In an attempt to escape the relentless joy of living in Limerick City, with its hustle and bustle, the dulcet tones of Ambulances at all hours, the screams of couples arguing outside at two in the morning, the death rattle of Delivery Trucks at six in the morning, the crash of cars at a crossroads they won’t change to a roundabout, fights of all kinds outside our police stations, side by side, dysfunctional alarms at the immigration office next door that rings arbitrarily like a cranky newborn at all hours that seem to go unnoticed, overdoses and addictions and roving gangs of bandana wearing charmers, my other half and I decided to take ourselves to Doolin, which by all accounts of friends, is a truly gorgeous place, a traditional Irish village on the west coast with fantastic views and food and not to mention the Doolin Caves, with its giant stalagtite, which I had to see. I didn’t, in the end. The price tag, like the price tag to see the Cliffs of Moher, is prohibitive to a poor man like myself. It should be free anyway. Greed is not good.

We arrived right on time for our morning bus. But there was no bus. An hour and ten minuutes later it arrived, replete with apologies. You see folks they said, we had a breakdown. And it takes that long to get a replacement. they just asked me last minute and you are so nice to be so patient. Screw the customers with their prepaid tickets, their jobs they require punctuality, your meetings and connections youhave to make on time. The national bus service were so sorry, you see – and they wished us a really great day.

We arrived at Ennis – just about, and got the next connection to Doolin, two hous after the one we had booked. It was a filthy bus, so filthy in fact one couldnt see the beauties of the landscape as the world whoosed past. But still – there was always Doolin. Or was there, really?

Doolin is a coastal town, or rather it has the appearance of a coastal town. What one gets is the image, or the appearance of a coastal town built by investment money via the tourist industry. Its a facsimile. It has remnanats of its fishing past. currachs strategically placed, carefully constructed limestone walls, clean pathways and walks along the peir. Expensive restaurants and pubs are made to look exactly like old Irish pubs. But they are not old Irish pubs. They are hypermodern hoovers of money. They are there to massively overcharge you. Whether you are buying goods, food, or services you, the customer are there to pay. We got charged E24 for two bowls of mediocre vegetable soup and a couple of bad (very bad) cups of coffee. A bowl of soup is six euros. A cup of coffee is three. Go figure.

Doolin, like much of Irish Culture, art, writing, poetry, music, and history, has been commodified and sold as product. Doolin the place is an artifact of a past we Irish once had, but it is gone, as the place has been sold to tourism. Its a nostalgia trip as fake as any nostalgia trip is, as for the most part people got out of Doolin and such places back in the day because of poverty and neglect and alcoholism and the Catholic Church and sheer existential desperation. Doolin’s a movie set with props that advertise an Irishness and a mysticism and a poetry its naked greedy commercialism negates. So we walked around the village and talked about Doolin and chatted to the lovely American tourists and we decided to go to the ocean, or as they like to call it in the tourist trap catchphrases – The Wild Atlantic Way. May angels and ministers of grace preserve us from such appalling linguistic legerdemain.

So the walk to Doolin Pier is about two kilometres, three max on a truly beautiful chilly November day. It was magnificent, if you ignored the shops and the signs on the farm gates about how this was a place of business and not a playground (and I quote). The sea surf rose high like wild horses crashing insanely against the rocks and beach. A big red sign indicated that only someone who had lost their mind or at least a good slice of common sense would even dream of swimming in such a place. So we stood and walked around and watched the waves come in and explode in a fireball of translucent joy and the ecstacy of nature and the infinite loop of horizon slowly darkened in the golden light of evening chill and we fell in love again with the Atlantic and laughed and cried a little with happiness that there was something so indescribably beautiful still alive amidst so much bullshit fakery and naked greed. And we went home. Once again both buses were late and the drivers unbelivably obnoxious. they seemed unhappy. I don’t blame them. Imagine working in the companies they work for, all that pressure and dysfunction makes miserable employees. We just can’t wait to see the Atlantic again, though. You can’t fake the sea, at least.