You could tell the tourists by their shoes. Tennis shoes or hiking boots, baseball caps, big beards and even bigger accents.
One woman thought it would be lovely and kitsch to wear an outsized farmer's cap with her pink rain jacket and Californian bob. It really wasn't and spoke only of them speaking down to us, the cute Irish gombeens.
We accented our Dublinness at every point, visitors but not too much so, fitting in while the gawds stood out.
Driving over the Connor Pass, under fog, in fear; eating chips on a wall in the daytime and sober; walking by water, through the town, two or three times; drinking coffee beside a garden shed while the owner played guitar; the smell of the cheese shop, which smelled like a cheese shop; secretly cursing the B+B owner for being too handsome, too rugged, too Kerry, in her presence; a charm, one year on, as a keepsake...
Two swapped starters and stories over wine, new ones, that never run out.