Hand numb from drawing shamrocks on pints of Guinness at the top of the Storehouse, I see a day off in sight. 
Armed with a half-empty backpack, my Uruguayan friend and I leave the Big City before the sun breaks over the Liffey, the Irish Midlands dancing through the misty bus windows as we set course West.

Upon arrival in Galway, the bus pulls next to a modern terminal and we walk through quiet streets caressed by the wintry wind.
Quick breakfast at McDonalds and the town seems to gain some life after a strong cup of black coffee.

Galway is known for being the ‘Bohemian Capital of Ireland’ and as I dodge empty boxes and tiles on a desolated Shop Street, the weak sunshine illuminates the little town from Eyre Square to the Spanish Arch.
The day calls for further adventures, yet the bus fare is prohibitive. 

Cardboard and sharpie in hand, I draw on both sides of it in big letters: ‘D O O L I N’ , while the opposite side reads: ‘G A L W A Y’. Soon to become our fare to the very West.
The cars race up the avenue and call winners at the roundabout at Oranmore. We cram next to it and hold the sign under a refreshing sunshine interrupted by odd-shaped clouds.

Half an hour later, a Dublin soul stops and smiles. A lone traveller directing our adventure to Kinvarra in a whirlwind of backpacking memories, of bygone times of hitching rides in Peru, now only a memory sometimes appearing in between a normal boring Dublin life.
At the dusty corner where the main road gives way to the narrow tarmac swirling West, an elderly Australian couple ask where our knives are and, with an air of proud nostalgia, elaborate on their European adventure so far: the cheap cottages in Tuscany, the cruise liners to avoid in the Mediterranean Sea and the little villages in France.

As the signs for the Cliifs of Moher close, memories of my last trip to West Clare surface. Memories of ingenuity at the lack of money, of curiosity at the new country to be discovered, of invincibility at the thought of failing. A time in which everything was possible, a time to be truly alive.
I hop over a fence and swallow hard to the thought of vertigo, placing my feet at the edge of the 100-something meters cliff edge, before releasing a long and relieving sigh. 
Seagulls fly high over me and and fight the powerful Atlantic wind. Clouds in the distance dance across the Aran Islands and form rainbows of water droplets and sunshine, too overwhelming to contemplate quietly.

The hike to Doolin is patchy and a makeshift trail at times disappears in between fields of friendly donkeys and solitary trees. My friend and I laugh at the mud covering our shoes and at the thought of hitching back, a laughter only achieved when the outside world seems to have vanished for a few hours, a symphony of snorts and cackles sweetened by hard boiled candies and sense of adventure.

With the sign turned around and reading G A L W A Y,  our first lift is given by an Israeli couple, shortly after followed by a self-proclaimed hippie and a lift through the windy road to Lisdoonvarna, while our third and last lift of the day is a direct service to Galway provided by a young NUIG student from Doolin returning to Galway for his last exams.

In Galway, the sun dies tucked into clouds of patchy rain and drained from the long day, we bus back to Dublin in time for dinner. 
A little one-day adventure, in an ever-changing routine, in an ever-changing city.