(Or: How I Went From Leading Tours of Dublin to Butchering Spanish at the Butcher’s)

Alright. Let’s get this out of the way: I’m not young, I’m not trendy, and I don’t know what TikTok is. But I do know how to walk backwards down Dame Street while explaining the 1916 Easter Rising andavoiding a French school group hell-bent on walking straight into traffic.

My name’s Declan. Former professional tour guide, full-time worrier, and part-time storyteller. For the better part of three decades, I gave walking tours of Dublin. The good kind. No pre-recorded commentary, no laminated scripts. Just me, a dodgy umbrella, and a whole load of useless facts that somehow made people laugh and occasionally say, “Wow, I didn’t know that!”

I’ve taken thousands of people around the city — honeymooners, history nerds, bored teenagers, an entire stag party from Cavan that somehow confused Kilmainham Gaol with Kilmainham Gala, which they thought was a nightclub. Long story. You had to be there.

But anyway. Time passed. My knees started creaking louder than the floorboards at Molly Malone’s. Tour groups got taller. I got slower. The weather stayed the same — miserable — but I started dreaming of warmer places, like the radiator aisle in Woodie’s or, eventually… Spain.

My younger brother, Brendan, had already legged it years ago — bought a house somewhere near Valencia and kept telling me, “Come over, Dec! You can sit in the sun and not shout over buses all day.”

So, I finally did.

Now I live here. Somewhere with palm trees, suspiciously cheap wine, and a butcher who flinches every time I try to order ham in Spanish. I’m currently learning verbs, burning myself on churros, and trying to understand why no one here walks at what I’d call a “normal Irish pace.” Everyone’s so relaxed. It’s unnerving.

But I miss guiding. I miss telling stories, and showing people the real Dublin — not just the brochure stuff, but the stories between the cracks. The plaque that’s been wrong for 40 years. The statue pigeons prefer. The pub where Joyce supposedly lost a shoe (again, long story).

So that’s what this blog is.

The first chunk of it is all Dublin:

• The hidden spots
• The tourist traps to avoid (looking at you, overpriced leprechaun museum)
• The best pubs for a pint and a decent loo
• The stuff I always wanted to say on a tour but couldn’t, because someone’s child was licking the Ha’penny Bridge

And then, once you’ve had your virtual trip to Dublin — stick around. Because after that, I’ll be fumbling my way into Spanish life. Trying to become a tour guide again. This time, in Valencia, where my accent makes people think I’m from a planet they haven’t heard of yet.

So whether you’re planning a trip to Dublin, homesick for the Liffey, or just curious how an Irish tour guide reinvents himself in his sixties with dodgy knees and a vocabulary of eleven Spanish words (two of which might be rude)… you’re in the right place.

Sláinte,Declan
(currently hiding from Spanish homework behind a blog post)