Ireland Park, Toronto

Since I’ve mentioned the Rowan Gillespie statues in Toronto in a previous post, I thought it fitting that I should show them here.


The statues in Dublin have been there since, if I’m not mistaken, 1999 or so. Ours are much more recent. They date from 2007. Mary McAleese, the President of Ireland, visited to open Ireland Park at that time, opposite the Island Airport.


It was there, at the foot of Bathurst Street, that 38,000 Irish emigrants arrived in the summer of 1847. At that time, the population of Toronto itself was only 20,000. The present population of the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) is just shy of 6 million, so this would be the equivalent of nearly 11 million people arriving here in one year. Imagine the strain on the public purse and resources.

They arrived on “coffin ships”. Remember that Toronto is on the first of the Great Lakes, a long, long way inland... an entire time zone inland from the Atlantic Ocean. That they came this far is astounding. Many, many of them were ill with typhoid, and many of them died here — along with the many brave souls who tended to them, among them Toronto’s first Roman Catholic bishop, Michael Power; like myself, a native Nova Scotian from Halifax.

Stacks of stone, shipped here from (if I recall correctly) County Kerry, were arranged in the shape of a ship. On the sides of the stones have been carved all the known names, so far, of typhoid victims among the Irish immigrants of that summer.


A kiosk of interactive presentations has been created by the City to educate the public.


While I did see people visiting the statues in Dublin, I didn’t see evidence of tribute the way I did at Ireland Park. There, people were laying bouquets, long stemmed roses, pressing coins into the hands of the statues (in particular, that of the expectant mother)...


Most poignant of all, someone had brought four perfect potatoes (in reference to Ireland’s four provinces?) and left them at the head of the famine/typhoid victim.


The only joyful or exhalant of all of Rowan Gillespie’s Famine statues on either side of the Atlantic is this one, a man who seems to behold the future of his people. Beyond him is the city, the province, and the country the Irish Diaspora built, in concert with so many others.


Collectively, these five statues are known as "The Arrival", as I've read those in Dublin are "The Departure".

First trip to Dublin City Centre

We got off the bus at Parnell Square. By this time, I should point out, I’d had that scratchy, dry throat sensation for hours, and it was becoming clear to me that I was, indeed, coming down with something. I only hoped it wouldn’t prove too serious during my stay. Nevertheless, there were things to see and do. Many.

Immediately where we got off were the sights of Findlaters Church, apparently undergoing some sort of exterior restoration work, and the Garden of Remembrance, which was opened in 1966 by President de Valera on the 50th anniversary of the Easter Rising. It is dedicated to “all those who gave their lives in the cause of Irish freedom”. It was strikingly beautiful, featuring a pool in the shape of the cross and headed by a statue of the Children of Lir, who were transformed into swans by their jealous stepmother. Legend had it that they could only be released by a monk, and during their time as swans, St. Patrick Christianized Ireland. After 900 years, they were released. The statue was added to the garden to symbolize the rebirth of the Irish nation after so many centuries under English rule.


I got an inadvertently funny picture when I shot the statue from the side just as Jason was walking away. It looks as though one of the children of Lir covets Jay’s cap and is determined to grab it.


At the corner of Parnell Street and O’Connell Street is a memorial to Charles Stewart Parnell himself, where I took this photo with Dave in the frame. Parnell represents one of the great “what if” stories in Irish history. A 19th century Member of Parliament, Parnell was an ascendancy Protestant, but an Irish nationalist who spent most of his life working, and nearly achieving, Home Rule for Ireland before the dawn of the 20th century. Intransigence by Ulster Protestants and in the House of Lords on the one hand, and parochial Irish Catholic attitudes towards divorce on the other, conspired to frustrate him and damage his reputation. He died young, at only 45. Had he lived, and had he been able to achieve his goals, it’s possible that all of Ireland would have been united under a single home rule parliament, that there never would have been a partition of the country, an Anglo-Irish War nor an Irish Civil War, and arguably, that there might never have been an Irish Republic. It’s possible that if the Irish had achieved control of their own domestic affairs before the Easter Rising and the bitterness that followed, Ireland might today have a constitutional relationship to the rest of the United Kingdom similar to that of Scotland today. For better or worse, though, that’s not how things played out. Parnell’s reputation has only grown in the years since his death. He was on the Irish ₤100 note prior to Ireland’s adoption of the euro, and his headstone, so I’m told, bears only one word: PARNELL — nothing more needing to be said. The "uncrowned King of Ireland".

