Our time in Dublin was frustrating at best. First, there was an infuriating fiasco with Ryanair—do you want to hear about this in detail? because if so, I’m more than happy to rat on my least favorite airline in the world—then a snafu with our rental car and then we arrived at our hotel, ready to throw down our increasingly-heavy suitcases and hit the city by foot, to find out that the hotel lost our reservation. And they were full. Ugh.
But lemons to lemonade, right? The desk girl at the Fitzwilliam was very kind and helpful and called around to find an available room for us. At the end of September, it was still technically high season in Dublin, so this wasn’t easy (especially a room with two beds to accommodate three). But eventually, she was able to get us in at the Westbury Hotel, which is only one of Dublin’s most coveted accommodations. Hauling our ridiculous amount of suitcases (i.e. shopping purchases from Scotland) through the crowded Grafton Street was the not-so-fun part of that equation.
It was one of those hotels that is so comfortable you don’t want to leave. We felt bad we had paid a hefty sum of money just to head out again for the night—though you don’t truly experience Dublin without a self-guided beer tour, in my opinion—but after the day we’d had, it was worth every penny, nevertheless.
We only had one dud of a hotel during our eight nights and six different properties in Scotland, but it was still a nice change of scenery to stay in a more modern accommodation after a handful of bed and breakfasts.
So thank you, Westbury—and also Rory Guinness—for redeeming Dublin in my eyes. Had it not been for the two of you, our time in the Irish capital would have been a total bust.