Europe 2025 - Dublin
- Tim Madison
- Apr 13
- 29 min read
Updated: Apr 18
Glasgow to Dublin – April 13
We’re waking up in the Hotel Indigo in Glasgow. This is just a one-nighter meant to make the transit from here to Ireland seem less stressful. Breakfast is in the hotel’s dining area. It’s about the same kind of buffet thing we see everywhere. Except last year in Italy. We were shocked to see the quantities of food they made available for breakfast. It took several minutes just to identify it all. But here, all seems normal with toast, coffee, tea, fruit, and croissant.
We have nothing on our dance card except to catch a taxi to the Glasgow airport at 1 pm. We have time to spare and we could use a run to the drug store to restock a few things. There’s a Boots drug store about 15 minutes away on Buchanan St. Google guides us to a door which isn’t a Boots. It is a Tesco, a kind of grocery and housewares shop. We spend about 10 confused minutes wandering in typical clueless tourist fashion until the answer revealed itself. We’re actually in a gigantic shopping mall, St Enoch, which is camouflaged from street view by the huge structure it occupies. From the outside, there’s a big building but there’s not much that’s special or glitzy about it. Inside, it’s all very modern and mall-like with gleaming floors, escalators, skylights, and fancy shops. Here is where we find the drug store. It’s the biggest, most well-stocked drug store we’ve ever seen. If this place doesn’t have what we need, there’s no hope for us.
We have our stuff in short order and back out on the street. A short wander brings us to another shopping area, the entrance of which is being patrolled by a gentleman with an earpiece, a top hat, and a heavy woolen overcoat. We stroll past him and into the Argyle Arcade. Now we know why that guy is there. He is security. This entire alleyway is full of jewelry shops, more than 30 of them. I can’t remember when I’ve seen so much bling.
Time to get back to the hotel and meet our cab to the airport where it’s another hurry-up-and-wait drill. Check bags, security, passport check, blah blah, wait, doze off, find the gate, settle in, buckle up, and off we go. Dublin is 190 miles away and the flight is about an hour. No sweat, but the day is fading fast. Our cab from the airport is piloted by a very engaging fellow from Nigeria, Jacob. His voice and mannerism remind me of the shrunken head dangling from the mirror on the Knight Bus in “Prisoner of Azkaban”. I regret not getting a portrait. He was a much better driver than Ernie.
But hey, we’re on the ground in Dublin.
This is the place of origin of a host of literary and artistic celebrities. Of those most deified, I’ll name Oscar Wilde and James Joyce. Those who search for their memories here won’t be disappointed. The Irish aren’t shy about making monuments to their heroes. Oscar has his birthplace, and his childhood home preserved and open for tours. Both places are occupied by university level institutions. Trinity College is bubbling with his memory. Merrion Square Park hosts an intellectually challenging sculpture featuring his complex and risky relationship with Victorian morals. James Joyce fans could spend days in pilgrimage to The James Joyce Centre, James Joyce Tower and Museum, James Joyce Statue, James Joyce Memorial Bust, The James Joyce Sundial, Sweny’s Pharmacy, and the Museum of Literature Ireland. There may be no such thing as immortality, but J.J. took a run at it.
We check in to the Hotel Davenport, a rather posh-ish establishment. Our first impression of the building is that it looks like a bank. Our cubicle has plenty of room but only one duvet. CK corrects that by phoning the desk for another. It is getting late, so we grab Marie and pop across the street to the nearest pub, Kennedy’s. Sure enough, here is a memory of Oscar Wilde in bronze sitting right outside the door of the pub. A plaque reads:
“Oscar Wilde at 14 years of age had his first job here in this Establishment, stacking shelves and earning a few shillings in the 1860’s”
The place is roaring, a pair of musicians are playing in the dining parlor. Only a few seats are available, and, on Marie’s suggestion, we grab 3 of them at the bar and that’s ok because that’s my favorite spot in a pub. A bar stool is where we learn things. The music is loud and there’s a lot of chatter. The TV has the last round of the Masters which features Ireland’s own Rory McIlroy in the lead on the final day. We meet Annie who fixes us up with pints, wine, and food. She is very charming and has excellent hair. We’ll be back.
We’ve had a good day. All went as intended with no glitches. We’re installed in our Dublin Davenport Hotel space through Friday. CK tells me there’s a busy day scheduled tomorrow.
