11:22am, Saturday — The National Museum of Ireland, housed inside an old military barracks, rises up around us. A small coffee stand in the courtyard provides the first vittles of the day: a cup of the black nectar of the gods and some brownie bites, to boot.

London had been a trip, as had Galway and Cork and Cobh before it. But we were back in Dublin, where we began (and then ended and began again), and it was finally time to give the Irish capital a proper spin. Thus, on a wickedly windy Saturday morning, we stepped out of the Ashling Hotel and onto Benburb Street, ready to take on the city.

At the start of the day, there was just one item officially on the docket: checking out the Guinness Storehouse across the river. Our scheduled tour wasn’t until 1 p.m., however, which meant we had a little time to kill beforehand. Thus, the first order of business became finding some fuel. Having gotten a peek at the establishments to the west of the hotel the night before (looking at you, Nancy Hands and friends), we opted to head east and see what we could find. We didn’t make it very far, though, before a branch of the National Museum of Ireland, which is practically adjacent to the Ashling, sucked us in like a tractor beam.

The museum had not been on our radar (at least not mine) whatsoever, but something about those cold, stone, boarding school-style buildings caught our attention — the thought of escaping the blustery wind, perhaps? — and in we went.

The National Museum is comprised of four locations spread across Dublin, each based around a specific theme: Decorative Arts & History, Country Life, Natural History, and Archaeology. While I’m sure any of them would have been riveting to encounter, we had stumbled upon the Decorative Arts & History branch, which houses Irish coins and currency, silverware, furniture, costumes, ceramics, and glassware, along with numerous exhibits showcasing Irish military history from specific time periods and events, such as the Easter Rising of April 1916 (and I think we all remember how that turned out). It also has, for some reason, a collection of Asian art cobbled together by the Irish expat Albert Bender.

12:58pm — A mighty gust of wind nearly knocks us into the River Liffey as we walk the streets of Dublin. Thankfully, our sticky shoe bottoms (thanks again, Nance) save us from an unpleasant watery adventure.

1:12pm — We walk inside Dublin’s equivalent of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory: the Guinness Storehouse. Here, it is said, the beer flows like wine and the women flock like the salmon of Capistrano.

Our impromptu trip to the museum came to a close about an hour and a half later as we made for the exits and set out once again on the yellow grey-and-brown brick road, making way for the Guinness Storehouse. No golden ticket was required, but thank goodness we booked our tour online in advance because we saw a few people get turned away while waiting for our hop-filled experience to take flight (you know, ‘cause like… you can order a flight of beer? Yeah, I don’t know, it’s stupid; shut up).

Save for a brief introductory speech by one of the staff members, the storehouse tour is basically self-guided. I say “basically” because you are brought in with a group of other people and, at least in the beginning, feel some sense of obligation to stick with these total and complete strangers as you make your way through the various levels of the place — but obviously you are not tethered to them in any real way.

The very first (and last) area you encounter is the gift shop, which is filled with everything Guinness that you could ever imagine. From there, you head into a series of “sensory” rooms showcasing the four main ingredients of Guinness — barley, water, hops, and yeast — which is then followed by other areas highlighting the history of the brand and the beer making process. Along the way, you also have the chance to take part in the Guinness Academy, where you learn how to properly pour a Guinness; to see how Guinness has advertised itself over the decades; and to drink a pint with a recreation of your face in the foam (!).

The experience culminates with the real pièce de résistance: the Gravity Bar. Perched atop the storehouse, it is here that you can redeem the drink tickets included in the tour, savoring the flavor of a glorious Guinness while taking in a 360-degree view of Dublin and the surrounding areas.

2:35pm — After climbing up to “the best view in Dublin bar none”, I begin to suck down a pint of Ireland’s liquid gold, which will be followed by another of Hop House 13, Guinness’ distinctive golden lager.

2:47pm — I’m not drunk; you’re drunk.

