which one?

(It’s okay, the other one of us gets very nervous in tiny spaces, like enclosed castle stairways built for far shorter folk. Turned out to be a day of fear-conquering for both Ash and Andrew!)

The queue moved fairly quickly, and before we knew it, it was time to lean back and pucker up. An attendant helps support each person: there’s nothing but empty air beneath those iron bars, and it can make even the most stable heart beat quickly.

To be clear, this is your vertigo-inducing view as you lean backwards out of the castle wall:

Look at that form! No problem.

We survived! And are now blessed with the eloquence of Blarney (clearly and excessively).

While the stone is certainly the most well-known site in Blarney, the castle contains extensive gardens that are well worth visiting. Perhaps our favorite was the Poison Garden:

We spent a few hours wandering through gardens themed around ferns, tropical plants, herbs, and ancient legend.

As we drove away from Blarney, my heart ached for my best friend, who I hadn’t seen in years and wished could have experienced this place with me. Flipping on some Great Big Sea, I told Andrew the origin story of our friendship, and we laughed over shared, later memories of my dear Charlotte. The gauntlet has been officially dropped, girl: you gotta get to Blarney!

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From the Wild Atlantic Way: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast

After a hearty Irish breakfast from our Airbnb host in Galway – seriously, no one has the hospitality of the Irish, no one – our fourth road trip day turned south along the western Irish coast.

An absurd joy of driving through Ireland is the plethora of brown sight-seeing signs at nearly every kilometer. There is nearly always something worth pulling the car over and hopping out to see.

Cliffs of Moher

But really, if you’re going to stop the car, it should be for one of the grandest sights on the island: the staggering Cliffs of Moher, which drop with sheer ferocity into the Atlantic Ocean.

Even on a cloudy, misty day like ours, the ragged cliffs are a wonder to behold.

Beyond the paved, official area lies a rough dirt trail that hugs the edge of the cliffs. The adrenaline seekers can edge right up to the cliffside...

...whilst the more cautious can keep themselves firmly planted against the wall (Andrew would argue this was still not far enough from the edge). 

For scale, check out the trail of teeny ants exploring the cliffs...whew.

I mean, they were pretty okay, I guess.

We spent a few solid hours roaming the cliffside walks, hoping the clouds would eventually lift (they didn’t, but such is Ireland).

(We even made a few Zelda reference, because once a nerd always a nerd.)

(Something the lovely pictures don’t show is that, even in chilly May, pests were a real issue! Portions of the cliffs were covered in gnats, and they got everywhere, even in our shoes! Pro tip: bring the bug spray.)

Killarney

Two hours further south was our next overnight destination of Killarney. Having arrived slightly ahead of schedule, we took a quick turn around Killarney National Park: more lochs, more greenery, and even a few waterfalls!

Checked into our next airbnb, we headed into Killarney proper. You guessed it more chowder (can’t stop, won’t stop!) and seafood:

We had a hilarious brush with Americans at this dinner, when a party of traveling golfers embodied every American stereotype under the sun (completely unaware of their volume, some overly friendly and some overtly belligerent). Both of us, so close to returning home after our two years abroad, felt the growth and change we’ve experienced: that could have been us at one point, and now we felt so, so far from it. So odd.

Our gorgeous seafood dinner with a side of existential musing ended with a toffee sticky pudding ice cream and a final pint (because the Monroes go hard or go home!).

That, my friends, was a day.

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Connemara and Croagh Patrick: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses

From our stopping point in Galway, the Monroes hopped in our rental vehicle and headed north. Past lochs, dodging wandering sheep, and through the Connemara national forest towards stop #1: Kylemore Abbey.

This picturesque castle from the 1800′s was built in record time (four years) during the Great Irish Famine. It’s builder Mitchell Henry used it as both hunting lodge and philanthropic experiment, with which he provided labor and shelter to destitute locals at a time when these basics were nearly impossible to come by.

Today, the estate is owned and cared for by an order of Benedictine nuns. The main living quarters are maintained as a museum open to visitors.

In addition to the main home, the estate also boasts a small and exquisite chapel, and a sprawling Victorian walled garden.

As we left the chapel, a student orchestra and choir was filing in for a performance. We wandered toward the walled garden as their voices echoed through the old stone: pretty damn magical.

From Kylemore, we drove further north towards Croagh Patrick, the holy mountain. GPS navigation in Ireland is more art than science: and this specific attempt brought us to the south side of the mountain (when we intended to be on the north). Delays notwithstanding, we enjoyed the deep-in-the-Irish-countryside sojourn.

Eventually we gave our destination a call, reoriented our direction, and headed correctly towards the town of Murrisk. At the northern foot of the holy mountain, we had some four legged compadres to pick up:

Guys, this is the dream. And this is me, living the dream: riding a horse, into the sea surrounding the Irish coast.

