As I mentioned some time ago, I visited Donegal for the first time back in late July.

I knew I would be starting my new job on August 1. So because of the strange way in which the salary system works, it was financially beneficial for me to stay in my old job until July 31, or as close to as possible. I managed to arrange for my resignation to be effective as of Sunday 31st, as opposed to Friday 29th, which ensured that I got paid for the last two days of the month, even though I didn’t work weekends. Crazy.

The other point was that if I’d left on Friday 29th, I wouldn’t have worked seven whole months in 2005, so wouldn’t have accrued as much paid holiday. “Leaving” on Sunday 31st ensured that I had another 1.75 (I think) days to take as paid leave, which allowed me to physically leave on Tuesday 26th, take Wednesday-Friday as paid holiday, then I was off Saturday and Sunday as usual (but still getting paid), and officially left the company at the end of Sunday, in order to start my new job on the Monday morning. Clear? No? Good.

So my final paycheck was going to be as (un)healthy as usual, and all of a sudden I had three days to kill. My mother bought the house in Donegal initially to be used as a holiday home while she still lived in Southport, but after retiring last year she sold the house I grew up in and emigrated to Donegal for a well-earned retirement early this year. And it was about time I visited.

I staggered out of work after lunch on the Tuesday, a couple of pints worse for wear, said a cheery goodbye to my now ex-colleagues, and weaved my way to Luton airport to catch my flight to Belfast.

I was only going to be gone for a few days, so a rucksack would be enough to pack my things. Of course, you’re not allowed to take blades into an aircraft cabin any more, so I couldn’t pack my razor. I briefly considered also taking a large suitcase and placing a single safety razor inside it, but decided against the idea on the basis that the inconvenience of carrying the bloody thing would far outweigh the satisfaction of making my point…

Once through security, I became slowly infuriated by the incessant PA announcements informing me that I was not allowed to smoke anywhere outside the permitted smoking areas. There were no signposts for smoking areas, and I searched the departure lounge high and low in vain. Eventually I located the hidden smoking room behind gate 13 and slowly poisoned myself until my flight was called…

One enjoyably brief flight later I touched down at Belfast International Airport just as the sun was setting. My mother met me at the airport and it was time for the long drive to Donegal. The sun was just setting as I arrived, and so as we drove I had all manner of areas of staggering natural beauty pointed out to me with the words “and if you look over there, that would be a terrific view if it wasn’t too dark to see anything”…

We crossed over the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic, but aside from the road signs changing colour and the speed limits changing from miles per hour to kilometres per hour, very little else seemed to change. I still saw sectarian graffitti, flags flying from lampposts… The troubles may be in decline in terms of violence, but feelings still run strong.

Arrival at the house was swiftly met by a flurry of attention from Padjo and Chi, the dog and cat I hadn’t seen for the best part of a year.

A slurp of wine, some home-baked bread and butter, and the welcome sleep of a gentleman of leisure (for the next three days, at least).

I awoke in the spare bedroom to find a cow looking at me from the field behind the house. A far cry from suburbia, indeed. No bulls this time though.

Then around to the front for a cup of tea and a cigarette, and the view above – looking out across the moors to the Atlantic. After a hearty breakfast, we walked out with the dog around Maghery, the closest there is to a town in the vicinity. It has a shop. And a pub. What more do you need though, really? We take the dog up to the beach, where I get some great photos of the sky over the sea, and meet a couple of wandering dogs. My mother seems to be the only person in the area who believes in having the dog on a lead – everyone else seems to let their dogs roam free…

Later, we walk up to the famine wall – a superfluous structure built by the starving locals for a pittance of pay from the English invaders during the famine. Stirring stuff.

Then off to Glenveigh National Park, to take in ruined churches, rolling mountains, lakes and greenery as far as I can see.

A trip to the pub rounds off the day – I settle by the turf fire for a fine pint of Guinness, but then have to wander out into the night to smoke – smoking in pubs has been illegal across Ireland for just over a year…

Up again (eventually) on Thursday, we take another walk with the dog, then a trip into Dungloe, the nearest “proper” town. Everything is priced in Euros, just like in Rome last year. What exactly is wrong with a single European currency? I hate getting ripped of by paying commission every time I buy or sell foreign money…

Some food shopping, a visit to the market, and a general wander around the town, then back to the house for dinner. I take Mum through my Flickr photos, and show her the photoset from my trip to Rome. It took forever on dialup, but it was good to remember that (slightly insane) holiday…

Later we settle down for another great home-cooked meal, and watch an old video of Shallow Grave, which I’d somehow managed never to watch.

Finally Friday comes, and with an early start (okay, 9 o’clock), a swift breakfast, and then it’s already time to go. Quite how the time passed so quickly I have no idea – I did so very little, bar wandering around the beautiful scenery, eating home cooking, and chattering away with my mother. We get on incredibly well now that we live apart, it’s a far cry from the incessant yelling matches of my teens.

It’s been a thoroughly relaxing few days, and in a lot of ways I’m envious of my mother’s lifestyle out here. Early retirement, to the tranquil idyllic setting of rural Ireland, the country of her birth, with her days free to walk the dog to the ocean and back, read any book or watch any film she likes, and gaze out across some staggering natural landscapes at her leisure. Of course, I couldn’t cope for even a few days without broadband or fast food takeaways, let alone live in a new country, leaving all of my friends behind.

On the drive back to the airport I can take in all of the views I missed in the dark on the way here, and as we laugh listening to Irish talk radio as Belfast draws near, it feels a little like leaving home again… I’ll be back though.