The trip that brought him to this hallowed land of brew took more than 13 hours. The Slayer left Raleigh, NC at 7:30 p.m. on Saturday and did not arrive in Dublin, Ireland until 8:30 a.m. EDT. Of course, he did have a three hour layover in London's Gatwick Airport.

The layover gave The Slayer a chance to once again savor the British bitters he had so enjoyed on his trip to London six years before. As soon as he had cleared British immigration and customs, The Slayer just happened to find a pub within the airport called Shakespear's Real Ale House. He knew it would be the place he would spend the entire time at Gatwick when he saw a sign on the wall that said, "We'll teach you to drink ere you depart." To The Slayer, this was a portent from on high.

Though very exhausted from a seven and a half hour flight, during which he slept only two hours, The Slayer found he still had the strength to drink three or four pints of the lovely draft pale ale before he departed Gatwick. Truth be told, The Slayer has a soft spot for bitters. They are the reason he became a home brewer (It's a long story that will have to await another time).

While savoring these wonderfully hoppy ales that are served --as they should be: warm-- The Slayer became engaged in a conversation with a Norwegian. He was just returning from a three week trip to the States. He told The Slayer that after his business was finished in Atlanta, he went to see his family in... "Minnesota", The Slayer said, accurately finishing his sentence.

"How did you know I had family in Minnesota?" the befuddled Norseman asked.

"Minnesota is filled with people from Scandinavia. Why, you can't swing a dead herring in that state without hitting a Swede, Finn, or Norwegian," The Slayer smiled, corralling his last bit of lucidity.

The pale, fish-eating gentleman soon left. The Slayer still had time for at least one more pint of ale. For his last installment in Gatwick that day, he choose Flowers IPA (India pale ale). As he brought the warm, extremely hoppy brew to his lips, The Slayer once again recalled the grand story of this beer style.

The reason this beer has such a hop flavor and aroma is because it was brewed for the British troops during the British occupation of India. Extra hops kept the beer from spoiling during the long, hot trip to the subcontinent. "The British may be a bit staid and boring, but at least they know how to keep their troops happy," The Slayer thought as his palate was enveloped with the satisfying flavor of this brew.

Soon The Slayer was on a plane headed for his final destination: Dublin, home of the Guinness brewery. During the flight he closed his eyes and dreamt of being in the brewery and quaffing all the free Guinness they would give him. He had heard some grand things about how beautiful the Irish countryside was and how lovely the Irish people are, but he just wanted to visit the Guinness brewery.

Soon, his plane had landed. The Slayer quickly caught a cab to his hotel. On the ride to his temporary home, The Slayer engaged the cabby in conversation about the city. He knows that no one knows a city better than its cab drivers. When the cabby began to answer his inquiries, The Slayer could not understand a word. "Oh, my God," The Slayer thought, "how am I going to get directions to the Guinness brewery from these people. I have no idea what he is saying?. I hope I can understand someone on this island." He began to pine for the company of the Norwegian. Fortunately for The Slayer, he found that most Irish are easily understood.

In fifteen minutes our weary traveler had reached his hotel, The Phoenix Park Guest House. After he paid the driver and exited the taxi, The Slayer felt a presence, almost an aura, envelop his exhausted being. It was if there were someone or something looking at him.

At first, The Slayer dismissed the feeling as result of exhaustion and four pints of ale. However, as he walked toward the hotel's front door the sensation became increasingly stronger. The Slayer turned to look in the direction of the aura and fell to his knees. There, looming like the grail shaped beacon over the castle Anthrax, was a large building with Guinness emblazoned in incandescent brilliance --the Guinness brewery. The object of his quest had been found. Haleluja.

As if injected with new energy and life, The Slayer quickly turned and headed inside the hotel. After a few minutes spent checking in, he threw his bags on his bed and ran (well, limped real fast) down the stairs and out of the building. He quickly shuffled toward the Mecca of all things fermented. As he reached the corner he saw before him six Irish pubs.

"I'll be here seven days," The Slayer lamented. "I know that I'm real close to the brewery, but these pubs are closer still. I think it would be prudent not to overly tax myself on my first day here. I'll stop in and have a pint at one of these fine establishments now and embrace the brewery another day."

A sign above the first pub had the picture of a man lifting a car above his head. The caption above it read "Guinness gives you strength." The Slayer, suddenly feeling like a new man just knowing it was near, could hardly wait to feel what effects drinking it might have.

Will Irish Guinness live up to The Slayer's expectations? Will it make him stronger? Will The Slayer be able to find his way back to his hotel after having a few pints? Stay tuned... Same Beer Slayer time... Same Beer Slayer place...