We landed in Dublin on Good Friday. In other words, we landed in a place known for its stout and whiskey on a day when no one would/could sell us any stout or whiskey. Even the gas station beer selection was covered in bed sheets. Great planning on our part. Undeterred, we hopped in a car and drove west toward Connemara, hoping to find some sort of wild-west-we-do what-we-want spirit. We pulled into a convenience store/bar (because most establishments in Ireland are a something slash bar) outside of Clifden, hoping to charm the proprietor into selling us a welcoming brew. The little Irish man behind the counter seemed physically pained that he couldn’t send us off with a Guinness. Really, we could tell that it hurt his soul. And we’re also pretty sure, based on his pointing and winking (something that the Irish confusingly do a lot), that he would have sold us some if his wife weren’t working the register next to him.