The text on the Parnell Monument quotes the man himself: “No man has a right to fix the boundary to the march of a nation. No man has a right to say to his country, ‘Thus far shalt thou go and no further’. We have never attempted to fix the ne plus ultra to the progress of Ireland’s nationhood and we never shall.”


Our next stop was the General Post Office. I knew this building mainly from the opening of the movie Michael Collins (starring Liam Neeson, Aidin Quinn, and Alan Rickman). To me, this was a big deal, because it was something tangible and real from the Easter Rising. This is where they surrendered, where they were marched out to stack their arms, and from whence they went to their fates... prison, or the firing squad. As tourists have done for decades now, we milled around, looking at the bullet holes in the pillars and the façade.


Below is your man, "Big Jim" Larkin, the labour organizer and adjutant, who led the 1913 Dublin Lockout. Behind him you can see the Dublin Spire, which stands where Nelson's Pillar stood (till it was blown up by the IRA in 1966).


And the man himself, Daniel O'Connell. In Ireland, O’Connell is known as “The Great Emancipator”. He didn’t free the slaves (exactly), but he did free the Catholics (and to some extent, the Jews). It was largely thanks to his efforts that Catholics and “Dissenters” (Presbyterians) were allowed to sit in the House of Commons. He was less successful in his efforts to dissolve the union between Ireland and Great Britain and return Ireland to its former status as a separate kingdom under the British Crown. O’Connell was a constitutionalist and never supported the armed struggles to free Ireland. His example informed other, later liberators, Gandhi among them. Between them, O’Connell and Parnell justly anchor the ends of O’Connell Street.


We crossed the Liffey and on a pedestrian landing in the middle of a crosswalk, I noticed these inlaid footprints. I thought it was a nice effect.


At Townsend Street, there's a stone erected to the memory of another stone, which was put up in 9th century by Vikings. At the time, what's now Townsend Street was actually the edge of the River Liffey, before the land was reclaimed. The stone pillar, called "the Steine", was a landing marker, and it stood in this vicinity till around 1750, when it was removed. What a real shame! Imagine if they'd been able to keep that around. This replacement was put up in the 1980s. Below is Jason looking at the plaque.


Some of the interesting sights on our way back toward the Liffey. A store called Get Stuffed, and a poster for a musical version of Michael Collins.


Dave knew I was a big fan of the movie The Commitments, and pointed out to me that this bridge is the one you see Jimmy Rabbitte crossing over at the start of the movie.


Below is the Custom House. It was destroyed by the IRA in the Anglo-Irish War, and rebuilt by the Free State government afterwards and serves as government offices. Many irreplaceable records dating back to the Middle Ages were lost in the destruction.


On the south side of the Liffey, just before crossing back to the north side to see the Custom House, is this sign sending you to the other three corners of the island. Curiously, they all seem to be in the same direction.


Below is one of the things I came to Dublin specifically to see. These are the famine sculptures by Rowan Gillespie. Situated between the Liffey and the Custom House, they represent the figures of the famine Irish fleeing the country at their point of departure in Dublin, back in the late 1840s. This is particularly meaningful to me because in Toronto, we have the complementary ones, by the same artist, at Ireland Park on the shore of Lake Ontario, at the point of arrival for 38,000 Famine Irish.


