Is there any institution anywhere as civilized as the British (or Irish) B&B? The creaky, carpeted stairs. The prim bedrooms with small matching lamps and crisp linens. The parlors with bookshelves and game table. The cheerful proprietress, who “shows you the room.” The keys are metal and the dimensions are small.

And then there are the breakfasts: Fried eggs, fried tomatoes, fried bread. Orange juice and cornflakes. Toast and marmalade and pots of hot tea.  China teacups with small spoons. Other guests who tell you that they’re off to the Titanic Museum in Belfast today, that he’s originally from Portrush but lives in Lancashire now. She that it’s colder here than in England and she brought only t-shirts. The exclamations: And you’re doing the whole country in two weeks? (Opposite from the States: You’re spending two weeks just in Ireland?)

Actually, almost two weeks. We’re spending a night and a day in Northern Ireland, part of the United Kingdom. Which means that we’ve been the recipient, once again, of the unique hospitality of the (almost) British B&B.