Dublin – April 14
Hotel Davenport. CK booked us a nice room here, spacious, with actual furniture. I can clear the corner of the bed in the dark without mangling my toe on some kind of metal bed support. The shower has a lovely, huge round rain panel that tempts one to run up the hotel’s water bill while silently granting oneself a permit to ignore global conservation campaigns. The deco in the lobby, bar, and dining area speaks of a level of swank we are unlikely to deserve. If I look for a reason to be unhappy with The Davenport it will be the television service. Last night, The Masters golf tournament was in its final round with Ireland’s own Rory McIlroy challenging. It was on at Kennedy’s, on every TV in fact. But back at the hotel there was no such coverage on the screen in our room. Down to the hotel bar I go figuring that would be the answer. Nope. There isn’t even a screen there. So I buckle down and finish the blog. As I post it, my phone tells me that there are 4 more holes to play and a 3 way tie. Feeling clever, I zip down to the street to make it back to Kennedy’s for the finish. Nope. After 10 pm the bars around here all close up. Drat. So that’s my only beef with this hotel. Lame TV service.
Never mind. Today at 10 am we are meeting a guide for a bespoke walking tour of Dublin. It will be 5 hours with a lunch stop in the middle. Our intrepid interpreter is Bartle D’Arcy, a student of history and, we soon learn, a teller of tales some of which may even be true. From the hotel lobby we waste no time. A brisk hike and we’re standing on the Trinity College campus. We’re going to see the Book of Kells which is kept under the watchful eye of the university. It is a tourist attraction of the first order. Entrance fees are harvested. Security is prowling.
The queue is quite short. We’re surprised at this. Bartle explains in years BC, Before Covid, Chinese tourists would mob the campus lining up to see it. The queue would have a thousand people in it or more. Covid put an end to it because of the quarantine restrictions placed on returning Chinese nationals. I think they required two weeks in a hotel room at the traveler’s expense. Few Chinese tourists are seen these days in Ireland.
The Book of Kells is a Christian relic from the early 9th century, an illuminated Latin manuscript of the New Testament minus the Book of Revelations. They think it was begun in a monastery on the Scottish island of Iona, then brought to Ireland to avoid Viking raids. Over the centuries the Irish had to hide it from the European Christian authorities as well because of the Druidic animism that dominates its illustrations. It would have been seen as heretical. Scholars consider its survival to be little short of miraculous. On display, in a bullet proof plexiglass box, are a couple of pages that we’re allowed to admire. No photos, of course. It is in remarkably good shape, almost as if it were freshly done. Later in the exhibit we see enlarged photos and copies of it in various forms. Bartle is very helpful in explaining the purpose of the strange illustrations of what appear to be mythical beasts and the inclusion of various animals.
Still in Trinity College, Bartle takes us through the old library, established 1592. The modern library holds more than 6 million printed volumes. The Long Room is the most picturesque antique structure with bookshelves requiring ladder systems to access. As we see it, most of the shelves are empty, the books having been removed for cleaning. An installation called Gaia (Greek for ‘globe’) hangs spinning in the vault space. There’s another copy of the Book of Kells on display in its full form. It looks to be over a foot thick.
Back on the street Bartle shows us some city landmarks. There’s a bronze sculpture of Molly Malone, a Dublin character of legend and song. Nobody can say if she was a real person or not but she is likely based on some kind of truth. The locals call the statue 'The Tart with the Cart' or 'The Trollop with the Scallops'. Of course, no bronze like this escapes obsessive fondling. “She has good neck”, as the Victorians might say.
Bartle takes us into the restaurant and bar district where we get a look at the prime tourist pub in Dublin, The Temple Bar. We won’t be stopping for lunch here. Even on a Monday, mid-day, this place is a mad-house packed to the rafters with mostly tourists. We shoulder our way through the mob trying to guess how anyone could ever get a barman’s attention in here. We pass through it and out another door. Now we can say we’ve been to the Temple Bar and not lie.
Bartle guides us to lunch at The Bank on College Green. As you can guess, this was a bank once upon a time, an over-the-top projection of power and confidence, the two main ingredients in attracting well-heeled customers. Now, all that glorious architecture and décor adorns the dining and drinking experience of modern Dubliners. My whiskey today is Jameson Redbreast, recommended by the barman. Bartle says the Scots don’t know what they’re doing when it comes to whiskey. “They can’t even spell it right”, he taunts. Scots spell it ‘whisky’, and the Irish use an ‘e’: ‘whiskey’. Bartle then coaches me on the proper way to taste it. “Don’t put your nose in the glass. You’ll only smell the alcohol.” Now, I’m fascinated because the guide at the Oban distillery tour told us not only to insert the nose but to do it three times before sipping. Bartle has me pinch my nose shut, then take a sip. I decline to argue with him. It wouldn’t have any effect. And he’s right, in a way. The taste is different but I’m not sure that it’s better. I think the olfactory senses are necessary to taste anything properly. But I’ll use his technique for different whiskeys and wines, give it some more mileage before rendering a final verdict.