Below are the plaques with the names of supporters. Ones of interest, among others: Dermot Morgan, whom I presume is the self-same late actor who portrayed the title character in Father Ted; Martin McGuinness, one-time chairman of the IRA's Army Council and now Deputy First Minister of Northern Ireland (how times change), and "John" and Aline Chrétien of Canada, whom I can only assume are actually Jean and Aline, the former Prime Minister and his wife, with the PM's name anglicized. Wow, you'd think that's a mistake they'd never make in Ireland! :)


...And speaking of whom, I was blown away to see this plaque, below, acknowledging Canada's debt to the victims of the Famine and their descendents. This was the only national-level recognition I saw at the site. At least the PM's name was spelled right on this one. :)


Jason and Dave read the plaque too. I remember Jay commenting that he'd had no idea Ireland had such ties to Canada. That's the American PR machine for you — every Irish emigrant wound up a cop or Tammany Hall politician in New York City. Sure, don't we all know that?


My cold was really coming on by this time and I was grateful for the chance to sit and stew for a bit. We crossed the Liffey again into the Temple Bar area of the south side (named, as you might guess, for a bar called Temple Bar). Temple Bar was a glorious set of pedestrian streets that, of all the places we were ever in in Ireland, really took my heart and captured my imagination. Of all the things I saw, this was the place that most stirred me with thoughts and feelings of really being in the Old World. We didn't go to Temper Bar itself, but we did go to a really salubrious pub called the Vat House. Sitting there together with Dave and Jay for the next hour and a half was an absolutely perfect, Zen moment for me. It's one I know I'll return to in my mind over and over again.


Dave was getting over his hangover by then and it was easy for me and Jay to prevail upon him to indulge in a hair of the dog. Jay confessed himself not much of a drinking man and I guess I have to agree because his libation of choice was Budweiser. Yeah, an Irishman slumming in the archetypal Yankee beer! But I have to admit, the stuff was everywhere, always alongside Coors Light. It's true; Americanization has gone too far. :)

NOTE: Added on Sunday, June 14: a little bit of video of our taxi trip home from the city centre. Warning: some strong language. Enjoy. :)

Thoughts on partition

I have a complicated history where my opinions on the constitutional status of the island of Ireland are concerned. I mean, for what it’s worth... I live a long way away in another country, and so far I’ve only spent a week of my life there. So I don’t flatter myself that my opinions count for much. Nevertheless, it’s in the nature of blogging to lay one’s opinions out there, if only to exorcise them, so... here goes.

When I was quite a bit younger, from my early teens to my early 20s, my sympathies were with the unionists in Northern Ireland. For example, I vaguely remember the hunger strikes of the early 80s. I can remember being opposed to the men themselves but admiring their sacrifice. I also remember being at an intersection on King Street in Toronto's west end in the mid-90s, seeing a car with a "26+6=1" bumper sticker and snorting, "Paddy math" at it. I didn’t know much about what had gone on in Ireland at that point, and my opinions were informed more by analogy than by knowledge...

In Canada, “Loyalist” has a particular meaning: it refers to the United Empire Loyalists, those people in the Thirteen Colonies who, during and after the American Revolution, remained loyal to Britain and the Empire. Hundreds of thousands left the US after the war. The wealthy few went to Britain; some left for the British West Indies; but most settled in Canada and became, by and large, the foundation for English Canada, including all those of who followed of whatever race and religion. This is not a divisive term in Canada; and generally speaking, it’s not one that would be typically applied to anyone living today.

But the resonance was there, and so when I heard people in Northern Ireland referred to as “loyalists”, it appealed to the sense of my own country I’d learned in history class. And I suppose there is an element of that. It’s an appeal to value many of the same traditions.

At that time, though, I was uninformed as to the real nature of the Northern Irish statelet. I had conceived that some vote was taken and that the people in the north had freely chosen a different course. I imagined the place to be very much like Canada... where people might be different, but were essentially of the same condition and opportunities, just trying to get along together. I had the superficial opinion that the Troubles were nothing more than some mad hippies trying to force something on everyone else, that no one else wanted...