My traveling companion, existing in a gluten-free state, was unfortunately not able to partake in this most sacred of Dublin rituals. Thus while I was guzzling down a couple pints, she had to settle for a diet pop (or soda, if you will). Combined with the sample of Guinness I’d had on the way up to the Gravity Bar — and the fact that all I’d eaten so far were those brownie bites — those two pints had me feeling some type of way by the time we headed back downstairs to the gift shop.

Speaking of brownie bi… errr, I mean, food… it should be noted there are several dining options at the storehouse for anyone looking to quell rumblies in their tumblies. These include the Cooperage Café, a coffee shop on the first floor that serves sandwiches and bakery items, and three ditties on the fifth floor: the 1837 Bar & Brasserie (think oysters, braised lamb, beef and Guinness stew), Arthur’s Bar (sausages and mash, smoked salmon, steak sandwiches), and Brewers’ Dining Hall (fish and chips, loaded nachos, a good ole fashioned burger).

While any of those would have been a delightful spot to grab a late lunch, we were looking to explore a little more of the city, and so headed outside to see what we might find. What we found, initially, was a joint nearby primarily serving toasties, which are toasted sandwiches typically made with ham, cheese, onion, and tomato. Upon hearing that we were in search of a full food menu, a gentleman inside this particular establishment, which shall remain nameless (and definitely not because I don’t remember the name of it) advised us to follow him. And so, with no questions asked, we did.

A few minutes later, we strolled into Dudley’s, a traditional Irish pub (is there any other kind?) on the corner of Thomas and Meath streets. Once we’d been seated, I had a choice: I could keep my buzz going, or settle down for a little bit. I wish I could tell you, dear reader, that I went for the “fun” option. The reality, however, is that after our late lunch we had decided we would be getting tattoos to commemorate our travels. Therefore, regaining some lucidity was deemed necessary, and my meal — which consisted of Guinness beef stew and some of my traveling companion’s loaded nachos — proceeded in an alcohol-free manner.

While the food alone made our stop at Dudley’s worthwhile, our visit also served up something else for us: inspiration. We had already been considering going to the big rugby match at Aviva Stadium that night, but after spying some Leinster and Leicester fans sharing a jaunty back-and-forth in the pub, the notion was essentially solidified. We wound up getting nosebleed seats for about $60 a pop, but before we could make way for the stadium, there were a couple other orders of business to take care of.

5:13pm — The artist at Sphynx Tattoo, who looks like she could be the fourth member of the Hex Girls, slaps the stencil on just above my left ankle. Once this is finished, I will officially be an Axe Man.

Getting tattoos in Ireland was something we had talked about long before embarking on our European vacation, and, given it was our final full day abroad, the time had come. The meticulousness and care in deciding on a particular tattoo parlor can be summed up in one short phrase — “Oh look, there’s one” — which is precisely how we landed on Sphynx Tattoo right along the river on Usher’s Quay. The inside of the shop is best described as something straight out of a Tim Burton film: the walls adorned with skeletons and skulls and creepy-looking photos of presumably long-dead people; symbols associated with witchcraft and the occult, such as hexagrams, goats, and a book of spells and hexes, at the ready; and a cast of tattoo artists who seemingly take their style tips from Lydia Deetz (AKA Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice). So, in other words, perfect!

We were initially both going to get some version of a harp — a symbol of Irish identity and pride — but after flipping through the artist’s little booklet of designs, I found the nifty axe tattoo pictured above and knew it was the one. One trip to the ATM and 150 euros later, I had officially been inked for only the second time in my life.

Freshly-tatted, we emerged from the Sphynx harboring a celebratory thirst in need of quenching. Libations soon flowed at The Beer Temple, one of Galway Bay Brewery’s Dublin outposts, found on the corner of Dame and Parliament streets right across from City Hall. The place was hoppin’ on a Saturday evening, but we managed to elbow our way to a couple seats at the bar. There was time for just one round, however, as my traveling companion and I took note of the clock shortly after sitting down and jointly blurted out, “Oh, shenanigans!” (okay, that might have just been me), because it was by then 7 p.m., AKA just one hour until the big rugby match — and we still had to run back to the hotel motel Holiday Inn to throw some warmer clothes on (!).

