I tired of New Year’s resolutions long before I became an old man. But before I did, my resolutions were the typical nutty variety that I always circumvented by the end of January. Let’s just take a gander at a few.

“20 Days to Better Spelling,” a book with not a single romantic twist or turn, exited years ago from my resolution list with my discovery of spellcheck.

“No eating after 7 p.m.” was no longer a challenge when I decided buttered popcorn was an exception. Duh.

And “being a better husband, father, friend”? Please. Once I discovered that I could just admit that I screwed up (because I did), I was so sorry (I truly am), and I wondered what I could do to remedy the situation (please, anything), the aggrieved party was usually stunned long enough that I could go back to reading “Conan the Barbarian” in peace.

See, why work on self-improvement for the New Year — especially when the odds are so high that you will fail and end up in the grocery store eating donuts anyway.

Ah, but what about having a bucket list? You know, things you want to do, or are supposed to want to do, but would rather not do, because you are tired of doing, and would prefer to watch British detective shows.  Listen, I know I’m supposed to want to jump out of an airplane or hike the Appalachian Trail or compete on The Great British Bake Off. Sorry. I was born before Instagram and Facebook and X and I don’t know enough to know I’m FALLING BEHIND everyone else. Being a troglodyte has its blessings.

Although, there is that room above an Irish pub . . .

A day along the sea outside of Howth, Ireland, comes with a small warning sign.

Yikes. I don’t remember that sign in my Iowa driver’s license test. That sign captures most of my anxieties — a fear of heights, a fear of falling, and a fear that the ocean will swallow me up and deposit me off the coast of Florida where I’ll become part of a delicious fish chowder. No thank you. 

This sign appears after walking on narrow trails with waist-high gorse and after ducking through shrouded tunnels of vegetation that clings to the sides of the cliffs and meanders along the hills overlooking the Irish Sea. There is not a corn or bean field in sight. It’s overcast and a light rain falls. Only the random older woman or man appears on the trail. When they do, they look directly at my wife and me, smile, comment on the beautiful day, and move on as water drips off their rain hat. 

I bet you’re wondering how to get here?

Well, fly from Des Moines to Dublin, take the train north to Howth, and climb this steep cobblestone street. There you are, panting, jet lagged, and wondering if you can go any further. Great. See that graveyard to your left? Yup, those are tourists who couldn’t go any further. 

As for me, my Irish-citizen wife encourages me not to despair from the long walk. Is she kidding? We are in Ireland. Isn’t the national pastime melancholy and despair? The famous Irish poet William Butler Yeats supposedly said: “Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.” Yup, I recognize my wife’s spirit.

Thank goodness, there’s our lodgings. Or, more accurately, there’s the pub.

“A pint while you wait for your room?” the bartender says.

I look around the dark-wooded room with four old men dressed in muted gray and black sitting at the ancient bar. All have a pint of Guinness. So I go out on a limb: “How about a Guinness?”

The bartender nods his head, as if I had a choice. And then begins the ritual preparation of the pint. 

For those of you who are non-beer drinkers, this wait is a challenge. But the rest of you know a Guinness as a dark lager with a smokey sharp taste and a finger-width white head that will cling to your upper lip like the old “Got Milk” commercials of the 1990’s. It is a beer that is beloved or reviled. There is little middle ground. But in Dublin, Ireland, the birthplace of Guinness, it takes up most of the taps at the ever-present neighborhood pubs.  

My pint is set on the bar along with three others. They are about three quarters full. And now you wait. For the second coming of Jesus? Unsure. Once you are fairly certain you have been forgotten, the bartender tops off the pint and there you go. Your very own Guinness. 

Yum . . . perhaps it is the second coming.

Too soon, we are directed up the stairs to our clean, modest lodgings — a bed, a dresser, a view. And before long, we are unburdened of our packs and walking the narrow paths next to the sea. 

And that’s all there is, folks.

No rollercoasters. 

No jumping from planes.

No endless buffets and bottomless drinks.

A quiet walk. A dark beer. A gentle rain. 

Ireland. Des Moines. Boone. 

It doesn’t matter the location. As long as you patiently wait for your beer with your eyes open. Now there’s a New Year’s resolution for you. 

Joe