The last time I walked up Croagh Patrick (OK, the only time I walked up Croagh Patrick), I lined my stomach—if not actually girded my loins—with two slices of soda bread and a bowl of porridge cooked on a wood-burning range, all washed down with so much tea that I genuinely feared having to bob down for a wee in front of some nuns.Irish breakfasts are a thing of thick-buttered wonder. The potato farls, the buttermilk bread, the Flahavan's Progress Oatlets, the proper milk, the yellow butter, the smoked bacon, the warm eggs tarred and feathered with chicken shit.But we can't all be in County Mayo for St. Patrick's Day. Some of us won't even make it to Boston, where they dye the river green to mark the death of that 5th century missionary who supposedly drove all the snakes off the island. Some of us will find ourselves far indeed from the dry stone walls and rolling hills of Clew Bay, standing on the pavement opposite London's King's Cross Station watching the Irish tricolour flap above a pile of fag butts and broken bike locks.Read more on MUNCHIES.