After speed walking back to the Ashling and getting properly layered up for what ended up being a rather chilly evening, I had the gentleman at the front desk order us a cab. As luck would have it, there was already a driver waiting outside to whisk us away. So we climbed in and off we went, heading back toward all of the hustle and bustle.

A short time later, our driver informed us he could take us no further, as we began to run up against streets closed off due to the match. So we traversed the last half-mile or so on foot, joining a cabal of raucous fans ready for some rip-roarin’ rugby.

Once there, getting inside Aviva and up to our seats was a whole ordeal unto itself. Thinking things would be fairly straightforward (silly Americans, I know), we headed for the nearest entrance — only for the uniformed guards to wag disapproving fingers in our faces and tell us we would actually have to walk down the street, across the river, over the bridge, through the woods, and around the bend to reach the gate our tickets corresponded to (I’m only exaggerating a little here).

8:16pm — Following a climb that rivals Everest, we take our seats at Aviva Stadium for the Leinster vs. Leicester rugby match. For the next hour and a half, I pepper my traveling companion with questions about what the hell is going on down on the field.

Though I had no clue this was the case at the time, the matchup featured two teams attempting to advance to the quarterfinals of the European Rugby Champions Cup, an annual tournament featuring some of the top rugby clubs in the U.K., Ireland, Italy, France, and, for some reason, South Africa. Leinster and Leicester (which rhyme, if that helps you at all with pronunciation) had both advanced out of the pool/group stage, which began with 24 teams some weeks earlier. Whittled down to 16 by then, the two squads were essentially playing for a spot in the Elite Eight (to put it in easy-to-understand March Madness terms).

The “holy crap, this is a big deal”-ness of it all was completely lost on us, obviously, but excitement was clearly in the air as Leinster got out to a comfortable double-digit lead by the half. Even the temperature dipping below 50 degrees Fahrenheit, as it did that night, could not dampen the spirit of the crowd, which enthusiastically rooted on its hometown heroes all the way to a 36-to-22 final margin over their English rivals.

Before all was said and done, we’d noshed on some pork sausages, picked up souvenirs for the kids, and made a friend or two along the way (unless I’m totally kidding and just made that last part up). Regardless, as the game came to a close and the home team left the turf victorious, I couldn’t help but feel like a winner, too.

10:22pm — Standing on the side of the street, some distance from the stadium, we flag down a taxi like the pioneers did in the olden days. Some say they even used to ride these babies for miles.

Because, you see, we had told ourselves, some months prior, that we we’re going to travel to Ireland, come hell or high water. And not only had we done that; we had done so much more.

In that moment, we were soaking in the sights and sounds at one of Dublin’s most recognizable sporting venues not within the confines of a vacuum, but at the close of a weeklong excursion that had seen us drive through narrow, winding roads in and around the Wicklow Mountains; endure the “mild” conditions of Gem’s quaint Cork-based Airbnb; kiss the Blarney Stone and gain the coveted gift of gab (allegedly); live and die at the final port of call for the ill-fated RMS Titanic; eat Italian food at a pit stop in Limerick; ride bikes in the rain as we searched for Ed Sheeran’s elusive Galway girl; completely miss the sheela na gig carved into Merlin Castle; learn about the ghosts and ghouls of London from a Chicago Bulls cap-wearing tour guide; break our backs sitting in the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse theater for 2.5+ hours; run into some sticky tables at Nancy Hands; pretend like we had stumbled into a land of pure imagination at the Guinness Storehouse; and visit the Hex Girls at Sphynx Tattoo to commemorate the whole dang thing in ink.

In that moment, we had penned an Irish (and English) adventure that neither of us likely could have imagined even a year before — but there we were. A victorious moment indeed.

-LTH