You can learn a lot from YouTube, besides just what tricks people's dogs can do or how college boys can write "DICK" on the foreheads of their passed-out-drunk friends. In watching some of the various documentary gems to be found there, I've learned in recent days about a wholly remarkable person in modern Irish history – Patrick Hillery, the sixth (sometimes noted as fifth) President of Ireland.
Hillery served two seven-year terms, from 1976 to 1990, and is constantly characterized as mild-mannered in any account of his life you come across, particularly those written upon his death back in April, 2008. And yet, he seems to have exerted a great influence on the modern form of Irish life. Born just after Partition, he was educated as a doctor (apparently even living in Canada for a short while), and became involved in politics almost accidentally... as often happens with truly modest and unusually effective people. It seems to have happened because he lived in Clare and was well-known to Eamon de Valera. It was most of a decade, however, before he was given a cabinet position: Minister for Education. Here is where he seems to have made the first of his many marks on the shape of modern Ireland, for he is credited with making the changes to the educational system that, a generation later, saw that the country had a work force possessed of an education of the quality and nature to take advantage of EU transfers and build the Celtic Tiger.
He went on to serve as the Labour Minister and was offered a shot at the job of Taioseach (Prime Minister) on the resignation of Sean Lemass, but declined because he wasn't interested in the position. The job went instead to Jack Lynch, and Hillery became his Foreign Affairs Minister. This was the job Hillery held during the start-up of the Troubles and its most significant early incidents, notably Bloody Sunday, in the aftermath of which the British Embassy in Dublin was burnt down by a mob of 30,000. Hillery went abroad, making speeches about how, in his opinion, the British Government had "gone mad", and calling for a joint British-Irish military occupation of Northern Ireland, or barring that, a UN peacekeeping operation there. Of course, neither of these things happened, but the openness and force of Hillery's statements, including a dire prediction that the situation might lead to war between Britain and Ireland (indeed, hawks in Fianna Fail urged the occupation of border areas by Irish troops), shocked and angered the British Government, but were arguably instrumental in getting them to act. Westminster went on to suspend Stormont and take direct control over Northern Ireland. His quick thinking in response to a charge by Kevin Boland was pivotal in a moment in Fianna Fail's history when the hawks might have taken the reins of the party and thus, the Irish government. The 1970s could have been far more "interesting" in the island of Ireland had not Hillery brought the convention to its senses.
Hillery was instrumental in Ireland's accession to the EEC in 1973, which was to be a major factor in Ireland's eventual growth and development. As president from 1976 to 1990, he was able to oversee, if not actually guide, Ireland's evolution along this route to one of Europe's most dynamic economies.
There's a lot I'd like to learn about Hillery's role, in depth. I've found a biography of him and I've ordered it. Ireland's a land filled to the brim with heroes of all stripes, colours, and sizes... but Patrick Hillery looks to me, at first blush, like the sort the country could use more of... and a lot more of.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Third trip to Dublin City Centre
By the time Tuesday rolled around, I was kind of dragging. I was sneezing quite a bit and even starting to cough. You know you're in for the rough part when the cold moves down into your chest. But I had the meds and I had limited time, so I sacked up and went with my magnanimous host Dave back into the heart of town.
...Look at the colours in the second shot here. Unaltered, right out of the camera. I swear, the colours in Ireland were often simply more vibrant and full than anything I've ever seen back home...
In retrospect, I'm surprised that we went down there three days in a row. There was a lot to see, and in three days, we didn't cover it all. But I mean, Dave's lived there all his life, so it must have been a little like surfing reruns for him. I think that was the morning we caught the bus and stayed on the first level. I was heading up when Dave called me back. He hadn't liked the look of the guys who headed up before us; I gathered he thought they were heavy drug users. I hadn't noticed a thing, myself. But there you go.
We stopped by the General Post Office again. This time we were able to go inside. Dave was disappointed because many of the great paintings of the battle had been taken down, leaving it just... a post office. But there was still a statue of the great Ulster hero Cuchulain, dying, in the window, and at his feet, a quote from the end of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic.
On our way, we passed statues of Molly Malone (who may or may not have actually existed) and of Dubliner Philip Lynott, the late lead singer of Thin Lizzy, who certainly did. Beyond that is St. Anne's Anglican Church. It was in the street before the church that Dave spotted a stand of bubblers... these battery-operated toys that spit out streams of soap bubbles. They were going for €10 and Dave wanted to get one for his daughter, Cara, but he was tapped, so I volunteered, taking an opportunity to reciprocate for all the kindness he'd been showing me.