After a posh lunch at The Bank, we’re on the street again. Bartle gives us a crash history on some of the brutal politics of the clash between the British and the Irish. During the War of Independence (1919-1921) Irish partisans were tortured at Dublin Castle. Bartle points out the marks in the doorway caused by British soldiers sharpening their bayonets on the stone. These marks were meant to cause terror for any poor soul passing by them. The message was that there would be knives used and not in a good way.
Nearby is St Patrick’s Cathedral. Like all other churches in this part of the world, it is a necropolis, a monument to superstition, and a projection of power both of the religious and political kind. St Patrick, himself, was of Welsh origin. The legend of him ridding Ireland of snakes is not literally true, of course. Ireland never had snakes in the first place. In St Patrick’s case, the snake represents the animistic wisdom of the Druids and witches who held forth in Ireland. St Patrick is credited with suppressing much of it, that is, banishing the ‘snakes’ and the wisdom.
On our march back to the hotel, we pass by the Gaiety Theatre. “Death of a Salesman” is on the boards. Weeks ago we debated getting tickets for it but decided it was going to be too heavy and depressing for our sensibilities this time around. There are celebrity hand prints in bronze anchored in the sidewalk. I spot Luciano Pavarotti and Billy Connolly among others.
Our tour comes to an end as Bartle guides us back to our hotel, completing a very entertaining loop around town. His stories and colorful chatter were engaging and informative. As Americans we may acquire odd bits of Irish culture and politics but there’s nothing like getting a firehose of it firsthand from a knowledgeable, patriotic Irishman with a fair helping of Blarney on the side. We all feel a bit more at home in Ireland now that we’ve been ‘anointed’, so to speak, by Mr. Bartle D’Arcy.
After a short rest we must be out again for the evening. CK has arranged for an obvious tourist level entertainment experience at The Merry Ploughboys pub.
Music and a stage show is accompanied by an Irish style meal. A bus picks us up at the hotel at 6-ish for a 20 minute jostle across town. The pub is designed to accommodate busloads of people. Several rows of picnic style tables are arranged in front of a stage. The bar is compacted into a corner to make room for more tables. The back wall features a large display of souvenir hats and shirts. This is a well-oiled machine. The dinner menu has limited choices, and the servers are quick and efficient. Pints and wine are passed around in short order. Plenty of time is allowed for us to soak up sufficient alcohol before the show begins. All is well, meaning no DUIs, because everyone is leaving on a bus. Let the pints flow! Just as everyone is feeling slightly chemically impaired and attitudinally adjusted, on they come, 4 fellows all set to warble away for our benefit. There is a bass player, a guitar, a fiddle, and a guy on whistles and bagpipes. They crack on directly. My opinion starts off in the positive since they begin the set with one of my favorite Irish tunes, “Rocky Road to Dublin”. This was composed in 1854 and they’re still singing it. It’s a fun show with lots of jokes and embarrassing audience teasing. There’s an interlude of Irish dancing, where young folks take the stage from the old fart musicians, showing away their athletic talents.
At 10 pm the show is over and we pour ourselves back onto the bus. At the hotel CK is in the sack by 11 pm but I’m awake sorting and editing photos until 1 pm. I’m going to have to finish the blog Tuesday morning due to involuntary loss of consciousness.
Dublin – April 15
This morning Marie and CK are off to St Patrick’s Cathedral for a closer inspection. I have declined this experience because (1) I was there yesterday and walked all around inside. I felt the weight of stone floating over my head. I ignored the symbolism of mythical human sacrifice. Been there, done that. (2) I had fallen behind with the blog posting and needed the morning to catch up.
