Now, there are those who might despair upon seeing the unending grey outside the window. It was, after all, our day off – and it seems our days off have a precious knack of following days of glorious sunshine spent locked in the craftshop with soul-crushing, day-long deluges. This, it seemed, might be yet another spent watching a lot of TV.

But, since the rain was light and patchy and precious treasures awaited us, we thought why not brave the elements and get out and have a little fun? So, we donned our waterproofs and headed down the N59 to Letterfrack, the closest town to Kylemore. But a mere one-hour walk away, the ‘Frack (as we have named it) is a tiny village with one shop, two hostels and three pubs.

And you might well ask what in such a place could be so illustrious and prized that it tempted us to trudge down a narrow highway for an hour through the soaking Irish drizzle? Simple. My Irish holy trinity: Fish, Chips and Guinness.

So off we trekked down the N59, cars whizzing by precariously close and the clouds threatening to burst at any moment. Yet despite the dreary weather, I was happy. And as I am wont to do in such times, I was singing and repeating the same snippets of a couple of songs over and over and, naturally, was driving poor Roxanne mad in the process. This particular instance, the tunes were supplied by the Arctic Monkeys, my infatuation with whom, I am afraid to report, is probably the onset of a very early midlife crisis. Nonetheless, the Monkeys rolled round and round my head and Roxanne’s exasperation grew and grew.

At about the moment she was to push me into the next oncoming car, we came upon an ominous stretch of road bordered by thick bushes and for some reason, we moved silently for a stretch. As we walked close to the shrubs, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large black and beige blur. It was accompanied by a loud snort and, at least what at the time, seemed to be the thunder of hooves. Before we had even time to react, three animals, each the size of a deer, had moved very quickly and very loudly to a safe distance about twenty feet away – though whose safety was at stake is up for debate. These beasts each had horns a couple of inches in diameter and over a foot high. And while we later learned that they were merely surprisingly large billy goats, make no mistake: I was glad a barbed wire fence separated us. They were not happy we had invaded their space. There they stood, staring a mean, hard stare, chewing disapprovingly, obviously annoyed.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that it dawned on me what was happening at that moment: more than twenty years after we first met, here again were Three Billy Goats, Gruff.

But, since they posed no threat, on we happily trudged. The goats having overcome the Monkeys, we returned to chatting as the light drizzle turned to a light rain. And it was then that the truly odd occurred. As we turned a sharp bend, I had an odd feeling – the sort you might get on seeing a crowd of people in which you know a face but just can’t pick out. Something very familiar had caught my eye. I looked down and to my right, and there it was. It was small and red with a brown top. At first, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, it just couldn’t be. But there it sat, as plain as day.

On a Connemara roadside, there sat a Tim Hortons coffee cup.

Now, for those not from Canada, allow me to explain. Tim Hortons is an utterly ubiquitous Canadian coffee-and-doughnut chain and is perhaps the Canuck equivalent of the Irish pub: if there is a town then there is a Tim Hortons, and everyone, young and old, rich and poor, gather there for generally unhealthy snacks and generally good coffee. And, apart from some recent openings in American towns near the border, it is an almost exclusively Canadian thing, perhaps the only thing shared by Canadians from the Pacific to the Atlantic. Exactly how odd and disconcerting it was to find one, not only in Ireland, but in one of its least inhabited areas, is a little hard to explain. This was akin to finding a Denny’s menu on your way up Kilimanjaro or a Gregg’s sandwich wrapper in the Grand Canyon.

Theories raced through our minds. First the obvious: perhaps they had opened a chain here, started EU franchises to take advantage of the Irish economic boom? But wait, no. There was the classic ‘English on one side and French on the other’, a dead giveaway of a Canadian product – and also the same reason I know how to say ‘honey’, ‘less fat’ and ‘free!’ in French (miel, moins gras et gratuit!, d’accord?). Other ideas formed. Perhaps someone had a car from Canada shipped over and was cleaning out while driving down a highway in Connemara and, despite having gone to the trouble of shipping and then waiting for an automobile to the cross the ocean, couldn’t wait the few minutes for the next spot with a rubbish bin and threw the cup out the window. Or not.

Still. An explanation was necessary. I mean, the theme from The Twilight Zone was playing in my head. I was scared. If a Timmy’s cup could show up in a remote area of Ireland, then everything I knew might be wrong. Maybe the moon landing was a hoax. Maybe they are hiding something at Roswell. Maybe right-wingers aren’t wrong about absolutely everything. I mean, if this was possible, anything was. A terrifying, enormous world opened up before me.