Dave knew I was keen on the history of Ireland's liberation, and he felt the place to go would be to the 1916 Easter Rising exhibition at the National Museum of Ireland. There was a lot to see there. In a large central area, they had displays of general archeology, and some of the items had ages estimated between 100,000-400,000 years old. Makes the Book of Kells seem positively contemporary. It was a strange feeling. Here, in Canada, I'm used to going into museums and seeing artifacts that predate history. But in a way, it feels like they're someone else's. I might have Native ancestry; I might not. I couldn't say for sure. I can connect to them on the human level, but I can't claim the visceral sense of wonder in thinking that someone from whom I might be descended crafted, used, and somehow came to lose this item before me. But in Dublin, I had that. The things around me were the tools, vessels, and adornments of people from whom I am unmistakably descended. And that's a very powerful feeling to have, standing in a country you've never been in before.
I saw the remnants of Viking longboats, hordes of gold and jewelry, samples of clothing, and even some of the people themselves. In one section of the museum there were a number of bodies... four, if I remember correctly... of what are known as "bog men". These are victims of human sacrifice, preserved by the anaerobic conditions in some of the peat bogs of Ireland, who have been preserved, their skin turned to something like leather. On display under glass, each in a curved shelter, they're a macabre reminder of what life in pagan Europe was like. Of course, even nowadays, human sacrifice and kingship ritual is never far away in Ireland, and it never has been. Most of the bodies were just bits, pulled apart, trailing off into the invisible, as it were. But one fellow was neatly bisected right about at the level of the diaphragm. Dave suggested he'd been cut in half by a farmer's plow before his discovery. Seemed odd to me that they'd find just the one half and not the other. When I read the official account, though, there wasn't any such relatively mild explanation. That had been done to this person a very long time ago. In the same section was a huge silver bowl, almost large enough to bathe in. It was beautifully decorated, with carvings and trimmings. I happened to notice that one of them seemed to show a person inverted, hanging upside down, raining something... that something had to be, of course, blood. I was instantly sobered at the realization of just what it was this immense punch bowl had probably once been used to contain.
There were happier things there, of course. One display I really enjoyed was an audio-video presentation of life along the Liffey about the time the Vikings arrived, bringing to Ireland such high technology as windows and shoes. We watched that for about half an hour before drifting off again to look for the 1916 exhibit. Dave spoke to one of the attendants, who informed us that that particular exhibit had actually recently moved to Collins Barracks, which seemed a more appropriate location. We thanked the man and made our way.
We stopped to get a bite and a pint. I don't remember the name of the restaurant now (I'll look it up), but as was the case with many pubs in Dublin, its subdued, cozy lighting was supplied mainly by ambient light from the street. It had a clock that ran backwards (with the numbers arranged counterclockwise as well), and a motto over the bar that read, "If you're drinking to forget, please pay in advance." Dave was suggesting the Irish stew, and I nearly bit, but in the end I let him down. It featured lamb, and I have no experience with lamb (or mutton in general), and when the bill comes in euros, well... you tend not to gamble. I opted for a more conventional sandwich of some sort and remember being happy with the choice.
NOTE: The name of the place was The Blarney Bar. Thanks, Dave! :)
We walked along the south side of the Liffey and came to Dublin's City Council building. Dave cursed the place as having been built over a Viking site, and against the wishes of much of the country, news that stunned me. Countries in Europe are usually extremely protective of their patrimony, and so far Ireland had seemed no exception. I found it hard to believe when he told me. Out in front of the place is a sort of token to what was done – one that seemed almost mocking, to me: the suggestion of the frame of a longboat, sunken into the earth, with its benches arranged for sitting and perhaps waiting for a bus. I thought it was kind of neat until I understood the calamity of what it represented. We walked along and got a great view of the Four Courts.
And after a bit, we made it to Collins Barracks. I can only assume they were named for Michael Collins, hero to some, traitor to others, who was instrumental in fighting the guerrilla war that convinced the British to quit (most of) Ireland, and then in bringing the Treaty home that created an independent Ireland; fighting for which eventually cost him his life. Collins was in the 1916 Easter Rising, and spent time in prison afterwards. I've actually read some of his writings, a few years past, and he was eloquent and persuasive. He was also very young when he died; 32. One year for each county in Ireland. He did a lot more with those 32 years than most do with two or three times as many.
The barracks inside have been given over to the functions of a museum. The exhibition on the Rising was restrained, sober, and indeed, almost sorrowful. There was no triumphalizing, little in evidence smacking of the romance of war and death. It told the story of the Rising, gave voice and humanity to its heroes, and simply laid out what happened. Step by step, you wound your way through the days of the rebellion and what followed. An original broadsheet of the Proclamation... Patrick Pearse's sidearm... last letters from the signatories of the Proclamation who faced the firing squads... hand-written orders to mobilize... it was a collection of the ordinary made awesome by the import of the events, becoming so much more than the mere sum of the parts. I felt pride and humility all at once. This was at the very heart of what I had come to see.