CK does enjoy her churches. She views them as some kind of museum. I think she is fascinated by the oddities that are held in reverence there. These things vary a little from church to church even though they are generally the same. For example, here Marie reports that there is an unusual amount of military themed memorials. That would make sense given the history of Ireland in the 19th and 20th century together with two world wars; pretty much a continuing story of strife and deprivation mostly dealing with unwanted invaders. They also learn that one of the Guinness family bankrolled a restoration in 1860, saving it from a derelict future. Of course, they are always fixing things in a place like this and Guinness continues to support it. Today in the church there was a bit of an event which was the cause of some singing and organ music. When the organ fires up, CK is rooted to the spot and cannot be moved. The reason for the musical interlude is a funeral, a rather low key affair. Marie and CK observe a plain wooden casket being wheeled in, not carried by pall bearers. I don’t know any more about it, but they did get a pic.
I finish my blog project about 11:30, in time to meet the ladies for lunch. A quick text back and forth and the date is set. We meet at the Stag’s Head at noon. This pub is a pilgrimage for Marie who first visited it 30 years ago. She sought it out intentionally because of a Leroy Neiman print she had hanging in her home then and still does. The print is Neiman’s stylistic interpretation of the Stag’s Head bar which appears today just as Neiman saw it. This pub has history back to 1770 but we see it in its Victorian form, the result of remodeling in 1890. They feature live music, comedy nights, and good pub food. We had a cozy corner for our lunch. We also meet Tayha, from Australia, a very charming lass who waited on us.
After lunch we decide to hike another 25 minutes to find the Guinness souvenir shop for some gotta-have plunder. We don’t want to go through the brewery tour because it is one of those self-guided things. None of us are fans of that. Skip the tour and get to the shop, that’s what we want. This seems more difficult than it should be, however. The shop is located at the end of the brewery tour. We are told by the gatekeepers that we have to take the tour to get to the shop. I’m disappointed but Marie has a plan. She begins to schmooze a security guy who agrees to ask a superior if we can hop around the tourist line to the shop. He shrugs and refers Marie to another guard closer to the door. Marie schmoozes him, too, by claiming authority given by the other two guards. That gets us referred to the ticket taker who sees that the guards behind us are cool with it. He opens the ropes for us and bingo, Bob’s our uncle. We’re riding the escalator to the shop in two shakes. I must say, Marie is the master of doing this. It isn’t her first rodeo.
We take about 25 minutes to obtain our plunder. The shop is large and the crowd is significant. We find what we want quickly enough. It’s the checkout that takes time. CK didn’t want to go in. She waited until we came back out. Lucky for her it wasn’t raining.
Back on the street again. A quick check of our location reveals that we are a 20 minute walk from the Teeling Whiskey Distillery. They have tours of their facility every hour on the hour. We have just enough time to get there with 5 minutes to spare before the 3 pm tour. We didn’t book ahead of time, just trusting that we’ll get lucky. And we do. There is no lineup for tickets, we just fork over the credit card and we’re in. A few minutes later our guide, Marc, rolls in and conducts a very interesting tour/sales pitch which includes details about the Teeling process that other distillers might want to keep secret, I should think. But I don’t know anything about the whiskey business. All I know is what I sip.
Teeling Distillery is located in what used to be called the Liberties. This was a place outside the old city walls that was basically a tax-free zone. It was also rather lawless, dangerous, and generally uncivilized especially if one was a British soldier. The Pale of Dublin was the wall, pale being a word meaning stake or fence. In medieval times, one was either ‘in the pale’ or ‘beyond the pale’. This is where that phrase comes from. In the 18th and 19th century several whiskey factories set up shop in the Liberties and up until the early 20th century, Dublin was the premier whiskey producer in the world. Two major things came to upend that domination: The war of independence with Britain and Prohibition laws in the USA. Those two developments conspired to cause the whiskey industry to collapse. Some died a slow death, the last to call it quits was Powers in 1976. After that came 50 years of no whiskey production in Dublin. Teeling began operation in 2015 along with dozens of others. Irish whiskey is coming back, says Marc, so watch out.
At the end of the tour we get three samples, two of which I quite liked. The other had been aged in a wine cask which gave it a strong flavor, one that I don’t associate with whiskey. It is probably fine stuff but not for me. That’s ok. Two out of three isn’t bad. I make a point of admiring the little tasting glasses. He says that sometimes, he has no idea why, but they seem to go missing and it usually has to do with tourists carrying bags with them. We like Marc and tip heavily.
CK hails a taxi and we’re back to the hotel in no time. Old people need a bit of a rest, so we indulge in that for about 90 minutes after which we plan a pub crawl. We have no reservations for our evening meal.
