#264. Smilingandnoddingford

I've realised since returned from the holiers, that the Great Outdoors isn't so bad afterall.

The weekend was spent in the chilly northernish climbs of the County Louth celebrating the final days of bachelorhood for my future brother-in-law together with his 30-something mates.

The fun started with a swift ascent of a rock face in an old quarry, which was organised with Carlingford Adventure Centre. Fun though it was in retrospect; at the time it was terrifying. I'm not scared of heights, but what's sure to give you the willies is to be clinging to a cliff like a fly on a windshield looking for the next toehold and trying not to look down. Anyway, the rock was conquered and then abseiled down again.

Beerfans will know that the Porterhouse's food menu features seafood exclusively from Carlingford. Well, I can attest that the seafood is even fresher and better when you're actually there eating from the crab's arse. (Despite the tastiness, it was still a shame that someone foiled our plan to set the restaurant's lobsters free.) And it's all washed down lovely with plenty of Guinness, brandies and craic agus ceoil in your not-so-typical but atmospheric-all-the-same rural pub.

So that was that. We climbed a big mountain hill on the Sunday, had a dismal and icy snowball fight, saw the Isle of Man and then came home. No strippers, no handcuffs, no lampposts, but fun nonetheless.

Speaking about said wedding, I have seemingly volunteered to do a bit of an auld song at the afters. So, despite not having played in three years and not having been very good anyway, I've got two weeks to learn and play something acousticy on guitar. It can be done, he told himself wide-eyed, nodding and smiling.