There were other displays concerning Ireland's military history, including a comparison of solders' kits from the 18th or early 19th century and that of the First World War. Ireland, like Canada, takes great pride in its contribution to United Nations peacekeeping efforts. But since independence, Ireland has had a more peaceful history (at least in terms of foreign affairs) than Canada. Ireland has maintained its neutrality even in the face of World War II (euphemistically called "the Emergency" in Ireland; see below) and the Cold War, when countries all around it were joining NATO. The principal military losses of Irish life (that haven't involved paramilitary groups with three-letter acronyms at home) have come from peacekeeping missions. All things considered, that's hardly a bad thing to say of a country. As someone with both citizenships, I can grant that on the one hand, a person could argue that every free country had a stake in the Allied effort in WWII, and Ireland's contribution was missed. On the other hand, what's Canada doing in Afghanistan?
By the time we were looking at the UN display, my batteries were really creeping into the red. I could hardly remember being more weary. We went to the cafeteria, where Dave got me a really wonderful fancy coffee. Maybe that's what did the trick, because as the evening wore on, I started really coming out from under it.
So close... so close, and yet so far... The Guinness factory through the trees.
Meanwhile, we still had to get home. Not far from the foot of Collins Barracks is one of the two new Luas (tram) lines. Dave had never used it before, but I guess he could tell I was baked, so he gave it a go trying to figure out how to get a ticket. I think he wound up using his credit card. While we were milling around, I found two British coins, 10p and 5p. I made 15 pence out of the deal. I kept those coins as souvenirs.
Dave told me that the storefront below is where Bono got his nickname from.
...Look at the colours in the second shot here. Unaltered, right out of the camera. I swear, the colours in Ireland were often simply more vibrant and full than anything I've ever seen back home...
In retrospect, I'm surprised that we went down there three days in a row. There was a lot to see, and in three days, we didn't cover it all. But I mean, Dave's lived there all his life, so it must have been a little like surfing reruns for him. I think that was the morning we caught the bus and stayed on the first level. I was heading up when Dave called me back. He hadn't liked the look of the guys who headed up before us; I gathered he thought they were heavy drug users. I hadn't noticed a thing, myself. But there you go.
We stopped by the General Post Office again. This time we were able to go inside. Dave was disappointed because many of the great paintings of the battle had been taken down, leaving it just... a post office. But there was still a statue of the great Ulster hero Cuchulain, dying, in the window, and at his feet, a quote from the end of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic.
On our way, we passed statues of Molly Malone (who may or may not have actually existed) and of Dubliner Philip Lynott, the late lead singer of Thin Lizzy, who certainly did. Beyond that is St. Anne's Anglican Church. It was in the street before the church that Dave spotted a stand of bubblers... these battery-operated toys that spit out streams of soap bubbles. They were going for €10 and Dave wanted to get one for his daughter, Cara, but he was tapped, so I volunteered, taking an opportunity to reciprocate for all the kindness he'd been showing me.
Dave knew I was keen on the history of Ireland's liberation, and he felt the place to go would be to the 1916 Easter Rising exhibition at the National Museum of Ireland. There was a lot to see there. In a large central area, they had displays of general archeology, and some of the items had ages estimated between 100,000-400,000 years old. Makes the Book of Kells seem positively contemporary. It was a strange feeling. Here, in Canada, I'm used to going into museums and seeing artifacts that predate history. But in a way, it feels like they're someone else's. I might have Native ancestry; I might not. I couldn't say for sure. I can connect to them on the human level, but I can't claim the visceral sense of wonder in thinking that someone from whom I might be descended crafted, used, and somehow came to lose this item before me. But in Dublin, I had that. The things around me were the tools, vessels, and adornments of people from whom I am unmistakably descended. And that's a very powerful feeling to have, standing in a country you've never been in before.
