The first draught goes down in an ice-cold rush, smooth as brushed velvet, rich as whipped cream; mellow as the ambrosia of the gods. It tastes like no other drink on earth.
The pub decor reeks of tradition but I see few patrons. Is 4pm too early to start drinking, even in Ireland?
I'm in the lair of the Celtic Tiger but I'm no pussy, so I order a second, which tastes as good as the first. I decide to call it a day and get some beauty sleep before tomorrow's long drive through Connemara to Galway.
I find Ireland's western counties of Sligo, Mayo and Galway exceedingly pleasant to drive through. If you set aside the crumbling castle ruins and seemingly endless dry stone walls, there's a clear resemblance to New Zealand in the undulating green landscapes and the friendly, bilingual people. The road signs are bilingual too, which allows me to get lost in both Irish and English.
Driving along the character-filled country roads, I try to identify the legendary 40 shades of green but am intrigued by the yellow wild flowers, fairy-tale castles and elemental beauty of wild, racing streams. A sign hangs on one farm gate: "I will let you cross my farm for free but the bull charges." I'm finding that Ireland's not all Danny Boy, U2, stout, leprechauns and rolling green hills - there's a lot more to it.
Galway reveals itself as a lively university city with colourful shops and a vibrant Latin Quarter. Boss Doyle's Bar hums with music throughout the night and I'm soon drawn like a moth to a flame by the sweet sound of a colleen's voice singing about the sun going down on Galway Bay. My education on the finer points of life starts with the barman, who instinctively knows how to pour the perfect pint.
"To be sure, the Guinness we pour here is a very fine ting," he tells me as he tilts the glass at a precise 45-degree angle under the tap. When the glass is three-quarters full, he sets it aside to settle so the heavy black liquid sinks below the light, creamy top. In two minutes, the pint's white head is fully formed and black, froth-less liquid is added to top up the glass.
From the very first sip, I know I'm drinking the perfect pint. There's a slightly bitter taste but it's cold and delicious. "They don't make it like this overseas," I say.
"Faith an' more's the pity. Ireland's the spiritual home of civilised drinking," he replies.
Somewhere between Rose of Tralee and the Mountains of Mourne I meet a jovial man with smiling eyes who is drinking Jameson by himself and singing with gusto. "It's a terrible ting that the whiskey is doing to me. I'm single, drinking doubles and seeing triple," he tells me.
"How are things in Ireland these days?" I ask, knowing that the high-tech boom has passed. "Do yer know what I'm going to tell yer?" he says, to which I shake my head too violently. "We applied for membership of the Third World but were turned down because of our weather."
I'm on the road again a little later than normal next morning, as the gift o' the Guinness keeps giving for some time.
I climb to O'Brien's Tower and view the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher and peer into the swirling sea mists to discern the faint outline of the Aran Islands.
Killarney's romantic lakes are a beautiful sight, best viewed from a jaunting car.
My cheerful, wise-cracking "jarvey" couldn't resist a comparison between the hairy-footed Kiwi hobbits and the green-hatted leprechauns of Ireland. I tell him that one in five Kiwis can claim some Irish ancestry and boldly ask how the male-only leprechauns recreate themselves, which appears to have him stumped.
I'm being embraced by Irish culture and conviviality wherever I go, as if I'm a long lost member of the Irish Diaspora. Pursuing the perfect pint is proving to be the perfect accompaniment to a tour of Ireland and by now I feel that I'm living proof that kissing the Blarney Stone confers the gift of the gab.
At a cosy little pub in Kerry to cheers of "slainte", we make a toast that succinctly sums up the western counties experience for me.
"Here's to the land of the shamrock so green. Here's to each lad and his darlin' colleen. Here's to the ones we love dearest and most. May God bless old Ireland, that's this Irishman's toast."
