After a couple nights of the rowdy nightlife scene in Galway, I found myself craving an escape to the quiet Irish countryside. So early in the morning I spoke with the receptionist at my hostel (Snoozels) about natural attractions in the area, and she didn’t need a moment’s hesitation before she insisted I visit the Cliffs of Moher. The famous cliffs were in a quiet rural area south of Galway, which sounded perfect to me. The receptionist had bus tickets for sale, but she recommended I buy the round trip tour since cheap lodging near the cliffs this time of year would be difficult, if not impossible. Also the tour bus made a couple stops at scenic locations where tourists could stretch their legs a bit and take some photographs. I took her advice and bought the round trip package for 20 Euros, but decided to check out and bring my backpack with me just in case.

On the bus, I ended up sitting next to a beautiful American masters student named Mary from Boulder, Colorado. She said she was travelling with a couple girlfriends, but they were both too hungover from partying all night to get up in time for the bus. Amateurs, I thought to myself, thinking back to the sunrise I had watched come up only a few hours ago. Truth be told, my head was just as foggy as the weather in Galway that morning—which is to say considerably. But the paper cup of coffee and my lovely small talk partner kept me conscious in the plushy charter bus seat as we pulled out of the station. The bus driver came on over the intercom with a thick Irish accent and comically informed us that while on his bus there would be no running, no jumping, no swimming, no vomiting, no fighting, no biting, and absolutely no questions about fookin’ leprechauns. Everyone laughed. He also forbid leaving the lavatory door open if you’ve done something particularly horrible in there.

As the bus driver continued to speak loudly over the intercom, Mary and I came to realize that he was never going to stop. He had a story to tell about every building, road, and scrappy tree that we drove by. It was funny for a while, but eventually it became too much for my ears and nerves. I needed a nap to recover some of the excess energy I lost to the Galway nightlife. I put in my earbuds and asked Mary to wake me if anything of particular interest came up. Bless that girl, she woke me barely fifteen minutes later to tell me our progress had been stalled by a herd of cows in the road. Sure enough, through the front windows I could see a handful of cows being encouraged to move off the road by a woman clicking two sticks together. After a hearty chuckle and a quick photo, I nodded back off to sleep.

Mary woke me again when we reached our first pitstop of the journey, Dunguaire Castle. Feeling energized after my nap, it was refreshing to stroll out into the fog to get a closer look at the old stone fortress. Surrounded almost entirely by water, it stood on a lonely peninsula connected to the mainland by a narrow grassy strip. Dunguaire Castle looked particularly mysterious in that thick fog. After about twenty minutes there was a whistle from the bus driver to start heading back. As everyone turned away from the castle, I ran around back and marked my territory on castle number six of my journey thus far.

The fog eventually began to clear as the bus wound its way through the rocky coastal region called The Burren, which is old Irish for, quite appropriately, Great Many Rocks. We made another pitstop to see the Poulnabrone Portal Tomb, a mysterious rock formation thought to date back to the pre-Stonehenge era.

I was thrilled when we finally reached the little town of Doolin for lunch. We ate at a local pub called O’Connors where Mary and I tucked into hearty portions of Guinness Stew. While everyone was busy finishing their lunches, Mary and I explored the immediate area of Doolin. We found a great little chocolate shop on Fisher Street, where free sample sizes were so generous that it felt wrong not to make a purchase. Vanilla fudge may sound like an oxymoron, but I assure you it is actually the greatest thing on Earth. After browsing a couple antique shops and books stores, making sure to buy a few postcards, we returned to the bus.

The Cliffs of Moher were just up the road from Doolin, and I must say the two hour bus ride from Galway to get there was very much worth it. A paved walk takes you by the obligatory visitors center, past a number of surprisingly untalented accordion and banjo players, and finally right up to the edge of the cliffs overlooking the frothy Atlantic. The more family friendly paved path veered left and kept a low stone wall between tourists and the dramatic drop off. A narrower and significantly muddier path to the right had no such protective wall and led to a small castle-looking structure. Obviously I opted for the path to the right. I walked slowly and circumspectly, looking out with awe over the towering cliffs of shale and sandstone. I learned from small signs along the way the cliffs extended for a few miles in each direction, and varying between 400 and 700 feet in height. It was an absolutely stunning sight to behold.

Having lost my small talk partner Mary to the visitors center, I befriended a couple yoga teachers from New Zealand by the cliffs to take my picture. I didn’t tell them that I was going to do a headstand on the edge of the cliffs, and they both proceeded to flip out when I did. But after that initial reaction, they followed my lead and took to doing some photogenic yoga poses of their own.

I chatted with the New Zealand girls for a while as we walked along the cliffs taking an embarrassing number of photos. I could have spent all day there, but I looked at my watch and sadly realized that I had to make my way back to the bus. I looked out the window longingly as the driver followed the road back down to Doolin. I didn’t want to leave this quaint countryside and return to Galway. Even more, I didn’t want to sit on this bus for another two hours while the driver continued to make wise cracks about each blade of grass we saw. I made my way up the bus aisle to the driver and asked him if he could leave me outside the pub in Doolin. He looked startled and reminded me that I had paid for a nonrefundable round trip ticket. I assured him that I had gotten my money’s worth and would very much like to stay in Doolin a bit longer. “Never in all my years as a tour bus driver has anyone asked to be left here in little ol’ Doolin,” he said shaking his head. But he obliged my request nonetheless. True to form, he made a big show of seemingly kicking me off the bus as I exited with my backpack—“You see folks, this is what happens when you leave the lavatory door open after doing something ‘orrible!”