I saw the remnants of Viking longboats, hordes of gold and jewelry, samples of clothing, and even some of the people themselves. In one section of the museum there were a number of bodies... four, if I remember correctly... of what are known as "bog men". These are victims of human sacrifice, preserved by the anaerobic conditions in some of the peat bogs of Ireland, who have been preserved, their skin turned to something like leather. On display under glass, each in a curved shelter, they're a macabre reminder of what life in pagan Europe was like. Of course, even nowadays, human sacrifice and kingship ritual is never far away in Ireland, and it never has been. Most of the bodies were just bits, pulled apart, trailing off into the invisible, as it were. But one fellow was neatly bisected right about at the level of the diaphragm. Dave suggested he'd been cut in half by a farmer's plow before his discovery. Seemed odd to me that they'd find just the one half and not the other. When I read the official account, though, there wasn't any such relatively mild explanation. That had been done to this person a very long time ago. In the same section was a huge silver bowl, almost large enough to bathe in. It was beautifully decorated, with carvings and trimmings. I happened to notice that one of them seemed to show a person inverted, hanging upside down, raining something... that something had to be, of course, blood. I was instantly sobered at the realization of just what it was this immense punch bowl had probably once been used to contain.
There were happier things there, of course. One display I really enjoyed was an audio-video presentation of life along the Liffey about the time the Vikings arrived, bringing to Ireland such high technology as windows and shoes. We watched that for about half an hour before drifting off again to look for the 1916 exhibit. Dave spoke to one of the attendants, who informed us that that particular exhibit had actually recently moved to Collins Barracks, which seemed a more appropriate location. We thanked the man and made our way.
We stopped to get a bite and a pint. I don't remember the name of the restaurant now (I'll look it up), but as was the case with many pubs in Dublin, its subdued, cozy lighting was supplied mainly by ambient light from the street. It had a clock that ran backwards (with the numbers arranged counterclockwise as well), and a motto over the bar that read, "If you're drinking to forget, please pay in advance." Dave was suggesting the Irish stew, and I nearly bit, but in the end I let him down. It featured lamb, and I have no experience with lamb (or mutton in general), and when the bill comes in euros, well... you tend not to gamble. I opted for a more conventional sandwich of some sort and remember being happy with the choice.
NOTE: The name of the place was The Blarney Bar. Thanks, Dave! :)
On leaving, we saw this incredibly cool-looking door. But unless it has something to do with the next Harry Potter movie, we had no idea what its purpose was...
We walked along the south side of the Liffey and came to Dublin's City Council building. Dave cursed the place as having been built over a Viking site, and against the wishes of much of the country, news that stunned me. Countries in Europe are usually extremely protective of their patrimony, and so far Ireland had seemed no exception. I found it hard to believe when he told me. Out in front of the place is a sort of token to what was done – one that seemed almost mocking, to me: the suggestion of the frame of a longboat, sunken into the earth, with its benches arranged for sitting and perhaps waiting for a bus. I thought it was kind of neat until I understood the calamity of what it represented. We walked along and got a great view of the Four Courts.
And after a bit, we made it to Collins Barracks. I can only assume they were named for Michael Collins, hero to some, traitor to others, who was instrumental in fighting the guerrilla war that convinced the British to quit (most of) Ireland, and then in bringing the Treaty home that created an independent Ireland; fighting for which eventually cost him his life. Collins was in the 1916 Easter Rising, and spent time in prison afterwards. I've actually read some of his writings, a few years past, and he was eloquent and persuasive. He was also very young when he died; 32. One year for each county in Ireland. He did a lot more with those 32 years than most do with two or three times as many.
The barracks inside have been given over to the functions of a museum. The exhibition on the Rising was restrained, sober, and indeed, almost sorrowful. There was no triumphalizing, little in evidence smacking of the romance of war and death. It told the story of the Rising, gave voice and humanity to its heroes, and simply laid out what happened. Step by step, you wound your way through the days of the rebellion and what followed. An original broadsheet of the Proclamation... Patrick Pearse's sidearm... last letters from the signatories of the Proclamation who faced the firing squads... hand-written orders to mobilize... it was a collection of the ordinary made awesome by the import of the events, becoming so much more than the mere sum of the parts. I felt pride and humility all at once. This was at the very heart of what I had come to see.
There were other displays concerning Ireland's military history, including a comparison of solders' kits from the 18th or early 19th century and that of the First World War. Ireland, like Canada, takes great pride in its contribution to United Nations peacekeeping efforts. But since independence, Ireland has had a more peaceful history (at least in terms of foreign affairs) than Canada. Ireland has maintained its neutrality even in the face of World War II (euphemistically called "the Emergency" in Ireland; see below) and the Cold War, when countries all around it were joining NATO. The principal military losses of Irish life (that haven't involved paramilitary groups with three-letter acronyms at home) have come from peacekeeping missions. All things considered, that's hardly a bad thing to say of a country. As someone with both citizenships, I can grant that on the one hand, a person could argue that every free country had a stake in the Allied effort in WWII, and Ireland's contribution was missed. On the other hand, what's Canada doing in Afghanistan?
