fair Dublin

Dublin, Dublin, where to start? Well, I know I run the risk of alien­at­ing the many peo­ple who will read this and doubt­less adore the town, but I’ve got to say it: it was­n’t our sort of place. Actu­al­ly, that’s being unfair. What did­n’t hit the spot for us was that it was per­ilous­ly like… Lon­don. And you must keep in mind my intense ado­ra­tion for my adopt­ed home, but hon­est­ly, when you go on hol­i­day, or when we go on hol­i­day, we want to end up some­where quite dif­fer­ent from our home. Dublin is a crowd­ed, enor­mous­ly excit­ing, diverse con­glom­er­a­tion of mas­sive­ly beau­ti­ful archi­tec­ture, shop­ping, peo­ple watch­ing, city squares and leafy pub­lic greens. Gor­geous, yes, ener­gis­ing, yes, but dif­fer­ent from Lon­don? Not so very much.

We adults imme­di­ate­ly said that if we did not live in Lon­don, Dublin would have pre­sent­ed much a dif­fer­ent face. It would have felt exot­ic, for­eign, fas­ci­nat­ing, offer­ing up end­less unusu­al plea­sures. But as we do live in Lon­don, what stood out for us was the beau­ty of the Irish accent, the friend­li­ness of every per­son we encoun­tered from the hotel staff to the sweep­er ladies in St Stephen’s Green. And those were to be had in the coun­try­side as well, no doubt.

The pos­i­tives? St Stephen’s Green itself, where our hotel, the Fitzwilliam, is locat­ed. A pos­i­tive oasis of green, falling autumn leaves, young cou­ples in love, old­er cou­ples in a more jad­ed moment of life try­ing to rein in small obstreper­ous Irish chil­dren, old men lec­tur­ing younger men on park bench­es as to the mer­its of Guin­ness. And in fact, the whole Green was pri­vate until 1877, acces­si­ble only to the rich own­ers of hous­es the formed the square. But then the founder of the Guin­ness fam­i­ly and for­tunes bought it out, fixed it up, and opened it to the pub­lic. What’s not to love about the Guin­ness fam­i­ly, it would seem?

As well, we all three of us fell heav­i­ly in love with Trin­i­ty Col­lege, Dublin. John came home from an ear­ly morn­ing walk extolling its virtues, and since we two are now too elder­ly and dried up to make fab­u­lous plans for our own futures, we prompt­ly informed Avery that her goal should be a place in its green and glo­ri­ous gates. Actu­al­ly they are wrought iron and very, very old. But more on Trin­i­ty later.

Let’s see, what else on the pos­i­tive side? Well, let me take you on our jour­ney, start to fin­ish, and you can choose the hap­py bits you want to do when you get there. And believe me, if you’re com­ing, as we would have 15 years ago, straight from New York, or Iowa, or Indi­ana, there is much to mar­vel at in Dublin. But if you’re already an inhab­i­tant of a vis­i­tor-laden, huge­ly crowd­ed and incred­i­bly expen­sive cos­mopoli­tan British-ish urban sprawl, you might not need to book a long stay. That’s just our expe­ri­ence. And I know, I know, Ire­land is not British! But you know what I mean: Eng­lish-speak­ing, with Marks and Spencer, Hel­lo! Mag­a­zine, tuna and sweet­corn on sand­wich­es, Water­stone’s book­store. That’s what I mean. It was too familiar.

But let’s begin at the begin­ning. Which was inaus­pi­cious to say the least. The Irish Fer­ry? For­get it. Slow, petrol­ly, evil­ly dec­o­rat­ed and filled with mewl­ing, scream­ing chil­dren wav­ing bags of crisps and hit­ting their num­ber­less sib­lings over the heads with bot­tles of sug­ar-laden drinks. I know I sound the worst pos­si­ble snob, but I owe it to my read­ers. Seri­ous­ly, high­tail it to Luton or wher­ev­er and hop on Ryanair (no agent of the upper class­es by any means, so I’m not a mind­less snob) and land in Dublin, you’ll be much hap­pi­er. Our whingey expe­ri­ence was under­lined by the pres­ence of our ill child, silenced by laryn­gi­tis, but no fever and no strep, so we dragged her with us. I nev­er thought I’d see the day that I’d long for the sort of run­ning com­men­taries she gives us on what­ev­er she is read­ing, or lis­ten­ing to, or think­ing, but her silence made me wish she’d recite from the phone book, or her maths home­work, any­thing but total silence. I felt so guilty hav­ing brought her, which was brought home to me fur­ther when we arrived at the Fitzwilliam and it was clear that all her ener­gy had been com­plete­ly used up by the jour­ney. Poor mis­treat­ed child. But the hotel is the last word in lux­u­ry and her lit­tle pull­out bed was already, well, pulled out, so we piled her up with hot water bot­tles and her ani­mals and Har­ry Pot­ter and she took a long rest.