I didn’t know, then, that even before partition, the unionists of the north had illegally armed themselves, signed a covenant in 1912, and threatened civil war against their own country to, in perhaps the greatest irony of history, force it to allow them to remain in it. I didn’t know, then, that the men who set the statelet up were on public record declaring it to be for people like themselves alone, or that Protestants should not employ Catholics. I didn’t know then about the breathtaking gerrymandering of elected bodies that insured Protestant control even of places with Catholic majorities, that no Catholic ever held a ministerial position in Stormont. I hadn’t heard of the anti-Catholic pogroms of the 1920s and 1930s, and even later, or of the compliciency of the RUC and British Army in enforcing these policies. I was ignorant of the NICRA civil rights struggle of the mid-60s, the violent reception it received, and how that final loss of hope led to the creation of the Provisional IRA. I was unaware of the institution of the Marching Season, and the annual, triumphalist parades through the neighbourhoods of the nationalist community; the needless provocation year after year after year. I didn’t know any of those things then. Once I did, my opinions began to change. And ultimately, they reversed. Eventually, I was the guy with the "26+6=1" bumper sticker.

I’m not sure exactly when I realized I no longer supported the unionists in Northern Ireland, but a some point around the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, I was firmly of the opinion that a united Ireland must come. I suppose it came from a sort of sense of betrayal. I had sympathized with the unionists, if only because my understanding of the situation was shallow, but nevertheless I had. But I am, technically, Catholic. And to discover that, finally, that’s all that matters, and that even being peaceful and toeing the line would have still meant there were places someone like me couldn’t go, jobs I couldn’t have, positions I couldn’t aspire to, angered me. When I looked at the Irish Republic, though, I saw a place that, though largely Catholic, had had Protestant presidents, and senators from Northern Ireland. It seemed to me, for a long time, the only fair thing was to disestablish Northern Ireland and for the Republic to assume it all. That seemed to me to be the only hope for everyone to get a fair shake.

There’s a song by The Monkees called Shades of Grey. It’s a lament for the loss of the simplicity and certitude of youth, in which the singers reminisce about how easy it once was to know right from wrong, truth from lies, and how that surety is lost as one matures. While I recognize that some people become only more firmly entrenched in their convictions as they grow older, I’ve certainly found the sentiments of Shades of Grey to be true in my life...

Again, you know, you can say it’s none of my business because I don’t live there. But in looking at Northern Ireland now, I see a short of manageable equilibrium has been established. Now the barriers to equality are down, and where they’re not, there are ways to bring them down. Now Catholics have a real voice in their own government. Now the opinions of Leinster House have some weight, not just Westminster. I’ve been to Ulster and I’ve seen that there is no indication of the border... I saw trucks from businesses on either side doing work on the other... people moving back and forth as they pleased, buying and selling and living. In a romantic sense, I would still like to see a united Ireland. I’d love to be there in the crowd when it happens. But I no longer see it as inevitable or absolutely necessary. Maybe this is enough. If you can go where you want, be who you want, feel how you want, then does it really matter all that much where your representatives sit or where your tax money goes to or comes from? Maybe not so much. Maybe “good enough” really is good enough.

Shades of grey.

First night: the kindness of strangers

I'm not sure now – I wasn't sure then – but I think the name of the pub we walked to in Santry was Kilmardinny Inn. We took our time getting there. Dave and Jay's father, Thomas, is not in optimal health.

Regardless of whether I actually have the pub's name right, it represented a departure for me. The place was huge. It seemed like four or five giant rooms full of squat tables and stools, clustered around a bar. It was dimly lit – largely, the light seemed to be ambient, coming in through the large windows above us. There was a soccer game being played at the time, and a few of the folks there were watching it casually. A woman came by just after we arrived, a friend of theirs, and chatted Dave up about the family and the pending new arrival. It had a wonderful small-town feel to it, despite being in a city of about a million people.


