EIDW - Dublin, Ireland

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers – Clairseach and Chopsticks Edition
Flight Log #004
Date: Wednesday, June 25, 2025
Weather: Irish variable—clouds, sun, and a wind that could blow the horns off a Viking helmet.

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Departure and Crew
I don’t fly for fun. I fly for a mission, and today’s mission was a tapestry of history, hunger, and hard-earned respect—woven together at 3,500 feet and stitched tight by the Irish wind. We lifted the DHC-5 Buffalo “Pipi” out of Waterford, the crew settling into that unspoken rhythm you only get with shared hardship, good food, and better whiskey. Cropduster’s hands were steady, Lani and Kai alert—though they’d only get their strictly vet-approved rations, not a scrap more, no matter how much they eyed the galley. Fiona “Ferret” McDougall was double-checking the manifest, and the Scottish contingent—Wallace, MacGregor, Angus—kept their arms folded, but even they seemed less wary than usual.

Hook Head: The Oldest Sentinel
We banked low over Hook Head, the lighthouse standing sentinel at the tip of the peninsula, battered by centuries of Atlantic wind. This isn’t just a beacon; it’s a survivor. The story starts with St. Dubhán and his monks in the 5th century, lighting warning fires for sailors on perilous nights. But it was William Marshal—the greatest knight who ever lived, son-in-law to Strongbow—who built the great stone tower in the early 13th century. Eight centuries later, Hook Lighthouse is still guiding ships, its black-and-white bands a signal of safety and resilience. The walls, over four meters thick, have withstood storms, wars, and time itself. Every step up its 115 spiral stairs is a journey through Irish history: monks, knights, keepers, and shipwrecks—1,000 lost vessels remembered in the graveyard of the sea below.

Baginbun Head: Where Ireland Was Lost and Won
Baginbun Head came next, looking peaceful but holding the start of a new era. In May 1170, the Norman vanguard—just 100 men led by Raymond le Gras—landed here. They built ramparts and ditches still visible today, raided local cattle, and dug in for survival. When an Irish army of 3,000 arrived, the Normans drove stolen cattle into their ranks and won a victory that changed the island’s fate. Reinforcements soon followed, and Waterford fell. The name “Baginbun” itself comes from the Normans’ two landing boats: Le Bag and Le Bun. As the old saying goes, “By the creek of Baginbun, Ireland was lost and won.” The earthworks and ancient defenses still mark the site—a reminder that history here is written in stone and blood.

JFK Park, Kennedy Bridge, and Ballykissangel
JFK Park rolled beneath us, green and endless, a living memorial. Kennedy Bridge arched over the river—a crossing, a risk, a reminder that every journey has its moments of doubt. I checked the instruments, checked the crew. I don’t leave things to chance.

As we circled Avoca, the heart of Ballykissangel, I caught the look in Cropduster’s eye. He tried to play it cool, but I know the signs. Ballykissangel isn’t just a waypoint for him—it’s his favorite BBC/Irish show, hands down. He’s watched every episode, knows every line, and swears Fitzgerald’s Pub pours the best pint in fiction. But ask him about Irish films, and he’ll tell you—without hesitation—Snappers is the best. Not The Commitments. Not The Field. Snappers. He’s got a soft spot for the Curley family’s chaos and Sharon’s grit. The man’s got taste, I’ll give him that.

So as we circled the church spire and pub, I made a note in the log: Cropduster’s favorite show: Ballykissangel. Favorite Irish film: Snappers. Crew morale: optimal. Whiskey stores: holding. Gopher sightings: unconfirmed.

Arrival in Dublin and The Hairy Noodle
Landing at Dublin International was smooth—too smooth. I don’t relax. Not ever. Fiona “Ferret” McDougall checked logistics, and Pipi got a once-over. Lani and Kai sniffed out the perimeter—though not for scraps. Their diets are strictly vet-approved: only foods cleared by our trusted veterinarian, nothing from the table, and certainly none of the ramen, whiskey, or pub snacks for them.

Hunger was circling the crew like a pack of wolves. My contacts pointed us to Dublin’s not-so-secret culinary bunker: The Hairy Noodle—a ramen joint with a sense of humor, a chef with more tattoos than patience, and a menu that changes with the weather and the whiskey supply. The place is as Irish as it gets, with a mural of a sheep slurping noodles and a sign over the kitchen that reads, “If you can’t handle the broth, get out of the bowl.” But today, Chef Paddy “Noodle” McBarker had something special up his sleeve. He’d heard about Lani and Kai—our K9 crew, loyal, sharp, and strictly on vet-approved diets. Paddy is a man who respects a mission briefing. He grinned, wiped his hands on his apron (emblazoned with “Slurp Responsibly”), and said, “Give me ten minutes. No soy, no salt, no onions—just a bowl worthy of a pilot’s best friends.”

He set to work, hand-pulling noodles from lean minced chicken and egg white, piped into boiling water to create soft, protein-rich “noodle” strips. The broth was a clear chicken bone stock, simmered for hours, absolutely no added salt or seasoning—just pure, gentle flavor. He chopped carrots, celery, and a bit of baby bok choy, blanched until soft and safe for canine digestion, and topped the bowl with shredded chicken breast, a quail egg (optional, if approved by the vet), and a sprinkle of finely chopped parsley for color. No garlic, no onions, no soy, no miso, no nori—just wholesome, dog-friendly goodness.