Not so for me: I hit the streets in suc­cess­ful pur­suit of the Tem­ple Bar Food Mar­ket on Meet­ing House Square. Take your time find­ing it; it’s not eas­i­ly done, at least for me with the sense of direc­tion of an oys­ter. But speak­ing of: there are deli­cious oys­ters on the half shell to be had in the mar­ket! I kept the lit­tle green nap­kin that I got with my two Atlantic spec­i­mens (unbe­liev­ably plump and fla­vor­ful), but some­where between Dublin and home it’s got lost again. But nev­er mind, you’ll find it. And a lus­cious treat for Avery called a “mil­lion­aire square,” from a bak­ery about whom I can find almost noth­ing, but if you see their label, buy any­thing they make, Noir­in’s Bake­house. Impos­si­bly rich, even the three of us com­bined could not fin­ish it: short­bread, caramel, tof­fee, choco­late. It revived even my sick child! And farm­house arti­san cheese from Cor­leg­gy Cheese, whose address reads like poet­ry: Cor­leg­gy, Bel­turbet, Coun­ty Cavan. I came away with a love­ly smelly cow’s milk cheese called Drum­lin, very hard and deli­cious if you cut off a chunk and eat it like parme­san. I imag­ine it would be love­ly grat­ed, or melt­ed, as well.

And David Llewellyn’s apples! Worth every pen­ny, and the juice even more so. David is one of a grow­ing num­ber of Irish apple farm­ers who are grow­ing organ­ic. It’s the best apple juice I have ever tast­ed, and Avery was an instant con­vert. “Sor­ry to give you this enor­mous bill,” I apol­o­gized to the lady behind the stall, pro­fer­ring my 10 Euro note, “but this is the first thing I’ve bought in Ire­land and it’s all I’ve got to begin with.” The plump apple-cheeked lady (sor­ry, could­n’t resist) said, “Sure now and I’m glad to hear that one of our apples is the first Irish food to pass your lips.” Hon­est­ly! This is how the peo­ple talk. I could lis­ten ALL DAY. And my accent, don’t even get me start­ed. I could­n’t help it! Would lis­ten­ing to such dul­cet tones ever get old? It would take a very long time. It’s all poet­ry, what they’re say­ing, no mat­ter the top­ic. See?

But here’s anoth­er caveat, I have to be hon­est and say. It was a love­ly, gor­geous mar­ket. But it felt just like the Maryle­bone Farmer’s Mar­ket, sure and it’s one of my favorite places on earth, but it’s very… famil­iar. But again, if you came from a place with­out gor­geous farmer’s mar­kets, you would have dis­cov­ered some­thing very won­der­ful that would bright­en your life. And it did mine, for all it was not news to me. But it was won­der­ful for every inter­ac­tion to include that love­ly lilt.

I found my way back to the hotel, a mirac­u­lous feat giv­en my his­to­ry, to find that Avery had brave­ly tak­en some med­i­cine and was feel­ing bet­ter. We head­ed out to find a place for din­ner. And here I take up a bit of a lament: eat­ing out in Dublin just… did­n’t hap­pen for us. The place rec­om­mend­ed by the sweet guy behind the hotel desk was impos­si­bly touristy not to men­tion over­run by very drunk peo­ple who either had been sick or were about to be, so we wan­dered for a bit and final­ly, fear­ing for Avery’s sta­mi­na, just alight­ed on a com­plete­ly for­get­table restau­rant (see, I’ve for­got­ten it already) just to feed her and get her back to the hotel. And she was silent, com­plete­ly silent, all evening! Poor girl, but she insist­ed, in sign lan­guage, that she had want­ed to come, that she was fine. Prob­a­bly a case where the actu­al adults in charge of her life should have said, “no.” In any case, no sign of the famed Dublin restau­rant scene for us, sad­ly. And the fol­low­ing evening, can I tell you what I suc­cumbed to? I’ll tell you so I can get it out of the way. Room ser­vice! It’s all she want­ed, plus a nice warm bath. That and the hor­ror that is “Strict­ly Come Danc­ing.” I would almost rather stick hot nee­dles in my eye­balls than watch that pro­gramme, but there you go, I am not mak­ing this up, that’s what we did in Dublin. No won­der I’m not in love with the town.

But the fol­low­ing morn­ing all was right with the world because we dis­cov­ered Trin­i­ty Col­lege. What a place! We enlist­ed the ser­vices of a com­plete­ly charm­ing young man who intro­duced him­self only as “James,” and he led us on a tour of the pub­lic spaces. It’s well worth tak­ing a tour, I think, at least if you get such a boy (well, some­where between a boy and a man) with a bit­ing wit and dar­ling Irish hair, a beat-up leather bomber jack­et and lots of hilar­i­ous tales. “It’s said that if a stu­dent is to stand on this stone under the bell when it’s being rung, he will not pass his exams. Of course this sto­ry may well have been start­ed by a stu­dent who was stand­ing on this stone when it was being rung, and… did not pass his exams.” I was com­plete­ly spell­bound: it was like lis­ten­ing to a mod­ern-day Sebas­t­ian Fly­te, with­out the alcoholism.