Refreshed and ready to crawl, we pop across the street to look in at the Sin Bin, a pub attached to a hotel. It looks modern, empty of customers, and ok in that regard but the sound system is pushing out something loud with an entertainment value of zero. Crack on. The next choice is a quarter mile off, the Lincoln Inn, another joint with solid roots in Victorian architecture. This place is crowded, full of chatter, no thump-thump music. Approved. We barely get a table and it’s just big enough for drinks and three plates of food. Shauna is our server, and she gets us all set up. The food is good, the beer is cold, and I get caught up on the ladies’ morning patrol of the cathedral.
That just about completes the day. A short walk home in some breezy, cool weather that foretells wet conditions tomorrow. But that’s ok because we’re going to be in an automobile.
Dublin – April 16
Our luck has run thin. It hasn’t run out because there is an interesting day before us. We’ll just have to deal with some rain. That’s right, our run of prime, dry spring weather has run aground against the reality that this, after all, is Ireland. At 9 am we meet our driver for the day. His name is Barrie. We need a driver because we are to be touring beyond Dublin into areas not conveniently served by public transport and we are loath to rent a car nor drive on the barmy side of the road. He pulls up in a late model BMW. Nice comfy ride. Things are looking up.
Barrie is a chatty sort of bloke which makes the traffic clogs and miles pass quicker. Our prime goal is the neolithic UNESCO site of Newgrange. Along the route we’re able to take in another attraction, a defunct nobleman’s estate now part of a national historic preservation project.
This is, indeed, our first stop, the Malahide Castle. The Talbot family ruled here for 8 centuries between 1185 and 1973. The grounds sprawl out along 250 acres around a once proud mansion. The main attraction here are the grounds and the gardens, in my opinion. I could have spent all of our time wandering through the plantings enjoying the fresh growth of April. We did wander in it a little but the rain was not going to allow a pleasant stroll without wellies, and no one in our group is equipped. We are going to content ourselves with a wiggle through the gift shop and a lecture about the life and times of the Talbots as we follow a tour guide through the mansion.
There is a curiosity in the garden that we take advantage of: a butterfly house. This is basically a greenhouse dedicated to the conservation of certain butterflies. It hosts selected plants in an warm, humid environment conducive to the butterfly’s happiness. They are easy to spot as they flutter toward the glass panes in a futile effort to escape. Most aren’t in range for a decent portrait. I’m a patient hunter, though. I finally spot two of them who have decided to alight long enough for me to get some snaps.
The tour of the ‘castle’, more accurately a mansion is next. We tour the main rooms in the house as a fellow explains the lifestyle of the idle
rich during the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries. We have toured homes like this on previous trips and in different countries. They are remarkably similar. There are variations, of course, but for the most part the stories and descriptions of daily life echo each other. For instance, in all high societies of this era, the main occupation seemed to be eating. Over-the-top ‘hospitality’ was a method to show away one’s wealth. They often suffered a painful condition as a result: gout, a form of inflammatory arthritis caused by uric acid crystals in the joints. This habit of overfeeding and general culinary excess is still with us in the form of Thankgiving and Christmas feasts. Of course, this gluttony lead to other problems such as heart attacks. A 4-year-old girl in the group raises her hand for a question. “What’s a heart attack?”
Good one.
He explains what a priest hole is and shows us one. We visit the social rooms and drawing rooms, learning how the men and women followed particular rules of socializing. He shares curious notes about how women used beeswax-based makeup in the 18th century. If they sat too close to the fireplace they might use a portable panel to block the heat away from their face to prevent the wax from melting. Here is where the phrase, “mind your beeswax” had its start.
The guide draws our attention to the ornate plasterwork at the edges of the ceiling. Creating it was a difficult job and curing it was equally challenging. Since it took days to dry there was a danger of insects burrowing into the wet plaster, ruining it. To prevent this, workers soaked sponges in grain alcohol to dab on the plaster. This did the job and kept the insects away but not all the alcohol went to the plaster. The workers were clearly taking advantage of the situation, hence the term “getting plastered”.
What would a tour of a spooky old mansion be without some ghost stories? Our man describes footsteps in the rooms, doors slamming, and a lady in white stalking the graveyard with a lantern.
Tour is over and it’s time for lunch. Barrie drives us to a spot he recommends. At 1 pm in the afternoon this café is being overrun by hungry Irishmen. We wait 10 minutes for a table and another 50 minutes for food. We have about 10 minutes left to consume our lunch before we must hurry off to our next date, the highlight of this outing: Newgrange.