By the time we were looking at the UN display, my batteries were really creeping into the red. I could hardly remember being more weary. We went to the cafeteria, where Dave got me a really wonderful fancy coffee. Maybe that's what did the trick, because as the evening wore on, I started really coming out from under it.
So close... so close, and yet so far... The Guinness factory through the trees.
Meanwhile, we still had to get home. Not far from the foot of Collins Barracks is one of the two new Luas (tram) lines. Dave had never used it before, but I guess he could tell I was baked, so he gave it a go trying to figure out how to get a ticket. I think he wound up using his credit card. While we were milling around, I found two British coins, 10p and 5p. I made 15 pence out of the deal. I kept those coins as souvenirs.
Dave told me that the storefront below is where Bono got his nickname from.
The tram ride was enthralling, but in a strange way. We were going through some parts of town that looked really rough, like they'd seen better days. Closed up shops and empty streets. Not many, but a few. I found them beautiful, sad, and compelling. Like Temple Bar, there was an authenticity to them that mingles uneasily with the more successful, more modern aspects of Dublin. Very quickly, the tram had us back in places just like that, full of people and cleverly-named stores. I seem to recall we took a cab home that time, in the midst of the traffic, creeping our way back to Ballymun. Even by then, I think, I was noticing hopeful signs that the cold was easing up. It was as though I'd reached my lowest ebb, and now I was on my way back, fast. And that was a good thing, because the real road trips were about to begin.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Interlude of images
Just a few shots for you to look at...
This is inside the cap I bought as a souvenir for one of my friends back in Toronto...
A lovely shot of the sky on television, juxtaposed with the dark, reddish warmth of the room...
And finally, an amusing composition of unlikely objects, which I call "Irish Still Life". :)
This is inside the cap I bought as a souvenir for one of my friends back in Toronto...
A lovely shot of the sky on television, juxtaposed with the dark, reddish warmth of the room...
And finally, an amusing composition of unlikely objects, which I call "Irish Still Life". :)
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Second trip to Dublin City Centre
By Sunday evening, Jason had been our constant companion for nearly two days. At that point, he excused himself and headed off to look after other things. I was sorry to see him go; I'd gotten used to having him around and listening to him and Dave bounce things off one another.
There was a lot of beer that evening and I think that was the night we ordered in from an Indian restaurant in the area. I asked for a chicken vindaloo. I'd heard vindaloos mentioned on many British TV shows, and I know they're popular elsewhere, but I've never seen it on a menu in Toronto. I was dying to try one. The one that arrived was fantastic. It was hot; wonderfully hot. The pieces of chicken were half the size of pucks. It was spread over rice, and the portion was more than generous. I'm a big eater, but even I realized at some point I was satisfied, so put the fork down. Dave froze the remainder for his next lunch at work. I'd say there was a third left over when I was done.
Monday morning I knew for sure I had a cold, or something. I had that miserable feeling all up and down my upper respiratory tract. Still, I was there for week; there were things that had to be seen and done. Dave gave me some lozenges that were a godsend, and on our way out, we passed through the Ballymun Shopping Centre on the way to the bus, and stopped into a pharmacy where I picked up antihistamines, in the vain hope it was really just mild hay fever from exposure to some kind of pollen I wasn't used to. Then, we caught the bus and headed back downtown.
This time, we took the bus to the south side. It was just after we'd crossed the Liffey that I got what I think is the funniest shot I took during my stay. In the dirt on the back of a truck, I saw that someone had fingered "BONO YA WEE SHITE", and I just managed to snap the shot in time. Dave explained that it's widely viewed these days that the U2 front man's gotten a little big for his britches. I was spontaneously giggling about it for days.
When we got off the bus, I took a shot of this gorgeous door, and a carving of a couple of monkeys playing pool. Dave said the place with the animal carvings was originally a hang out for British officers before Ireland's independence, and the carvings were supposed to be recognizable references to particular officers, if you were in the know...
We also glimpsed the National Library of Ireland...
The first place we wandered past was the Office of the Taioseach. The Taioseach (pronounced something like TEE-shock) is the official Irish name for the Prime Minister of Ireland. It was a beautiful building with a stirring façade, as you can see. As we walked past it, we saw an ad for the Natural History department of the National Museum. Dave dubbed this "the Dead Zoo" (and I was surprised, later on that week, to see official collateral by the Museum itself referring to the collection by that colloquial name), but we couldn't get into it because it was undergoing some work.
