So there I was having a cup of tea in some wee town south of Dublin, when a bearded chap grasping his pipe walked up. He said his name was Grandad and that I should follow him.  So, being the American that I am, I followed him to his car.  We drove west and enjoyed a bit of craic on the radio.  I asked where we were going and he muttered something about the spa.

A few minutes later, we pulled up on the kerb close to a bunch of cows.  He grinned and said he’d tell me the secret to hookin’ a lass.  He went on to point out that fresh cow piss was like an aphrodisiac to the Irish women.   He said I’d have to fight them off with a stick, whilst holding his pipe and smiling.

A moment or two later, we heard one of the cows grunt and turned to find one cow weeing while another watched.  He motioned for me to put my head under the shower of urine, so I did and endured a tepid stench that I’ll not forget.  I patted off a bit and we hopped back in the car and started back to the southeast.

We drove further south towards a village that I’m not privy to tell you all about.  We pulled o’er in the centre of the village and he enquired if I wanted a coffee.

We sat down at a lovely coffee shop and had several cups of the black stuff.  The lass behind the counter called it an Americana and he growled and said he wanted a tall black cup of coffee.  They argued for a bit over the name and we went out into the gorgeous sunlight to catch some rays.  He lit his pipe and I had a traditional scone.

The ladies kept talkin’ ’bout me and holding their noses.  I reckon it was because they were wanting me or something.  I always knew that being a country boy would pan out.  The waitresses would run over and nervously pour some more coffee, sniff, snarl, and run away.  One woman kept offering to bathe me. I mean, what was she wanting?  Grandad was right.  I was having to fight the women off with their towels and buckets of water.  They said they’d never smelled a Yank quite like me.

We had a delightful chat until the Irish Army arrived in their full regalia.  I don’t know who they were watching, me or Grandad.  They kept gagging and making faces.  I guess it was from the sight of an American?  The jury is still out on that one.  One bloke leaned over and offered me €5 for a bar of soap!  I think he was just jealous of all the women talkin’ ’bout me.

It wasn’t long after that when the lovely K8 and puppychild arrived.   Grandad preached a wee sermon about how American’s were trying to take over the place, while puppychild coloured in a book and K8 and myself paid him no attention.  After a few cups of java, we headed back to Head Rambles manor.  The place was absolutely amazing.  We talked some more about family, life,and what not.  Granny offered me a place to clean up, but I didn’t want to relinquish the powerful pheromones from the cow yet.

All the talk of life and what not was bit too serious for Grandad and myself, so we started knocking back a few pints of Guinness.  Before I knew it, the craic was fluent and pints were pouring.  We were all having a blast!  Before I knew it I was wobbling around and laughing like a drunken school boy.

He whispered something into K8′s ear, and we set off for some grub.  We went to the infamous Johnny Fox’s but they were not serving supper. I was a famished boyo.  So, we went onto Bray and ate at the Barracuda, which is a beautiful restaurant facing the Irish Sea.  I was still a bit liquored up by this point, but very grateful to be in the presence of an extremely intelligent and gorgeous woman.  We watched a violet sun melt into the sea.  I  drunkenly devoured a calamari salad and yet another pint of Bulmer’s.

On the way back to the hotel, I had passed from stupid drunk to sleepy drunk.  Next thing I knew, I felt a cool rush of air and a nudge on my right shoulder.  I went tumbling down the roadside and into the bog.  Evidently Grandad had given K8 direct instructions to knock me into the bogs on her way home.

So there I was soaking wet and covered in muck.  After a lot of struggling and swimming through the muck like Bear Grylls had taught me on the telly, I made it back to the road.

I have one hell of a sense of direction.  Maybe it is all the metal in me feet?  Anyhow, I made it back to my room about 3:00AM catching all sorts of snarls and scowls from the staff whilst dragging bits of turf through the entryway.  I went to me room, called Brian F. to tell him the story, cleaned up, and passed out.

Stay tuned for part two on the morrow…

P.S.:  Many apologies for the lateness in posting all.  The laptop I used in Ireland was returned to its rightful owner without thinking about all of the post I had written in Windows Live Writer.  I had to steal it back for a few days.    And, thanks again to Grandad, K8, and Granny.

UPDATE:  I’ll post the next segment late Sunday night or early Monday morning.    Thanks…