Our flights were uneventful;
sitting four across for the long jaunt felt cozy. In the wee hours, my teen
daughters rested their heads on my shoulders, peacefully snoozing. Wading
through Irish customs was a bit of a frenzy, ably handled by a good-natured
guard, who kept us moving. “Don’t let that real estate (space in the cue) go to
waste,” he’d chatter, nudging us onward. His Irish accent was disarming. Didn’t hurt that he broke open packages of bottled water so the 45
minutes were tolerable. After all, we were exercising body parts frozen with
the imprint of airline seats.
The next hurdle was
finding transportation. Not just any means, mind you, but the most local: the
city bus. It was neither easy nor intuitive. After two attempts, I located the airport tourism office stuck
behind a sprawling, modern bar. Drink before anything, Dublin seemed to cry. The
city buses were just as hidden, revealed
by an obliging Dubliner. We found they tend to go out of their way to
share their city.
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| My girls @ Kilronan House |
We eventually boarded the
comfortable double-decker for 3 euros each. It was priceless to watch my girls drink
in the people and scenery; opportunities they would have missed aboard the
plusher, more expensive, tourist buses stationed directly outside the baggage
claim.
Forty-five interesting
minutes later, we disembarked, just a few blocks from our inn, Kilronan House, not
quite as pristine as depicted online, but quirky, welcoming and authentic. After a quick lesson on the virtues of
Dublin, we headed out. The city has been designated a Unesco literary site with
references everywhere. My goal was to please ALL of us: food first, shopping
for the girls, Guinness for my husband and history for me.
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| New friend Alli from Austrailia in the Duke Pub |
We cut through St.
Stephan’s Green, which one daughter likened to Central Park and much more
encompassing than on the map or Google Earth, on our way to refreshment at the
Duke Pub. Highly recommended by a stateside friend, the Duke is just off
Grafton Street, Dublin’s main shopping thoroughfare. Bustling with a late-lunch
crowd, we plopped ourselves down next to Alli from Australia. She’s touring
Europe on a four-month gap trip between discovering that nursing is not for
her, but teaching is. She’s an Oscar Wilde fanatic, so I couldn’t wait to tell
her that my daughter and I had fought over who was going to buy the thrift-store
copy of “The Portrait of Dorian Grey” Tuesday before we left. We’re both mad to
read it – especially, after Alli’s endorsement. We bonded over beers and a bit
of a delight in the dark side and some conversation about sacred sights. In
fact, we unexpectedly met up again just outside the Book of Kells. I had
mentioned it and given her my brochure. This was the thing I wanted to do most
in Dublin; well beyond sipping a freshly drawn Guinness.
My fresh-salmon sandwich
arrived sans the bread as I had requested but smoked. Still, it paired well
with a black-and-tan: Guinness and Smithwick’s. The rest of the clan ordered
sandwiches, ample, simple and accompanied by hearty sides.
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| Construction at the Book of Kells |
Sean, the efficient
Kilronan manager, confirmed the illuminated manuscript at Trinity College was
open until 5 pm, so I wanted to head there after filling our tanks. “Due to
construction, we’re closing the Book of Kells early today, in five minutes,” the guard taunted
me. “I am only in Dublin today,” I pleaded. “You still have time, but you have
to pay. It’s up to you.” No decision, I sped up to the ticket desk and quickly
texted my family to wait outside. It was not the liesurely visit I had
anticipated. I even cleared space to view alone what people unmoved by other religious
artifacts declare as deeply spiritual. I missed reading the subtext and
accompanying material, instinctively finding the two pages at the heart of the
exhibit. In my rush, it took a few minutes to warm up to what I was seeing,
becoming present and beginning to feel its energy. The pages were flipped to John
1:1
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
I was stricken. For months, I have
been struggling with what this concept of word truly means to me. I understand
my visit will be a clue, but only when I have time to silently contemplate its
meaning Not on this trip – at least not until Paris when I have planned a
one-night pilgrimage to Sacre Coeur. My experience at the Book of Kells
reflects what a woman from Wisconsin told Alli yesterday: “Ireland is a place
the veil thins.”
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| Coffe and cheap eats at the Buttery in Trinity College |
We scored a coffee in Tinity’s
cheap-meal Buttery cafeteria, then watched a snatch of a cricket match.
After covering sacred
ground, it was time to hit Temple Bar even though a well-meaning local re-directed
us to St. Patrick’s Park. “There’s nothing but bars at Temple Bar,” she noted.
For us, that was the point. I can not
imagine more pubs per square foot (ok, meter) anywhere else in the world. I
have a nose for sniffing out authentic taverns I fondly refer to as dark bars.
Not many make the mark, but I walked through four that superbly complied. I flitted through one
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| Great Irish Music at Oliver St. John Gogarty's |
Leaving the lively scene,
we followed winding side streets to Christ Church Cathedral, where the faithful
have worshipped for almost a thousand years. This medieval section of the city
was fascinating. We continued on the trail of cathedrals, brushing past St
Patrick’s on our way back to the guesthouse to rest. While others snoozed, I
grabbed my laptop to recapture the day. Instead, I learned a lot about the
Catholic-Protestant conflict and finer points of stag parties from a Canadian
father and son on a guys’ drinking-and-golfing holiday. I had encountered the
stag-and-hen party phenomena when searching for hotels. While alluring, I opted
for a peaceful rest at the Kilronan Inn.
Our receptionist offered me a real Irish coffee and I settled in to
start this post.
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| Christ Church Cathedral |
After the others
awakened, we journeyed out for a very late dinner. So late that the pubs were
not longer serving and we settled on tasty Persian lamb and chicken at a chain,
Zaytoon, then picked up a few groceries for our ferry-train trip the
following morning across the Irish sea, Welsh and English countryside to
London.
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