We turned down the Merrion Square South, the street that, as you might guess, forms the southern boundary of Merrion Square. It was lined with old brownstone row houses, which Dave told me were Georgian, and he could tell this by the design. It was clear to me that he took particular pride in these places, pointing out that nothing, even the boot-scraping grates, could be changed without permission. And as we walked along, I could see why. The names of the people who had lived and worked there, in just that one street, over the past 150 years or so, was jaw-dropping. It seemed like someone famous had lived in every second house... and they bore the plaques to prove it.
We walked the boundary of Merrion Square, and just as we were coming back to its west side, it started to rain. Dave had a very Irish solution — step inside one of the public facilities and wait it out (if you're a fan of the movie Angela's Ashes, you'll recall Frank McCourt saying this was the basis for Limerick's reputation as "the holiest city in Ireland" — people were always in the churches... if only to get out of the rain). In this case, the one that was handy was the National Gallery of Ireland.
I looked around for a place to pay, intending to take my turn, but there was none. There was no fee for admission. You just entered, and enjoyed it. It was looked after by the state. It was the property of the Irish nation, and people had a right to learn from it. Maybe it's funny to say it, but that attitude and that policy made me extremely proud to be a part of that nation, if only technically.
I took several non-flash photos of statues and paintings before one of the attendants made a very polite gesture suggesting that photography was not allowed, at which point I made a gesture of apology and immediately put my camera away.
Dave joked that this fellow was Sir Richard Harris... and you know, the resemblance is striking, isn't it?
We both knew this to be George Bernard Shaw.
Dave wondered, perhaps jokingly, if this was meant to be Julius Caesar, but I spotted him correctly as George III.
This was the last shot I took inside the museum before I was asked not to take any more shots.
Eventually the rain stopped and we wandered from the gallery. There was other art outside... a couple of signs that I found humourous, each for its own reason...
But by then, the museum bug had bitten us, and Dave led me to Trinity College, where the Book of Kells, among other ancient texts, is housed. A gorgeous tome, hand-copied and copiously illustrated, it is over a thousand years old, and gathers the four gospels. The name is lyric... a wisp of Ireland on the breath when it's spoken. But to see the pages with my own eyes, and envision the generations that have come and gone in between, was a singular moment for me. To realize that it has survived all this time, through all perils, to come down to us... We wandered as well the ancient library of the college, with its first editions and displays of works and writing collateral from some of the noted authors of history. I can't show you any of that, of course; photography being strictly forbidden... but I can show you the loveliness of the grounds, at least.
By then, it was beer o'clock, and I was getting hungry, too. Dave spotted a place he liked, the Citi Bar, which I think was affiliated with a hotel. The place was really classy. Reading room furniture, hardwood everything, brass everything else. A bit pricy for lunch, but nothing outrageous. Over his shoulder as we sat there — as I recall, I ate, but he didn't — was a large flat screen TV showing the news. The stories I recall from the day were a fire at the European Parliament in Brussels, and that the Speaker of the House of Commons in Britain was resigning over allegations he had his hand in the cookie jar.
On leaving, we glimpsed The Olympia Theatre, where the musical version of Michael Collins was in production.
And then we took a tour of Dublin Castle...
The courtyard inside the Castle is where, Dave told me, the Union Jack was retired and the Tricolour was raised officially for the first time in 1922... again, it's a scene from Michael Collins. Today, the flags of many EU nations fly there. But Dave pointed to the Union Jack and said to me, "Just a guest now."
There's more I could tell you, but I'm going to try to upload the videos I took of the tour. I think — I hope — you'll find them interesting. The young guy we had as a guide reminded me of a sort of cross between Dave Allen and Ed Sullivan in his manner and presentation. When you see him in action, I think you'll see what I mean. :) I'll put the videos at the end of the Dublin Castle section here. In the meantime, here are some of the photos I took inside the Castle...
And now, the promised videos on the splendors and quirks of Dublin Castle...
After the tour, we were weary and thirsty, and it was raining. We made our way to Temple Bar. I happened to notice a couple of Gardai (cops) pressed into a storefront against the rain. A man and a woman, neither was armed with a gun, so far as I could see. As the rain really began to come down, we went into a pub called The Quays. There was a young man playing a guitar and singing folksy songs from the 1970s. He was good; I really enjoyed listening to him. Unfortunately, the place was dead crowded and I ended up sitting at a table formed by a pillar... with the pillar between me and the performer. Ah, but music is to listen to, after all. It's a pub, not MTV. :) At one point, he began singing the John Denver standard, Country Roads. I grew up, early on, in Nova Scotia, where weekends were spent in among a chain of stubby, rainy eroded Appalachians that form part of the same chain John Denver sang about. It was a strange feeling to be reminded of that while sitting in a bar in Dublin. I went up and put two euros in the man's tips jar. Later on, I was thinking about going up and asking him to sing it again (five euros? ten?), but I thought people would get sore at me if I did. Oddly enough, someone else did that just before the man finished his set! Far from being upset, the patrons sang along. I guess everyone in Ireland has a cousin in West Virginia. :)
When we left, I saw those same two cops, pressed into a different storefront, still chatting away. :)
This is the Ha'penny Bridge. At one time, it cost a half penny to cross the Liffey here. Dave told me it was an important icon for romantic couples and folks getting married. The side of the bridge I took the shots from is the Temple Bar part of Dublin on the south side.