I said to Avery, sot­to voce, “Isn’t he adorable? You could bring a nice boy like that home from uni­ver­si­ty and your father and I would­n’t object one BIT.” And what did the lady her­self say in return? In her grog­gy voice, but laced with unde­ni­able dis­dain, “Until the cur­rent fash­ion for show­ing one’s under­wear at the waist­band of one’s trousers pass­es away, I shall remain a spin­ster.” John and I had to admit there was mer­it to her view­point, but for one cir­cum­stance: in my day, lo these many decades ago, a girl ran the risk of get­ting entire­ly too fond of a boy who might, after a suit­able courtship peri­od, reveal a deal-break­ing pref­er­ence: box­ers or briefs? Now, of course, Avery will be spared this unhap­py cir­cum­stance, since his under­wear will be just about the first thing revealed. But I digress.

The Book of Kells? A bit of a (dare I say it) yawn. I am fright­ened to utter such a sac­ri­lege, but I must explain myself. First­ly, the mod­ern mania for untold rooms of mul­ti-media set­up for absolute­ly any­thing an insti­tu­tion might want you to see puts me right off what­ev­er it ulti­mate­ly turns out to be. It’s like how I feel about Leonar­do now, after we were all blud­geoned near­ly to a bloody pulp by “The DaVin­ci Code.” It’s not his fault that he’s been turned into a media cir­cus! And left on its own, as I under­stand the Book used to be, sit­ting in an unpre­ten­tious glass case in the mag­nif­i­cent Long Room of the Trin­i­ty Col­lege Library, I might well have sighed in delight. Just to come upon it, as it were, and gaze. But to queue for ages, be herd­ed like sheep through cubi­cle after cubi­cle of immense­ly enlarged views of this or that folio, with lit­tle videos of a hand (pre­sum­ably not THE hand) illu­mi­nat­ing a let­ter with the accom­pa­ni­ment of a lit­tle scratch­ing sound! No, my schol­ar’s mind protests. And then to be pressed against many oth­er exam­ples of human­i­ty try­ing to breathe on the glass, no! A thou­sand times no.

Good­ness, could I get any more cur­mud­geon­ly? I must say, in my long-ago and mis­spent youth I near­ly wrote a mas­ter’s the­sis on Goth­ic illu­mi­nat­ed man­u­scripts, one French Book of Hours in par­tic­u­lar, and I adore the genre. But the Book of Kells did not inspire. How­ev­er, do not let me put you off. And DO go see the Long Room. Avery was in absolute awe of the soar­ing shelves of infi­nite splen­dour. “This is even more books than we have!” she breathed to the guide, who then con­fid­ed that two of her chil­dren go to Trin­i­ty and are in heav­en. Avery offi­cial­ly has a goal. The dor­mi­to­ry build­ings lin­ing the squares are gor­geous, although James the guide informed us lofti­ly that they “need updat­ing.” I’m sure to his 22-year-old mind they do, but look at the ivy! Avery showed a rare bit of pre-ado­les­cent annoy­ance at her embar­rass­ing par­ents, when we took this pic­ture of her. “Sup­pose some nice stu­dent comes out and sees me trespassing!”

Well, from there we were off to a won­der­ful book­store called Hodges Fig­gis, in Daw­son Street. Avery had hoped to find some Irish chil­dren’s books unprocur­able in Lon­don, but did­n’t have much luck. This did­n’t stop her find­ing lots of oth­er things she could­n’t live with­out, and we had fun. Then onto the Geor­gian Muse­um at Num­ber Twen­ty-Nine Mer­rion Square, for John’s sake, giv­en his obses­sion with Geor­gian archi­tec­ture. So impres­sive: the fur­ni­ture and plas­ter­work and repro­duc­tions of pre­cise wall­pa­per and fab­rics. Most won­der­ful: the rug in the main par­lor. And the dar­ling nurs­ery, with scrolls of bits of knowl­edge that the gov­erness would impart. But my oh my, you would want to be wealthy. The poor lit­tle house­maids’ cir­cum­stances would not be desirable.

Oh, and the Celtic Whiskey Shop! I don’t know if I have ever had Irish whiskey before, being a devot­ed ser­vant of Scotch Whiskey, but if you can imag­ine they were giv­ing away sam­ples, in broad day­light, so of course we had to have some. We tried sev­er­al, but the best to our minds was Red­breast, and we brought some home. Smooth, com­plex, lovely.

Our Dublin stay end­ed with a pil­grim­age, as you can see, to the house where Avery’s beloved Oscar Wilde was born. And then we were on our way out of town, say­ing a wist­ful good­bye to Trin­i­ty Col­lege, and look­ing for­ward in our heart of hearts to the part of our Irish adven­ture more con­ducive to our hol­i­day spir­it: a stay in a medieval cas­tle! And it did NOT disappoint…