There are several names for what we’re going to see. Tumulus, passage tomb, barrow, burial mounds, and others. These are stone structures constructed by a neolithic culture about 5,000 years ago. The construction was done without rock quarrying, dressing of stones, or use of mortar. The resulting buildings have stood for millenia with minor deterioration, and in some cases no appreciable damage at all. Passages and chambers inside them have remained bone dry for thousands of years. We visit two sites, the most famous of which is the one called Newgrange. Here the archaeologists have indulged in some repair to its exterior and reinforced some interior features. Evidence has been found that suggests ritual burials took place there but with the ashes of cremated individuals, not corpses. The construction of the passage is engineered to allow a shaft of sunlight to pass along the path at ground level all the way to the central chamber on the winter solstice.
We are allowed to squeeze through the passage to the chamber accompanied by an official guide. She turns off the electric lights and absolute blackness prevails. An artificial light has been rigged to mimic the path of the solstice sunlight along the floor so we can experience the effect that those ancient stone age people ginned up. It is quite impressive. No photos are allowed inside, but I’m able to harvest a good one from the web.
The ride back to town is an hour. We arrive at the hotel in time for a little freshening before hitting the town again. This time we’re going to meet a young friend who is pursuing graduate studies in Dublin: Lila. Lila is the granddaughter of one of our neighbors back on Lopez Island. When we found out she was here, we proposed a visit. We meet her at ‘The Oval Bar’, a lovely example of 1902 interior decoration, a blend of Edwardian style and more modern repairs made in 1922.
We have a nice evening catching up. She asks us about retirement and travel. We ask her about her work and school. We share the news and gossip about Lopez. She teaches us about ‘splitting the G’. This is a drinking game that starts with a pint of Guinness in a glass with the Guinness logo on it. One must chug beer in one go to bring the level of beer down to the center of the ‘G’ in Guinness. I failed on both my first pint and my second. Lila didn’t get it the first time but on the second attempt, hit it spot on. I bow before the master.
We hope to see her again this summer on the island.
We had a busy day. A good sleep is needed before we tackle Dublin again. We expect rain.
Dublin – April 17
Blue skies are in order. The rain is now delayed, held up in traffic I suppose. The wizards still forecast rain but later tonight. This means we have this day free to roam without the anticipated H20 annoyances. Our plans don’t amount to much. And that’s nice. We don’t have any bookings to be on time for, just a day to wander wherever the collective nose is pointing.
We must decide on some course of action, nonetheless. On the strength of advice given by our driver from yesterday, Barrie, we’re catching a local commuter train to a coastal village called Howth. We can hop the train at a station about 3 blocks from the hotel. Did I mention that this hotel is in a very good location? We’ve been able to walk to many of the sites on our bucket list, which is brilliant because we don’t want to rent a car. If we did, we’d be spending stressful time just trying to find a place to park it.
We’re riding on Dublin’s DART train system today. It brings us to Howth in about 20 minutes.
Howth seems to be focused on three things insomuch as we can judge: commercial fishing, tourism, and pleasure boating. There’s quite a robust artificial harbor inside an impressive concrete sea wall. We see about a dozen fishing vessels and a couple dozen sailboats. Further down the shore is a yacht basin with scads of pleasure boats. The tourist facilities in town are just so-so, meaning there isn’t very much of it. Howth is a place for a quiet stroll along the sea wall with the wind in your hair and the salt air up your nose. Later, duck into a likely joint for a pint and a bite. We did just that at a little seafood shop, ‘King Sitric’. There were oysters on offer, so I had to order a half dozen with a pint of cider to accompany. Marie ordered Lobster Thermador. CK went for the fish & chips. My oysters were outstanding. As fresh as can be, very clean and salty. The server said they came from Galway. And that’s all we really did in Howth, take a walk and eat lunch. The train whisked us back to Dublin just like that.
And now for a tale of the big city:
Last night at The Oval Bar I noticed that they were selling a sharp looking souvenir cap. As we took our seats I made a mental note to purchase one on our way out. By the time we arrived back at the Davenport, I realized that I had air-brained the entire thought. I walked away without the hat. Today on the train returning from Howth, I notice on my Google map that we’re passing close by The Oval Bar again so I hop off the train at the stop closest to it. I’m going to score that hat. CK and Marie stay on the train all the way back to hotel. I’ll catch up with them later.