Chef Paddy presented the bowls with a flourish: “For Lani and Kai, the only pilots in Dublin who can sniff out a crosswind before it hits the tower.” The dogs sniffed, tails wagging, and dove in—slurping up every last noodle, broth dribbling from their whiskers. The rest of the bar cheered. Even the Scottish contingent looked impressed. Lani and Kai’s meals are always strictly vet-approved—no table scraps, no ramen experiments unless cleared by our trusted veterinarian. Chef Paddy’s “Puppy Power Ramen” passed with flying colors: every ingredient wholesome, every slurp safe, and not a single drop wasted. The dogs got their bowl, the crew got their laughs, and for one shining moment, The Hairy Noodle was the happiest ramen shop in Dublin.

For the rest of us, the signature bowl was Spicy Miso Ramen: broth simmered with miso and Irish pork bones, handmade noodles, slow-roasted pork belly, a soft egg marinated in soy and a dash of Teeling whiskey, scallions, nori, chili oil, and fresh garlic on the side. First bite: silky, smoky, spicy. The whiskey in the egg hits you slow, like a memory. Cropduster survived the fire. I finished mine with the calm of a man who’s seen worse.

Dublin Drinks and U2
You don’t come to Dublin without sampling the best. Redbreast 12, Teeling Small Batch, Bushmills 21 for the connoisseurs. Green Spot for those who know, and Powers John's Lane for those who want to remember. If you want a proper dram, you go to The Palace Bar or Bowe’s—places where the whiskey list is longer than the runway at Shannon. Guinness is a given. But the crew’s favorites? Smithwick’s Red Ale for the malty, toffee notes. Five Lamps for a sweet, citrusy sip. Scraggy Bay’s golden ale for something with a kick. The Palace Bar pours them all, and Franciscan Well’s Friar Weisse brings a punch of zest you won’t forget.

Today’s soundtrack was U2. Dublin’s own. Bono’s voice and The Edge’s guitar filled the cockpit as we crossed the Liffey. “Where the Streets Have No Name” as we left Waterford. “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” as we circled Ballykissangel. “Beautiful Day” on final approach to Dublin. Their music is more than an anthem—it’s a promise. The city is full of their echoes: The Clarence Hotel, Hanover Quay, Temple Bar. If you want to understand Dublin, listen to U2.

Squadron Reunion: Dublin Tarmac Madness
As the sun dipped behind the hangars, the tarmac at Dublin International turned into a Tiger Shark Squadron block party. The C-130 Hercules rumbled in from the west, the C-17 Globemaster and AT-6 Texan taxied up with their propellers spinning, and the DC-3—old but never outdone—rolled to a halt with a proud snort of brakes. Out spilled crews from every corner of the sky, boots thumping on the tarmac, laughter echoing across the apron, and the unmistakable sound of someone already uncorking a bottle of Redbreast.

We loaded up on Dublin’s finest: boxes of Bewley’s tea, bags of Tayto crisps, fresh soda bread, and enough Barry’s tea to keep the night shift awake until next Tuesday. Someone found a crate of Butlers chocolates, and the Guinness kegs arrived on a baggage cart, already tapped. The Scottish contingent eyed the whiskey selection, but even they couldn’t resist a pint poured at sunset on Irish soil.

And then came the real fun—out rolled the Gopher Tanks and the legendary EM-50 Urban Assault Vehicle. The Gopher Tanks, painted in squadron colors, are more than just armored curiosities; they’re the pride of the ground crew, equipped with soft-serve dispensers, karaoke speakers, and a button marked “Do Not Press” (which, naturally, everyone pressed). The EM-50, straight out of “Stripes” lore, is a rolling fortress disguised as an RV: bulletproof panels, rocket launchers (strictly for fireworks, we’re told), and a hot tub bubbling on the roof. With the keys in hand, the crews took turns driving laps around the apron, honking at ground control and waving to bemused customs officers. Lani and Kai, safely buckled in their designated dog seats, supervised the chaos with professional detachment.

By the time the moon rose over the city, the Tiger Shark Squadron had turned the tarmac into a festival—pilots swapping stories, crews trading patches, and the unmistakable sound of U2’s “One” drifting from the EM-50’s sound system. We toasted the day with Irish whiskey and Dublin ale, a brotherhood and sisterhood of aviators, ground crew, and one or two gophers who may or may not have stowed away in the DC-3’s cargo bay.

Closing Thoughts
If you’re reading this, you know what I’m about. I use my skills to keep my crew safe, my whiskey smooth, and my ramen hot. If anyone tries to take this from us—this music, this food, this fellowship—I will find you. And I will make you sing along. We’re the lucky ones, flying low over a land that remembers. Every flight is a lesson. Every landing, a promise kept.

As the last laugh echoed and the EM-50’s hot tub steamed in the night, I remembered the words of Seamus Heaney:

"If we winter this one out, we can summer anywhere."
—Seamus Heaney

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