Some various shots on our way out, including a statue of the famous author, James Joyce.
After that, the last remaining even of note was my first (of several) visits to my first (of several) Carroll's. Carroll's is something I'd never seen before... a chain store, all over the city, dedicated to nothing but souvenirs of the city and the country. I've seen souvenir shops before, of course, but usually having to do with whatever institution it is they're part of. A general souvenir shop, and one with outlets all over town, was a new one on me. Over several days, I must have dropped about a quarter of the money I brought with me there. I would have been really easy to have spent more.
There was a lot of beer that evening and I think that was the night we ordered in from an Indian restaurant in the area. I asked for a chicken vindaloo. I'd heard vindaloos mentioned on many British TV shows, and I know they're popular elsewhere, but I've never seen it on a menu in Toronto. I was dying to try one. The one that arrived was fantastic. It was hot; wonderfully hot. The pieces of chicken were half the size of pucks. It was spread over rice, and the portion was more than generous. I'm a big eater, but even I realized at some point I was satisfied, so put the fork down. Dave froze the remainder for his next lunch at work. I'd say there was a third left over when I was done.
Monday morning I knew for sure I had a cold, or something. I had that miserable feeling all up and down my upper respiratory tract. Still, I was there for week; there were things that had to be seen and done. Dave gave me some lozenges that were a godsend, and on our way out, we passed through the Ballymun Shopping Centre on the way to the bus, and stopped into a pharmacy where I picked up antihistamines, in the vain hope it was really just mild hay fever from exposure to some kind of pollen I wasn't used to. Then, we caught the bus and headed back downtown.
This time, we took the bus to the south side. It was just after we'd crossed the Liffey that I got what I think is the funniest shot I took during my stay. In the dirt on the back of a truck, I saw that someone had fingered "BONO YA WEE SHITE", and I just managed to snap the shot in time. Dave explained that it's widely viewed these days that the U2 front man's gotten a little big for his britches. I was spontaneously giggling about it for days.
When we got off the bus, I took a shot of this gorgeous door, and a carving of a couple of monkeys playing pool. Dave said the place with the animal carvings was originally a hang out for British officers before Ireland's independence, and the carvings were supposed to be recognizable references to particular officers, if you were in the know...
We also glimpsed the National Library of Ireland...
The first place we wandered past was the Office of the Taioseach. The Taioseach (pronounced something like TEE-shock) is the official Irish name for the Prime Minister of Ireland. It was a beautiful building with a stirring façade, as you can see. As we walked past it, we saw an ad for the Natural History department of the National Museum. Dave dubbed this "the Dead Zoo" (and I was surprised, later on that week, to see official collateral by the Museum itself referring to the collection by that colloquial name), but we couldn't get into it because it was undergoing some work.
We turned down the Merrion Square South, the street that, as you might guess, forms the southern boundary of Merrion Square. It was lined with old brownstone row houses, which Dave told me were Georgian, and he could tell this by the design. It was clear to me that he took particular pride in these places, pointing out that nothing, even the boot-scraping grates, could be changed without permission. And as we walked along, I could see why. The names of the people who had lived and worked there, in just that one street, over the past 150 years or so, was jaw-dropping. It seemed like someone famous had lived in every second house... and they bore the plaques to prove it.
We walked the boundary of Merrion Square, and just as we were coming back to its west side, it started to rain. Dave had a very Irish solution — step inside one of the public facilities and wait it out (if you're a fan of the movie Angela's Ashes, you'll recall Frank McCourt saying this was the basis for Limerick's reputation as "the holiest city in Ireland" — people were always in the churches... if only to get out of the rain). In this case, the one that was handy was the National Gallery of Ireland.
I looked around for a place to pay, intending to take my turn, but there was none. There was no fee for admission. You just entered, and enjoyed it. It was looked after by the state. It was the property of the Irish nation, and people had a right to learn from it. Maybe it's funny to say it, but that attitude and that policy made me extremely proud to be a part of that nation, if only technically.
