P.S. What is there to love about the Emerald Isle?

I am ashamed to admit that, along with 98 per cent of the female population, my sister and I watched PS I Love You and were inspired by the sparkling, romantic images of the Emerald Isle. So inspired that we bought backpacks and plane tickets and spontaneously jetted off to Dublin.
We stepped off the plane, ready to bump into Gerard Butler, and set off on our merry way. What should have rung alarm bells immediately was that our guidebook had described Temple Bar as the ‘buzzing, youthful, hub of the city… alive with quirky bars and live music.’ Not only were half the grotty establishments closed, but the only bars were horrendously tacky stereotypes of themselves.

That evening we decided to wrestle our way into one of the packed pubs. It was brilliant, straight out of a film, with a live folk band playing and the place bursting at the seams with Guinness-wielding, dancing Irishmen. All was well until I muscled my way to the bar and had to pay 11 Euros for two pints of Guinness. The rest of Dublin was much the same. The Guinness Factory is excellent, with 360 degree views of the city as you sip your Extra Cold at the Sky Bar, but that was the highlight. The expectant traveller is greeted with little but souvenir outlets and boarded-up shops.

Still, ever the optimists, we boarded a bus and trundled to the student town of Galway. At the ‘Salmon Wier’ hostel, our ‘twin room’ was nothing but a cupboard with a bunk bed in it. We had to store our suitcases in the corridor.Feeling slightly worse for wear, we set off for Salthill, a ‘charming fishing village’. Anticipant with the promise of seafood and rustic charm, we arrived to find three buildings; a Casino, a Czech nightclub and a Bingo hall (although this promised a Cowboy-Builder Dance Spectacular at 7pm). Not a Scampi in sight.

But we told ourselves that it was alright. Next up was Connemara. The drive was incredible, with the jagged mountains as promised, dark lakes and cliffs. It didn’t matter that it was chucking it down. We eagerly asked where we could locate a map of hiking routes, to which we were told that all the surrounding countryside was private, and there wasn’t a bus for two days. We spent the next 48 hours watching rain run down the window and staring at the beautiful countryside to which we had no access. This was not in the guidebook either.

Forgetting all inhibitions, I burst into tears at the bus stop. Desperate, lonely tears of a sad traveller who had been damp for a week, barely eaten because a tin of tuna cost £3, hadn’t seen Gerard Butler or anyone remotely similar, and had had my romantic dreams shattered by this miserable wet country.