Sadly, it was a lot of worry and speculation for nothing, all our mind-expanding conspiracy theories for nought. As it turns out, there is a Tim Hortons in Ireland, in Castlebar, a tiny town an hour north of here. They must just ship the cups over from Canada. So in the end, it was hardly a mystery at all. The cup wasn’t, as I had theorised, from a lost military plane, downed by UFOs while headed to Afghanistan. Our terrifying horned creatures, that at the time seemed like rare Irish gazelles, were simply goats. All in all, it was very ordinary stuff, merely something you’d find in a bin and an animal you’d find eating out of one.

Still, as we sat down for lunch, we knew none of this. At that point, staring at each other across a worn, wooden table, we were adventurers, intrepid survivors of a beastly encounter and discoverers of an arcane and cryptic bit of Canadiana. Meanwhile, the head on my Guinness was thick and creamy and the fish was lovely and fresh.

And it’s funny to think about. Before I left, I hoped for grand adventures, for incredible tales to recount on my grand and triumphant return. But there we sat in the glow of the simplest of things: good, plain food, a well-poured pint and the warm feeling that a piece of home had secretly followed us, as if to show us, to help us remember .

Staring into the fire, I sipped on my stout. A young lad on holiday made a lot of noise as his parents enjoyed their meal and lavished attention on him. Outside, cars whizzed by on the N59 as they always do, and out the window the drizzle hadn’t let up. It just kept coming down, in soft, fine sheets of grey. A simple day, really. A simple, beautiful, ordinary day.

A couple weeks ago, as a precious day-off rolled around, I found myself a little happier than usual. And while it’s possible I was just eager to relax or spend my time as I wished, I think another reason lay behind my good mood: for one full day, I wouldn’t have to hear someone mangle my name.

Now, it’s not that I think my name is particularly special. In certain parts of India, it is a rather common one. It’s not quite a Mike or Chris in its ubiquity, but it’s up there, sort of a Colin or a Brad. Still, I am rather fond of my name. It is, after all, the one my parents chose for me and, particularly when we are separated by the Atlantic, they’re pretty alright. I even like it after learning that its original Sanskrit meaning is, no lie, fresh butter; turns out that being compared to the luxurious creaminess of butter is quite the compliment in Panjabi. So, perhaps you can see why I get a little defensive of the seven letters that form my moniker.

And lest I make myself seem the arrogant outsider, I realise that in this corner of the world my name is a little unusual. So it’s not as if I am entirely unsympathetic. Yet, despite my diligent correction of every spelling mistake (and there are many) and my frequent and humble reminders – “just Nav is fine” – my coworkers still have a knack for screwing it up like no others I have encountered.

Yes, in my days of fun sticking price-tags on things, Navneet has become Navette, Naveet or Nav-Net, which is either a great name for a future website or a new product designed to ensnare people who are just linguistically-challenged. It’s why I stick with simple three-letter ‘Nav’. How might one possibly screw that up? Unfortunately, good old Nav – which even ‘if-your-name-isn’t-John-I’m-baffled’ cockneys could grasp – becomes Naz, Nad, Nat, Raz, Rad or, my personal fave, Rat. I couldn’t afford a dentist when I was younger and I’m a little sensitive if you don’t mind…

I think I would be a lot more understanding if the Irish in general weren’t so accomplished at baffling spellings and pronunciations of their own. They do, after all, pronounce names spelt ‘Padraic’ like ‘Porrick’ (which sounds like it could be the scum left behind when you cook porridge) or, much worse, try and spell O’Sullivan “O’Shollibhian”. Okay fine, it’s about reclaiming a culture that had been systematically erased and oppressed for centuries, I get it. But I sorta’ figure that if you can pronounce things like that, then you should be able to handle three letters strung together phonetically. Unfortunately, no such luck.

But perhaps the most entertaining confusion is when, trying to catch my attention, a co-worker will sputter out a quick succession of names hoping to land on the right one, resulting in the Razrette-Navreep-Jazneet trio – to which I always wish to respond with a simple ‘bless you’.

These hopeless endeavours, however, are not without their benefits. I mean, at least it gives me something to work with if the time ever comes for baby names.

So, what do y’all think of Ratjeep for a girl?