I took several non-flash photos of statues and paintings before one of the attendants made a very polite gesture suggesting that photography was not allowed, at which point I made a gesture of apology and immediately put my camera away.
Dave joked that this fellow was Sir Richard Harris... and you know, the resemblance is striking, isn't it?
We both knew this to be George Bernard Shaw.
Dave wondered, perhaps jokingly, if this was meant to be Julius Caesar, but I spotted him correctly as George III.
This was the last shot I took inside the museum before I was asked not to take any more shots.
Eventually the rain stopped and we wandered from the gallery. There was other art outside... a couple of signs that I found humourous, each for its own reason...
But by then, the museum bug had bitten us, and Dave led me to Trinity College, where the Book of Kells, among other ancient texts, is housed. A gorgeous tome, hand-copied and copiously illustrated, it is over a thousand years old, and gathers the four gospels. The name is lyric... a wisp of Ireland on the breath when it's spoken. But to see the pages with my own eyes, and envision the generations that have come and gone in between, was a singular moment for me. To realize that it has survived all this time, through all perils, to come down to us... We wandered as well the ancient library of the college, with its first editions and displays of works and writing collateral from some of the noted authors of history. I can't show you any of that, of course; photography being strictly forbidden... but I can show you the loveliness of the grounds, at least.
By then, it was beer o'clock, and I was getting hungry, too. Dave spotted a place he liked, the Citi Bar, which I think was affiliated with a hotel. The place was really classy. Reading room furniture, hardwood everything, brass everything else. A bit pricy for lunch, but nothing outrageous. Over his shoulder as we sat there — as I recall, I ate, but he didn't — was a large flat screen TV showing the news. The stories I recall from the day were a fire at the European Parliament in Brussels, and that the Speaker of the House of Commons in Britain was resigning over allegations he had his hand in the cookie jar.
On leaving, we glimpsed The Olympia Theatre, where the musical version of Michael Collins was in production.
And then we took a tour of Dublin Castle...
The courtyard inside the Castle is where, Dave told me, the Union Jack was retired and the Tricolour was raised officially for the first time in 1922... again, it's a scene from Michael Collins. Today, the flags of many EU nations fly there. But Dave pointed to the Union Jack and said to me, "Just a guest now."
There's more I could tell you, but I'm going to try to upload the videos I took of the tour. I think — I hope — you'll find them interesting. The young guy we had as a guide reminded me of a sort of cross between Dave Allen and Ed Sullivan in his manner and presentation. When you see him in action, I think you'll see what I mean. :) I'll put the videos at the end of the Dublin Castle section here. In the meantime, here are some of the photos I took inside the Castle...
And now, the promised videos on the splendors and quirks of Dublin Castle...
After the tour, we were weary and thirsty, and it was raining. We made our way to Temple Bar. I happened to notice a couple of Gardai (cops) pressed into a storefront against the rain. A man and a woman, neither was armed with a gun, so far as I could see. As the rain really began to come down, we went into a pub called The Quays. There was a young man playing a guitar and singing folksy songs from the 1970s. He was good; I really enjoyed listening to him. Unfortunately, the place was dead crowded and I ended up sitting at a table formed by a pillar... with the pillar between me and the performer. Ah, but music is to listen to, after all. It's a pub, not MTV. :) At one point, he began singing the John Denver standard, Country Roads. I grew up, early on, in Nova Scotia, where weekends were spent in among a chain of stubby, rainy eroded Appalachians that form part of the same chain John Denver sang about. It was a strange feeling to be reminded of that while sitting in a bar in Dublin. I went up and put two euros in the man's tips jar. Later on, I was thinking about going up and asking him to sing it again (five euros? ten?), but I thought people would get sore at me if I did. Oddly enough, someone else did that just before the man finished his set! Far from being upset, the patrons sang along. I guess everyone in Ireland has a cousin in West Virginia. :)
When we left, I saw those same two cops, pressed into a different storefront, still chatting away. :)
This is the Ha'penny Bridge. At one time, it cost a half penny to cross the Liffey here. Dave told me it was an important icon for romantic couples and folks getting married. The side of the bridge I took the shots from is the Temple Bar part of Dublin on the south side.
Some various shots on our way out, including a statue of the famous author, James Joyce.
After that, the last remaining even of note was my first (of several) visits to my first (of several) Carroll's. Carroll's is something I'd never seen before... a chain store, all over the city, dedicated to nothing but souvenirs of the city and the country. I've seen souvenir shops before, of course, but usually having to do with whatever institution it is they're part of. A general souvenir shop, and one with outlets all over town, was a new one on me. Over several days, I must have dropped about a quarter of the money I brought with me there. I would have been really easy to have spent more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)