Today, we went where the locals told us to go.

Sunday, as planned, we went to Dun Laoghaire for a taste of the Irish coast—the East one, to be precise. We disembarked the train by the town’s waterfront, and set off on a long walk along the coastline. Dun Laoghaire is pretty—there were lots of boats and ships in the water, and plenty of spots for sitting or dipping your feet. The buildings around the water were strangely Mediterranean-looking, some even reminiscent of the ones we saw in Malibu or other posh parts along the California coast last summer. A few minutes from where the train stops, we came upon a traveling fair that was in the process of setting up. Seems innocent enough, right? A good place to take the kids? Well, sure it was—if you’re morally OK with Pam Anderson, wrapped (loosely, I might add) in the American flag, airbrushed in a sultry pose on the side of the ticket booth. The creepiness continued with a bumper-car-style ride with the most random American celebrities airbrushed around the canopy of it—Tina Turner, Nikki Taylor (memba her?), and a handful of semi-recognizable has-beens.

We kept walking, not really knowing where we were going, but confident that if we stuck to the water’s edge we’d end up in the towns described to us by Brian’s colleagues. We passed a tower that housed James Joyce for a while, and “the bathing place” where he, and countless other men over the years, took to swimming nude in the Irish Sea. It was only about 15 degrees and intermittently cloudy when we went by, but there were enough old men strutting around in Speedos around there to play “there’s your boyfriend” for eternity.

We continued on through Dalkey and Killiney (where Bono lives, apparently—but we didn’t see him), a walk that turned out to be entirely uphill and, after a while, not terribly interesting. We found a small café at the top of the hill, and we were starving. We had to settle for a pastry to tide us over, and after a small rest while we snacked, we headed back down the hill into Dalkey, where we planned to catch the train up to Howth since we still had a whole afternoon. After chatting with a man on the platform, we decided to go instead to Malahide, on the advice that we’d probably find it more interesting. People, it seems, do not want us to see Howth. Fair enough.

We rolled into Malahide around four o’clock, and found a quaint little town with a marina and a nice, well-trod park by the water. Still running on pastry-fuel alone, we were wasting away. We managed to summon the energy to haul our skeletal, gaunt bodies to a take-away fish and chip place recommended to us by a shop owner in the town. We handed over 5 pounds each and, in return, received a greasy paper bag filled with a piece of smoked, deep-fried cod suitable for doing bicep curls with, and a packet of deliciously soggy, thick-cut French fries doused with vinegar and salt. We took our fatty finds down to the park, planted ourselves in the grass, and dined-a-deux in the afternoon sun.

Five pounds heavier, we waddled back to the train and made our way back to the campus for our final night in Dublin.