Dave had hipped the man behind the bar, because whenever a glass was empty – or even slightly before – a new one showed up in its place. There were four of us, and I think Dave bought all, or nearly all, the rounds. That was when he told his dad and brother that I wasn't to pay for anything. I have no idea what Dave laid out for drinks that afternoon, but I'd probably blanch if I did. One thing I can say is that booze isn't cheap in Dublin, not even compared to Toronto.

We had a lot of beer. A lot of beer. Something I noticed about Dave was that he seemed to glide along on the beer without any sign of inebriation... until he hit some kind of set point, and then it just exponentiated. Bang, like a rocket, he was in orbit. I saw this happen a couple of times and it was fascinating to watch. That afternoon, it was hitting him about 3ish. We took a cab back to Ballymun and Dave simply had to grab "a nap". Jason and I left him to it and took another cab back to his dad's place in Santry, where I met his brother Tom and sister Joanne. We kept drinking the night away. At some point, pizza and chicken fingers arrived (Domino's, I believe... they're everywhere)... with it, we had white wine. The mob flick Goodfellahs came on and Jason and I spent the movie heckling and making comments. I don't remember much of it, of course, but I'm convinced we had a good time.

I ended up spending the night there in the room Jason's kids use when they visit him. I don't think I took anything off; I just passed out on the mattress on the floor. When I woke up, it was cool and damp (no one seemed to have double glazing or bug screens... you open a window and it's 110% open). It's the kind of cold that's slight, but effective... it soaks right into you. Despite the dampness, I had what felt like a dry throat. I hoped I wasn't coming down with something. I made my way downstairs... I guess it was about 7... and no one else was up yet. So I hung around with Franky the cat for a while... tried to figure out how to turn on the TV and failed... went into the kitchen and visited the dogs... Sammy and Sally? Not sure now... a husky and a basset hound. I drifted back to the front of the house and was looking out into the street when I heard someone in the kitchen. It was Dave and Jason's dad. We had a little chat about my impressions so far, and he made me tea, and returned to his room.


Jay was up not long afterwards and we started making arrangements for getting back to Ballymun. He called over. I was worried that they'd be upset with me... the plan had been to head over to Santry for a bit, and then go back and join them in the evening, which, of course, never happened. I thought they might be offended that I'd just taken off, crashed somewhere else, but no... they didn't mind at all, which really impressed me. Some people can get pretty uptight about stuff like that.

Dave had plans for us to head downtown, so the three of us caught the bus on Ballymun Road down to O'Connell Street. Route 13, I think. While we were waiting, I remember someone saying it looked like rain, at the exact same moment I was watching a rain shower in the street in front of us, not ten feet away, without a drop touching us. Lasted about 15 seconds. I've never seen anything like it before in my life.

Anyway, the bus was a double-decker. It was €1.60 to ride to O'Connell, which we did in the top level. There were some Americans a few rows in front of us, a couple in late middle age, pointing things out and commenting enthusiastically. Then the "American" man turned slightly and I saw the Canadian flag on the side of his ball cap. Hey, usually even we can't tell. :)


The trip was brisk, taking us through a very built-up area, some of it with glorious overhanging trees and beautiful homes. Finally, as the sun came out, we arrived at O'Connell Street. We got off the bus and Dave led us around, full of knowledge and interesting facts, knowing just where to go. I didn't realize till later he was blazingly hung over. What a trooper.

A fast introduction to Dublin

David waggled his finger at his father and brother in the pub in Santry, admonishing them, in reference to me, “This man pays for nothing while he’s here.”

To a large, and somewhat embarrassing, extent during my stay in Ireland, that was the case. I was supplied with copious amounts of drink and food, my lodgings were free, and my transportation was essentially the gift of friends of friends. Ireland, in the form of a dozen people or so, opened her arms to me, a full-fledged member of her Diaspora, and embraced me.

