Boom.

Rain continues to fall at a remarkably steady pace. Water ripples down the shingles of the hostel, and a fine mist veils the view of St. Patrick’s twin spires. Now, this is the weather I had imagined when I first signed up for this trip.
At the moment, the majority of my group is out on a rain walk, milling about the small town of Armagh in just T-shirts and shorts. I, on the other hand, remain here in the reading room because of a lingering scratchiness in my throat. Under any other circumstances, I would be right out there with them. But with my rain coat. I’m not too keen on being wet.

I have been living in the “ecclesiastical capital of Ireland” for the last 12 days. My current home is situated between the two main attractions of Armagh: the Church of Ireland and the Roman Catholic cathedral. Both churches bear St. Patrick’s name, a fact that was originally incredibly confusing.

Unfortunately, it seems as though my flow of thoughts has ceased along with the rain. Or perhaps I’m just daunted by the task of formatting all that I have accomplished thus far into a neat, concise account. The last 12 days have been packed with bus rides and pub crawls. Even clubbing, during which I just sat in a corner and drank previously untasted types of booze.

I suppose this trip is turning out just as I expected, minus the looming illness. At some point I’ll finally write a bit more, but my face is burning and Shelly’s variety box of tea beckons.

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