Displaced in Mullingar:they don't like the coffee or the food, but some visiting Americans find solace in odd places, writes Michael Harding

The rain flooded the car parks in Mullingar last week, but it didn't depress me; I was in Donegal enjoying the sun. I stayed in a guest house, and breakfasted in a tiny dining room. There was an elderly American couple at the table by the window.

The girl of the house came and went with plates of sausage, rasher, egg and tomato, and negotiations regarding the menu were conducted in hushed tones, as if we were all engaged in some religious ritual.

The girl had a nose ring; a telling sign, which the other guests didn't seem to pick up on. They thought she was Pegeen Mike's little sister.

"Are you at school?" the American woman asked. "Yes," said the girl in a shy voice. "And how big is your school; are there many other children in it?" "Seven hundred," said the girl. "Goodness. That big?"

"And do you have a young man?" the husband inquired. "Yes," she said bluntly.

"Oh that's lovely," said the woman. "Is he from your village?" "Yes. Do you want more sausages?" "Where is he now?" "He's in New York." "My! What's he doing there?" "Making a video." "Goodness." The Americans seemed staggered by this level of globalisation. There was a hiatus during which we all thrashed through our puddings and eggs.

Then the girl returned.

"Do you mind me saying," the lady said, "that you have the most amazing toilet paper. I've never seen such quality anywhere." The man chuckled, and said, "Oh, she's always talking about toilet paper when we're abroad." "Well you know," she said, "my husband and I went for a trip to England, years ago, and do you know, I found the toilet papers extraordinary. We used to cut little squares off each roll, to make a collection of them. And one time we were in some place where the paper was stamped - government property - and they wouldn't let us take it, because of the stamp."

"Me boyfriend is always complaining about the toilets in New York. He says it's all ultra-violet lights, and the loo paper glows in the dark." Pegeen Mike was doing her best. But this was more than the grim diners needed to know.

"We need more milk," the lady said, with extreme civility. "For the coffee." And she handed Pegeen Mike the little empty jug.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," the girl said, and she fled with the jug to her mother in the kitchen.

Then the American couple turned in on each other, and after a few comments about the quality of the coffee, and the prospects of all the things they might see during the day, the lady grasped a nettle.

"This yogurt is warm," she said. "You know I can't take warm yogurt. And it's runny."

"Oh, it's okay honey," her husband said, dismissively. "Well I'm sorry dear," she said, "but it's not okay. Ours is not as runny. You know I'm always saying, if something is meant to be hot, then it ought to be served hot. Otherwise the taste gets ruined. Same goes for cold. It's that simple." He got the message. His face fell and he straightened his glasses. He looked both idiotic and heroic.

Outside I was packing the jeep when Pegeen Mike slipped out of the kitchen, eyed my number plates and asked was I going back to Westmeath. I said: "Yes."

"That's a pity," she said.

"What do you mean?" I wondered, gawking at her beautifully bejewelled nose.

"The weather," she said. "It's picking up."

I drove down the road and stopped at a coffee shop. The furnishings were all pine wood. Two young girls in black stood behind the counter chatting away, while a woman came in from the kitchen in a white coat and a stripy black apron. She unloaded fresh scones from a silver tray.

A few groups of tourists were waiting for the ferry to an island, out in the ocean. Outside work men were finishing a wall; brick laying, up in a blue sky.

I went next door and asked the woman in the ferry office when was the next boat. "Eleven thirty," she said. It was four minutes past eleven. I phoned a friend in Mullingar and asked what the weather was like there.

He said: "There are ducks swimming in the car park. What's it like with you?" I said it was picking up. "Will you be back today?" "No." And that was it. The boat moored, and the ferry man beckoned.