The bar is only a 15 minute walk and my back is feeling ok, so no problem. At the bar I reward myself with a shot of Powers Irish Whisky and buy the hat. I have a brief chat with a local dude at the bar who had already soaked up more than his share of ale for the day, then I head back to the Davenport about 20 minutes away with the hat stuffed in my sling bag. I’m about 4 blocks from the hotel when I notice that two of my bag’s zippers are open. This is not right. Immediately I see that the hat isn’t there. Not only that, but my scarf and gloves are also missing. A quick inventory of the rest reveals that my wallet is still with me. I’ve been nicked by a stealther. I had stuffed the items into the bag in a kind of tangle, all smushed together. My guess is that the thief just grabbed whatever was most available. In this case, only the clothing came out. The wallet was in a separate pocket inside the bag. I’ll further guess that they were disappointed that they didn’t get anything of real value. Problem is that those things were kind of valuable to me. The hat cost £20, the gloves were somewhat high tech, thin material, lightweight, excellent for travel. The scarf was also selected specifically for its low bulk and high utility. These qualities will all be lost on the thief. I’ll be put to some trouble finding similar items to replace them. Except the hat. It will be a pain in the ass to get another copy of the hat but it can be done with some haste.
For tonight’s dinner the ladies and I are going pubbing in the same neighborhood as The Oval so I can buy another copy. The ladies go onward to The Fitzgerald while I go to The Oval to get another hat. After a successful hat purchase, I meet them at the Fitzgerald. It turns out that this pub is a poor choice for a number of reasons, the first one being that it smells like something that had once walked the Earth died in a dark corner a couple of years ago and hasn’t yet been discovered by the cleaning crew, if such crew exists. Not wishing to investigate, we bounce ourselves across the river to O’Connells. This is a winner. We order what we think might be small plates but no. We are slammed with huge plates of food. CK orders cottage pie. It is loaded with mashed potatoes. She can’t eat it all. Marie gets a quart of soup and a gigantic stuffed potato. I think I’m avoiding heavy food by ordering a BLT wrap. It is literally a ham sandwich with minimum L and no detectable T. I order chips instead of salad, but they bring both. Lila told me yesterday that for bacon, USA style, we must specify ‘streaky bacon’, otherwise we’ll be served a slab of ham. I have another pint of Guinness before me and that means having another go at Splitting The G and this time I technically manage it. I didn’t hit it on the nose like Lila did last night but the beer level did intersect. I claim victory.
But…. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Acquiring a souvenir hat required 3 attempts over two days. Replacing the rest of what was stolen will likely require some shopping in Germany because I suspect I will truly need a scarf and gloves in Norway.
Now, this time the weather man literally promises rain all day tomorrow. We may choose to be very lazy indeed.
Dublin – April 18
CK has us installed in a nice hotel. One of the benefits is access to a good gym, which I’ve been using since we arrived. Not that I do heavy workouts, mind you, I’m too old for that. I will, however, try to maintain some form of reasonable muscle tone with weights and isometrics. I’m only mentioning this because the gym here is enormous and equipped to accommodate world-class athletes. Perhaps fancy futbol and rugby teams check in here. I don’t know but they’d feel at home if they did.
I may have mentioned previously that breakfast at the Davenport presents another opportunity for overfeeding. I’m resisting it only partially. It feels like I am grazing my way through Europe already and we’ve still got 21 days to go. My breakfast order is a pot of tea and brown toast. Even that seems like I’m overdoing it.
Speaking of excess, today is kind of celebration of it. The ladies want to have another ‘afternoon tea’, the kind including sandwiches with the crusts cut away, macaroons, scones, sponge cakes, brownies, truffles, cupcakes, etc. CK actually booked it three days ago at the Shelbourne Hotel. This really is a 5 star swank pit where the flowers aren’t plastic and the servers wear waistcoats and ties. Linen tablecloth and napkin, multiple forks and spoons meant for touching specific food items, upholstered chairs, and leather settees. The salon even has a name, The Lord Mayor’s Lounge. I’m pretty sure I don’t belong here but there’s a chance they won’t kick me out if I behave. I need to get a good set of photos for the benefit of our dear friend, 11 year old Helene who we’ll be seeing soon in Leipzig. She is a big fan of tea parties, dressing up, having fun, and being awesome.
