If the idea of St Patrick’s Day in London, drinking in pubs full of people with Irish pretensions, proud of assumed heritage and waving pints of Guinness no longer appeals, then why not pop over to the Emerald Isle itself?

A bus from Victoria, a ferry from Hollyhead and a couple of hours of retching on the Irish Sea and you’ll be in Dublin. Then again, why not go that little bit further to the Western coast of Galway County and the Connemara?

I was staying with my friend Una in Salthill, an amusement arcade resort by Galway, where I was shown the sights between nagging bouts of rain. Galway City is the capital of the region and is a happy, lively place full of students and pubs where impromptu bursts of fiddles, accoustic guitars and melodeon (a noisy type of accordion) bring life to the singing drinkers and the drinking singers.

When we weren’t being hounded by the rain in town, we would take to the car to get wet in the country. The land of the Connemara is untamed and hostile in its beauty. Bracken fields sit under the blackened shapes of the Twelve Ben mountains and the ominous presence of the rain clouds. Houses are sparse in this windswept land where Connemara ponies lead a hardy life chewing on brackish grass and seaweed.

Eventually, after Una’s mum had tired of me decorating the interior of her car with local mud, she suggested a lone trip for me to the Aran Isles, where 1500 toughened people live in the Atlantic on three miniscule, infertile islands.

Mrs Una was born and raised on the island of Inishmaan (Middle Island) and many an evening’s stew was washed down with hardy tales from the rain-soaked lands. I heard how she would be treated to the occasional trip to Galway on a currach, the traditional boat of the islands which is made from tarred canvas and a wooden frame.

English speakers were unknown (50 per cent of Galway County locals still speak Gaelic as a first language) and the winters, autumns, springs and summers were harsh.

She had an uncle who would drink furiously and occasionally find his boat before passing out somewhere cold and wavy. So it was one foul morning that I was loaded onboard by burly men to entrust myself to the luck of the waves and the skill of the captain. Unable to sit for fear of sweating in my novel layers of plastic protection, I stood in mock respect to watch the others embark. Including myself, I totalled three tourists and two crew. We totally out-numbered them, were we to fancy a brief mutiny.

It was quite a journey to Inishmore (Great Island), through crashing rain and spitting waters, during which I managed to entertain myself by hiccoughing gently, while the two Americans to my side were rather more elaborate in their appreciation of the seas.

When we arrived at Kilronan port, I set off to photograph some weather-beaten locals. It was delightful — a few fishing nets and lobster pots lay dripping their salty water on the side of their respective boats which nodded violently in the not-so-calm waters at my feet.

Apart from a couple of weather tarnished cars resting on bricks, there was little sign of activity, save an old gent or two tinkling past on rust coated bikes. Behind the town’s restaurant I glimpsed an elderly man busying himself with weeds. Having rehearsed my Gaelic greetings to a tee, I made myself as presentable as an unshaven fool dressed in plastic could, and gave him my best.

“Gia gwit,” (God be with you) I began and waited for his reply. It came, and in the rain-speckled wind sounded uncannily like “Fok off!” Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I warmly nodded my thanks and clambered into a van that had pulled up with the two vomiting Americans enclosed inside. For £5 each we were to have a wee tour of the island’s 8km road.

As I contemplated Ireland’s warm hospitality, we bumped our way past derelict cottages, whistling with the wind. It was a bleak place. Stone walls split the land and windswept sheep sneezed on the grass. White farm houses dotted the landscape. We were constantly reminded of our whereabouts by the rolling sea — at times blue, at times grey, it was never far from us. White, feathered waves crashed incessantly and, although cocooned in the relative safety of the van, my respect for the sea was growing.

As the sky darkened, the landscape became more gloomy, dotted with the foreboding silhouettes of Celtic crosses and deserted buildings. We were dropped off near the ancient cliff fort of Dun Aengus, on a path liberally strewn with cattle. I lost the Americans within minutes and stumbled my way up the hillside.

When I eventually made my way back, the van was gone. I finally located it in Joe Watty’s pub in Kilronan where its crew were relishing steamy clam chowder, having left me after they thought I had purposefully wandered off.

Too cold for remonstration, I had a quick bowl myself, knowing that revenge would soon come en route to Galway.

Within half an hour, their ashen faces and nauseous gulps confirmed their fears and my hopes. I felt better already.