07/08/2025
Donegal folk will always sort you out!
Picture this: I’m over visiting family in Donegal with my wife and children from America. We’ve had a week but now it’s time to head back. We set off from Donegal at 6AM to catch a flight out of Dublin—racing the clock to reach the airport by 10:30AM. PLENTY OF TIME, YOU’D THINK.
Still half-asleep, jet-lagged, and blinking at the pumps, I pull into the Mountain Top petrol station in Letterkenny at 6:30AM.
Now, in America—the green pump means diesel and the black one is petrol. But in Ireland? It’s the other way around. You can see where this is going.
And that Dacia Duster I was driving? Apparently designed by geniuses who’ve made the fuel tank so universal you could fill it with water. So, I fill half the tank with unleaded before a whisper in the back of my brain says, “Wait a second…” I suddenly remember what the guy at the Dublin Airport car hire desk warned me:
“Only two things aren’t covered by insurance—losing the key, and putting the wrong fuel in the tank.”
My wife—clearly the smart one—says, “Don’t start the car.” And thankfully, I listen.
So there I am: stuck at Mountain Top at 6:30AM in the morning, family counting on me to get to Dublin airport, and I’ve got a car full of the wrong fuel.
Enter the Donegal magic.
I walk into the Central garage and ask around. It’s early on a Saturday. Some of the lads are still shaking off Friday night, but they’re warm, welcoming. Phone numbers are shared. Advice is given. And the message is the same:
“You’ll need to get it to a garage, but they don’t open ‘til 9.”
“You’ll need to take the tank off… there’s an anti-siphon in that car.”
But this is Donegal. If there’s anywhere in the world where strangers will help you out, it’s here.
I get the wife and kids to the airport in a taxi. (Thanks to Liam) The taxi was cheaper than a divorce!
And just when things are looking grim… and it’s stressful - along comes the breadman. Yep. The breadman. Junior.
If you’re from Letterkenny, you probably know Junior. He’s been doing bread deliveries around town for 30 years. He says, “Hold on, I know a fella.” This is 7:30AM now.
Thirty minutes later, along comes Artus—a Latvian mechanic built like a boulder, with hands blessed by angels and soaked in engine oil. He takes one look at the car and says, “I think I can fix that.”
I’ve spent the last half hour looking for a hose. Now we need a barrel and a hose. So Junior, without hesitation, drives me down to Watson Hire at 8AM to find a length of hose. He buys it himself. Refuses a penny. Drives me back. All the way he says: “you’re going to make it on the flight.”
By 8:30, Artus has the backseat pulled up, and has the hose attached to the pump, siphoning out the fuel - into a large barrel Centra provided- like a man possessed. No fuss. No fluster. Just a Donegal-Latvian saint muttering, “ I’ll figure it out.”
And he does. By 9:30am the tank is emptied. And by some miracle—or maybe a bit of Donegal fairy dust—I scream down the M1, get to Dublin Airport by 11AM, and make the flight with the family. (Apologies to anyone I passed on the road last month.)
If this had happened in San Francisco, no one would’ve even looked my way. But in Donegal? Junior the breadman stepped in - and made the impossible happen too early on a Saturday morning. As he said: “You’ve just got to do some good in this world.” And he did. Big time. Thank you Junior.
Artus, the hard-working mechanic, a friend of Junior’s, asked for nothing and delivered everything. Thank you Artus. I hope you enjoyed a few pints on me. You truly made sure I didn’t miss that flight.
So Junior, Artus and the staff at the Centra garage. Thank you.
And while old Sam didn’t make it back this year, I can tell you this: there are everyday heroes in Donegal. Donegal—and Ireland—is full of kindness. Full of champions.
So I just want to say:
THANK YOU, DONEGAL.
You got my family home. You continue to restore my faith in humanity. Never change.
Up Donegal.