Our horses and guide were from the phenomenal Croagh Patrick Stables, who I cannot recommend highly enough. Our steeds were gentle and friendly to newbie riders like Andrew and me (although they definitely knew these new riders could be tricked into allowing them to snack along our trip).

Our guide lead us and our horses along the low-tide bay. In some places, the Atlantic Ocean reached the horses’ bellies (and into our boots!) 

Seriously. Wet feet and all. THE. DREAM.

After our two hour ride, we squished our way next door to the Tavern for more chowder, and then back south to Barna for dinner at The Pins.

Honeycomb ice cream, chowder, and horses. Ireland, you are heaven.

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Dublin to Galway: Manifest Destiny

Our second Irish day took us from one coast to the other. Morning in Dublin began with coffee, pastries, and a quick trip to one of the city’s most famous sites (you’ll want to wake up early for this one).

For non history nerds, allow me to introduce the Book of Kells: widely considered one of Ireland’s greatest national treasures. The illuminated manuscript is a breathtaking illuminated and calligraphic work. The fact that we can still see parchment and illustrations that were created nearly two millenia ago is obviously rare, and rightly breathtaking.

Well, I can’t exactly introduce you to it, because gawking tourists aren’t allowed to snap photos of the actual piece – something about destroying years of historical records with camera flashes? Whatever. Take it away for me, BBC.

However, seated directly above the book is an equally gobstopping sight, which one is allowed to photograph to one’s delight (and clearly I did): the famous Trinity library.

Can’t you just smell the books?? Is there anything so wonderful?

The arched nave is lined with marble statues of great thinkers – philosophers, authors and theologians guarding the aged tomes.

If you politely ask one of the many official ushers, they’ll even pull a book off a shelf for you to view. And by all means, you should!

After soaking up wood and parchment, we had a little more time to trot around Dublin. Gardens, pavements, and a half pint with lunch were our send off from this quaint little city.

And with that, gird your right-side-of-the-road lines: it was time to start the road trip! We picked up the rental car that would be our best friend over the next week (semi-pro tip: get all the insurance...Irish roads are notoriously narrow, and you don’t want to be worried about the inevitable branch scratch – or worse! – ruining your trip).

As you can see, Andrew is driving a manual engine from the right hand side of the car, because he is a rockstar. As navigator, my also important jobs were a) working the gps, b) sucking in gasping breaths (translation: mind the left side of the vehicle!!), and c) taking semi-confident selfies.

Our first day of driving was actually fairly easy: a straight shot on the trans-island highway that connects east-coast Dublin to Galway in the west. It might sound a little frightening to jump on the freeway straight away – but this was actually much easier than some of the tiny country roads we’d be navigating within a few short days.

And what a lovely place to end up. Galway is a brisk coastal town on the Atlantic – large enough to have a bustling liveliness, and small enough to feel palpably charming.

We stretched our legs with a stroll towards Salthill and along the rocky coast. There’s something about coastal towns that feel remarkably familiar: whether they’re in California, New England, or Ireland along the Atlantic. Salty air carried on cold fresh breeze: it’s deeply restorative to be near the sea.

Although the weather held, it was still pretty chilly...perfect time to pop in for a warming dinner with a handsome boy. On our host’s recommendation, we chose the newly opened Quay Street Kitchen. The tiny room was packed to the gills with friendly waitstaff, locals and tourists, and more seafood than you could shake a stick at.

For those who think that Irish food equals corned beef and stewed cabbage – well, you’re not entirely wrong, but the real star cuisine is the seafood.

JOY! It was time for the first of many clam chowders for me...the Irish version kicks New England’s into next year. The mini pot at Quay’s was a particularly delicious start.

As dusk fell, we retreated to our little Galway Airbnb, which would be our home base for the next day of traveling north into County Mayo.

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Dublin: The Last Beginning, the First Brews

As the end of our European sojourn drew to an end, Andrew and I approached our last trip: ten days in Ireland and Scotland, followed by four days in Croatia. Disparate locations at the opposite ends of the continent, perhaps - but it worked out practically well thanks to some killer airline deals, and the trip was a fitting summation of the different experiences this wonderful continent offered us. 

It was a beast to plan, required all our gained knowledge for tripping with only carry-ons, involved our most ambitious self- and public-transport to date, and hit some of our most wished for European locations.

I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

The journey began with an early morning drive from Luxembourg to Brussels, where we were catching a direct flight to Dublin. The Brussels airport bombing had happened mere weeks before our flight, and half of the airport was still being operated out of makeshift tents. It was fascinating how life marches on in the wake of terror – albeit with more Belgian security guards wielding uzis.