I crossed the Atlantic with €500 (over $800 Canadian) in various places on my person. I came home with about twenty-five. It vanished in my attempts to stand my share of rounds (I never could keep up), souvenirs for family and friends, and my insistence on paying for some of the meals out. On the whole, there’s no question I came out far, far ahead. And not just financially.

The people I lodged with were not, strictly speaking, family, though I’m not romanticizing or embellishing when I say that I strongly have that sense of them. At every instance, they treated me like blood, and honestly, without guile or pretension. This is all the more overwhelming to me because of the nature of my family here. We, and the people I know, are by and large WASPish, reserved, undemonstrative — regardless of race or religion. Even close friends maintain a certain froideure. It’s not exactly at the level of Germans who work side by side for decades and still address one another as “Herr”, but there’s a noticeable difference between Toronto and Dublin in this regard. I had never met David, or his wife Mary, before… aside from internet exchanges, phone conversations, and a few packages. But I was accorded a welcome like an old friend come home again. And not just by them, but by their extended family and friends as well. Listen to me as I tell you the story of my week in Ireland.

* * * * *

I dozed through the six-hour flight from Toronto to Dublin. I can’t strictly say I slept. My boss, originally from Spain and an adventurous traveler, gave me some non-prescription pills to battle jetlag, and I have to say, they quite did the trick, coming and going. What I do know is, I took a shot of the graphic of the plane leaving Toronto, and I remember it catching the corner of New York on its way to Montreal… and then I remember seeing us flying over Shannon and approaching Limerick. A small mercy for a guy who isn’t enamored of flying.


At some point during the flight, one of the flight attendants came around with declaration forms non-EU passengers had to fill out. It was with no small thrill that I proudly informed her I had an Irish passport. It was with an even bigger thrill that I passed through customs at the airport. People with blue passports and the forms queued up in a long, slow line. Those of us with burgundy passports passed through much more quickly. I handed the man in the booth my Irish passport; he glanced at it for three or four seconds, passed it back to me, and nodded me in. Into Ireland. My country. My other home. That was all the dreaming, all the work of getting the documents and the registration and the passport, made real... come true. I would never presume to call myself an Irishman... but I was Irish. And that was enough.


So suddenly there I was, in another country, on another continent. I’ve been to the United States, but that’s really just more Canada... or vice-versa. But here I was, in Europe, in Ireland. Standing there alone, waiting for my bag to show up on the belt, wondering what was ahead of me. Would I find my friend? Would we get along? Would I be a week-long toothache for him? I certainly hoped not.


And there I was, bag in hand, coming out into the common area. And he spotted me. He, Dave — and his friend… a man who turned out to be, in fact, his brother, Jason, of whom I had heard much over the years. Jason drives; Dave doesn’t. But Jason never showed a moment of resentment for his chore of ferrying his brother’s friend around over several days, or accompanying us on several bus trips. I came to regard Jay as a friend on his own terms… particularly later that day.

Everyone in Ireland drives standard, I guess. Jason does. His VW Rabbit zipped along the road south of the airport to his brother’s home in Ballymun, which for me, will forever be “home” when I think of Ireland and Dublin. There was an alley behind their place where we parked… a longtime fan of British television, I was reminded somehow of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole. I have seen places like that in Toronto, but it’s not quite the same.


And I met Mary, and Dave and Mary’s daughter Cara. Mary is expecting, very soon. But she seemed without a care for it, and was so gracious and considerate to me, a virtual stranger, that the sense of blood relation truly washed over me. It was a real revelation for me, come from beyond the wave, as the song goes.

It was a fast couple or hours that saw me in Ballymun, putting my things away in a the room that will soon be Cara’s. After that, it was off to Santry, where Jason and his father and some of their siblings live. This is a story for another installment.