At breakfast, I asked CK if she booked a tea service for me. I know that if they bring three servings, 3 layers tall we’ll be overwhelmed by cakes. At max we’ll only need two servings of that stuff between the three of us. Today the weather is messy and we’re on foot. The rain isn’t pelting but more like a drizzle with muscle, a mist that means business. Without an umbrella you’ll get a soaking but that doesn’t stop the locals from beaming on without even a hat. As we arrive at the Shelbourne we’re quite a damp trio even with the aid of bumbershoots. No worries, they show us to a corner table, a perfect spot for people watching. Roisin (pronounced Rosheen) is our charming server. Our tea and cakes are brought forth directly. I order a salad instead because I know I’ll be getting some of the cakes the ladies won’t be able to tackle. As expected everything is tikkity-boo. All consumables are in prime order. My salad is terrific. Roisin gives us some information on the room, the most interesting is about the Easter Rising in 1916, precisely 109 years ago, when tea was being served to the swells here. Across the street in the park a battle between the Irish and British soldiers was taking place. The revolution had begun. Everyone kept their seats until a bullet broke through a window and flicked a fascinator off of a lady’s head. The staff quickly moved everyone to another room away from the fighting where they continued their afternoon tea service.
After tea, we’re off on foot through the drizzle again to a museum dedicated to Irish Emigration, diaspora, that sort of thing. EPIC is its name. If booked early enough they offer a genealogy search for pinning down ancestors. CK and Marie have some names they’d like more information about. I also have an Irish Great GF. I only know his name but nothing else. No date of birth, no location. We’re curious to know if they’ve got anything but we couldn’t get a booking in time. We’ll have to do with examining the displays and collecting more nuggets of history. The presentation is a very modern, multimedia production. I expected a warehouse of antique relics, the kind that museums usually have but this wasn’t anything like that. This was a story about Irish emigrations and the impact it had in Ireland and the countries where the diaspora settled.
We also have a tour of what was called a coffin ship, The Jeannie Johnson. This is an example of a square rig sailing ship that carried cargo from the western hemisphere to Ireland. On its return voyage it booked aboard emigres for profit and ballast. Typically, 30% of those who sailed on these boats died from typhus or cholera on the 6 week voyage across the Atlantic. The J Johnson was unusual because all the passengers it ever carried survived the trip. An Irish ship owner who cared, a competent skipper, and an excellent on-board doctor teamed up to keep the passengers healthy.
After a short rest back at the hotel, we’re off on an actual pub crawl. We start at the Shelbourne bar because Marie floated the idea of coming back for a martini before hitting the pub. Brilliant. This place is busy and loud with chatter but we squeeze in at the bar. Tom is our server. He fixes us up with martinis featuring Irish Gunpowder Gin served with a very welcoming demeanor. The gin does its work and we are well enough lubricated to continue the crawl.
CK and Marie made dinner plans before noon because who knows where the next meal is coming from? They want another pub experience and why not? This is our last day in Ireland and who knows if we’ll ever come back. The first idea is to plunder O’Donoghue’s Bar. It features Irish musicians but there’s no telling what that means. We’ve learned that this can present a wide variety of results. Culinary expectations are reduced because the food will stand in stark contrast to the 5-star fare consumed at the Shelbourne. It will be grub. A short trek through more drizzle, brolly in hand, brings us to the pub. All pubs are different and this one is very different than anything we’ve seen so far. It is a true watering hole. A rabbit warren of rooms, snugs, passageways, and barrooms. And it is packed, standing room only. There is nothing going on in here but folks draining a glass of something alcoholic. There’s no food to be had. No musicians, either. Marie asks a barman in a remote corner if there’s good pub food nearby. He recommends Nesbitts the next block over. We’re out of there.
Nesbitt’s is another one of Dublin’s seemingly countless Victorian pubs. This one dates from 1828. Much of it survives as originally built. This joint is also packed. It must have to do with the fact that this is Good Friday, the very start of a 3 day weekend and people are overjoyed to have more than two free days ahead of them. The staff here are super friendly, and service is fast and attentive in a superior way. Our pints and food come immediately. We all agree it is some of the best pub food ever. I have a seafood chowder, Marie has soup & bread, CK has cottage pie. Excellent. As they say here, ‘good craic’ (good crack). That means ‘had a good time’.
Back in the hotel lobby we say goodbye to Marie since she will be on her way back to Massachusetts tomorrow while we move on to Germany. We’ll be gone before she wakes up.
Last note: We learn that there is no Easter Parade in Dublin. This Sunday, there will be a parade, but it will be in commemoration of the 1916 Easter Rising, the Irish revolt against the British which is regarded as the beginning of the long struggle for Irish independence.
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