Soon though, we were in what felt like a different world – the quaint Irish capital of Dublin. Our early arrival meant first thing on the docket was breakfast:

You know that first moment on vacation when you feel a palpable wave of relief? Everything is planned and packed, and if something is forgotten – then so be it! This was my moment: in a quiet Irish cafe with Andrew, over perfectly poached eggs and an excellent cappuccino, I felt relaxation and contentment roll over me. I had made it to Ireland, the country I most wanted to see in the entire world. For the moment, the half-sold, mostly-packed apartment waiting at home didn’t matter. The paperwork, the flights, all the hurdles leapt and looming were left behind for just a little while.

Checked into our hotel and sufficiently caloried up, we began that favorite traveling pastime of ambling through a new city. Dublin feels quieter and more homey than most capital cities, and the day was full of blue skies and sunshine.

Even the Irish graffiti is complimentary!

We wandered our way from Dublin Castle, along the River Liffey, through St Patrick’s Park and Cathedral (where the Literary Parade above and below honors such greats as Beckett, Shaw, Keats, Wylde, Yeats and Behan). It was the most beautiful day to be adding miles to one’s shoes.

Far from aimless though, our walk had a particular end goal in mind...

  The Guinness Storehouse

(Affectionately known amongst we Monroes as Disneyland for beer.)

The Guinness Storehouse, located in the historic warehouses of St James’ Gate, houses seven stories of interactive and informative sensory experiences dedicated to that famous dark pint.

We’ve been on quite a few brewery tours, but certainly never one with such an emphasis on entertainment. I wasn’t kidding when I called it the beer lover’s Disneyland.

Possibly my favorite room was dedicated to the art of coopering (creating the wooden casks used to store beer and wine). The storehouse shows near-ancient video footage of one of the last coopers who could make an entire barrel by eye and hand – with no measurements and no industrialization. I know this makes me sound like the biggest geek, but it was fascinating to watch.

(Seriously, look at this and tell me it doesn’t look exactly like the pump room in Tower of Terror.)

The storehouse also contains an entire floor dedicated to the famous marketing of this stout, with the characters dubbed “Gilroy’s Circus”. Your advertising gal adored learning more about the history of these iconic illustrations.

And perhaps most fun, each entry ticket can be used to attend the Guinness Academy, where layman patrons like yours truly can learn how to pour the perfect pint (why yes, I am an officially licensed pourer now)!

Finally arriving at the top floor of this monstrosity, we settled in to enjoy our sips of Ireland with sprawling views of Dublin in 360° around us. Perhaps the most interesting thing about the experience was how good the Guinness tasted on tap here. More than a placebo effect, the taste of the brews actually changes the longer it is bottled/canned/shipped around the world. It really is at its best on Irish soil. Lovely day indeed.

  Literary Pub Crawl

After a few hours of wandering the storehouse, we trekked back into central Dublin for our next festivity (when in Ireland...). One of my dreams was to do a guided pub crawl, and after a bit of hemming and hawing, Andrew and I decided on the Literary Pub Tour – we might be getting smashed, but perhaps we could learn something too? #RavenclawForever

Our two guides sang, acted and pontificated us through four pubs, Trinity College, numerous street corners, and many pints. And woven amongst the sights and brews, we were given a crash course on the deeply integrated history of Dublin and its many famous writers.

We also learned a good deal about pub architecture, pint ordering etiquette, and the historical social functions of pubs in the lives of everyday citizens. And for all that education, it was a highly fun experience too!

I’ll finish the night with some words from Brendan Behan, an Irish writer the crawl focused largely on – they feel fitting for the day:

“The most important things to do in the world are to get something to eat, something to drink and somebody to love you.”

Whew, yes, all of this happened in a single day! Two tired Monroes, having had good things to eat, drink, and each other, beat it back to the hotel: tomorrow the Great Irish Roadtrip – and the grand adventure of driving on the wrong side of the road – would begin.

More to come:

I: Beginnings, Beers, Behan » II: Manifest Destiny of Dublin to Galway » III: Abbeys, Saints, and Seafaring Horses » IV: Cliffs, Killarney, and the Western Coast » V: Beara, Blarney, and the Southern Counties » VI: Organic Life in Kilkenny » VII: The Un-Ireland of Wicklow and Glendalough » VIII: Giants along the Northern Coast » IX: Whisky and the Sea – Crossing to Scotland » X: Chasing History in Edinburgh » XI: Mediterranean Fjords in Montenegro » XIII: The Savors of Herzegovina » XIV: Mythos in Dubrovnik »

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From Somewhere Above Europe - Crescendo

I ate a bag of haribo gummy bears and cried on and off from Dubrovnik to Brussels. One thought gripped me: the next time I’m on a plane, in three days, I will be leaving home. Too much sugar, too much cramped airplane air, too many quiet tears. I normally adore planes and flying, but this one has my stomach in knots, and my thoughts banging furiously around the brain corners, gaining energy with each zing like bullets in a bulletproof room.

I pray. Please give me strength to get through this goodbye, Lord. I don’t want to leave such a good period with sourness and grief and bile on my heart.

It is hard to leave because it was good. It is hard to say goodbye to what you love.

I have a tenuous history with goodbyes. As a child when my beloved grandparents would visit, I would hide under the bed, desperate to prevent their leaving. I now recognize that childlike despair as the feeling of my soul tearing. The significant goodbyes still feel like that now.

If I was the size of a piece of hand luggage, I would probably be hiding under the airplane seats right now.

So I pray that God will lend me some bravery. (And selfishly i cant help adding, perhaps half an aspirin to numb the rending.) But more, that I could learn to face this, to not shrink away and hide under the furniture. That I could have courage in the face of great pain.

That is the story of humanity, isn’t it? I want that to be my story. I want it more than I want to hide.

Lights flash on the plane wing outside my window, constant as we race through the dark. A reminder that there is an arrival, a journey, a destination.

I love flying because I trust the air beneath my plane, the spread of the wings, and the thrill of someplace new.

Perhaps life is much the same. Faith in an infinite, unfailing goodness as we hurtle blindly through time, towards the unknown.

Andrew presses a hand to my knee. He has heard me sniffing, he knows the pain. His own grief is quieter, more internalised and a differing shade, perhaps. But there is pain too, and there is something good about grieving together. The same good as hurtling through space together.

It’s almost time.

I pray.

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From Luxembourg – On a personal note, as the end draws near

Let it pass; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice. – F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Sensible Thing

Here at the end, I am deeply aware of the weight of my soul.

Everything hurts right now. I ache with longing for the home I haven’t seen in two years, and the people I’ve deeply missed, for the life I loved and left behind, for a world where I was comfortable, where I understood the rhythms and routines. It is exquisite in both pain and blessing to know that that previous life won’t exist.

Or rather, that it does exist, but the details will differ in such minor ways that they’re impossible to reconcile with my remembered past.

Or rather, that it does exist, but I will differ in such minor ways that who I am may be impossible to reconcile with who I was before.

Sometimes, it’s the small changes that make the least sense, that catch us most off guard.

I ache for the new life I’ve built, the existence that I am now abandoning. How can the expanded borders of my mind and life ever fit back into their old proportions? I ache for streets of stone, mornings of fog, a green so verdant it hurts to behold, the delicious experience of hundreds of languages and cultures brushing all around me, unintelligible and enthralling in their newness and wonder. And most of all, I ache for the potential energy that at any moment could be turned kinetic: a desire to fly to Rome, or Berlin, or any hundreds of interesting places, that could at any moment become real.

Sometimes, the potential is even more meaningful than the action.

I am exhausted with ache.

And yet:

There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice. Each ending brings forth the space for a new beginning: a fragile, fledgling thing. A new love.

Through it all, my Emmanuel is faithful, my Emmanuel is constant. Everything else swirls in flux around me, but the eye of the storm, the central identity around which all else rages, my God remains.

Today time marches on. I have seven more days in Lux. Twenty one more days in Europe. And quite a few more stories and images to catalog here. As I wrap up this life and grieve for the ending of this chapter, I trust that soon there will be room for joy. For a new love.

Let it pass; April is over. April is over.

It is well.

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From Porto – Weekend Wrap-up

After the preceding evening of indulgence, it was time for a slower morning. Before our afternoon flight dropped us back in Lux, we spent a little more time exploring and celebrating Porto’s namesake: Port tastings!

Hilariously, most of said port is not located in Porto, but across the Duoro in Vila Nova de Gaia. Below, you can see many of the tasting rooms and cellars open for refining your palette. On this cold and rainy morning, the tasting rooms were a welcome shelter!

Our Airbnb host recommended Ramos Pintos as one of her favorite local tasting experiences – and once again, she steered us well. Behind the golden walls lies an enormous tasting room with very generous pours (definitely grab a friend or two to share your flight – our single tasting was still way too much for Andrew and me to finish).

Port is a wine that has been fortified with brandy, and it comes in a few different varieties. Our tasting at Ramos included two whites, a tawny, and two rubies. While I’ve never been a huge fan of port – like most alcohols, it’s a bit of an acquired taste – I was pleasantly surprised by one of the whites and one of the rubies. Andrew liked the other white and tawny best, so to each their own! That’s the fun of tastings...

A little further up the hill sits the famed Taylor’s tasting room. Glasses are a bit pricier up here, but this matches the label’s stronger reputation and renown. We had enjoyed two Taylor ports with our dinner at the Yeatman, and they were excellent in a way that I’d never experienced with port – in this case, you get what you pay for.

After all this tasting, we had just enough time to collect our bags and grab a quick tapas-style lunch in the city.

And sadly, so sadly, we trekked back to the airport and home...at least we left with full stomachs and starry eyes. Thank you for a magical three day weekend, Portugal, and I hope we will see you again!