Caliban – Opinion and Righteous Anger

After charming Dalkey, Dublin (Áth Cliath) was something of a disappointment. It’s clearly a great place if you’re looking for effervescent nightlife, but if you’re there hoping to find breathtaking architecture on every corner or an abundance of pleasant walks through leafy scenery, well, then I hope you like nightlife, too.

Dublin is expensive; bafflingly so. I can see that the nightlife would be very appealing to some, but I see too little else to justify the stratospheric price of accommodation there. It really is extraordinarily expensive.

Incidentally, Ireland, in general, is very expensive; due in no small part to the high rate of VAT. About the only thing that is cheaper here than back home is petrol, priced at about €1.35 per litre.

We stayed at the Shelbourne, a luxury hotel in the heart of the city on St. Stephen’s Green. The room, 370, was very comfortable, with a kingsize bed and enough room for a roll-away bed for Eloïse. The bathroom, too, was very nice.

If you fancy a splurge whilst in Dublin, I can highly recommend the Shelbourne. The staff are friendly, there are free cakes and lemonade at reception — nice while you’re checking in — and the prices are reasonable, given the grandeur of the surroundings.

More or less my only complaint with the hotel — and it’s one that I have with a great many hotels these days — is the extortionate price of WiFi. At €20 for 24 hours, they really are taking the piss. That’s half a month of DSL in most countries.

Given that every major city now has many cafés that offer free Internet access, it’s nothing more than a convenience to be able to access the Internet gratis from one’s hotel room. In that regard, it’s high time that hotels offered free access as a courtesy. Some do, of course, and ironically, it’s usually the cheaper ones.

My one other complaint about the Shelbourne: it has a very stupid concierge. I’ll spare you the details.

We spent most of our two days in Dublin just walking around the city, getting to know it.

Trinity College has some nice architecture, but we didn’t fancy queueing or paying for a chance to file past the Book of Kells in lightning tempo. Therefore, we remained in the grounds outside.

The River Liffey is uninspiring, as are the buildings that line its banks. There’s really very little one can say about it.

Dublin’s architecture failed to capture my imagination. The aforementioned Trinity College is a notable exception, as is the Irish Bank, but even the Georgian buildings around St. Stephen’s Green and the surrounding areas (such as Merrion Square) fail to impress; their flat, featureless brick walls failing to find redemption in the less austere and brightly coloured doorways.

One thing that’s hard to fault about Dublin is the food. We atre very well throughout our stay. A notable plug goes to The Farm on Lower Dawson St. for its delicious organic food, although the desserts were surprisingly lacklustre. Not everyone agrees that the food is good.

A better bet for dessert is Busyfeet, whose sandwiches make them a good bet for lunch, too. To wash it all down, a cup of their cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso is heartily recommended.

For dinner, I recommend Odessa on Dame St., whose comfortable couches and dim lighting will have you completely relaxed by the time your food arrives.

It seems as if every building in Dublin now plays host to at least one person loitering outside, smoking. This has the effect of turning the city into one gigantic concrete ashtray. Every time you take a step in any direction, cigarette smoke fills your nostrils. It’s as if the anti-smoking laws have turned the city inside out: you now have to enter a building to avoid the smoke. The streets and especially the café terraces are now the preserve of malodorous nicotine addicts.

It’s good to see the capital city of any country, but it will come as no surprise to you to learn that I wouldn’t want to live in Dublin. If only it were more visually attractive, I could forgive it most of what else is wrong. The truth is, though, that it’s just too much of a concrete jungle. There is too little greenery and the busy, traffic-clogged streets are too reminiscent of London. Driving through Dublin can be hellish, as we discovered today when it came to leaving.

Apart from a few pedestrianised areas, the streets are also very unfriendly to pedestrians. Many busy junctions have no pedestrian crossings, and many others are burdened by traffic lights that require the patience of a saint. Almost everyone crosses on red, because waiting for green means needing a haircut by the time you get to the other side.

On the way out today, we drove along Merrion Road, through the well-heeled area of Ballsbridge. I had seen a few multi-million euro homes in an estate agent‘s window and was curious what that kind of money buys you in Dublin. The answer: not enough.

Again, it’s hard to understand the appeal of Dublin, which must be huge to justify such monumental housing prices. I don’t see it myself, but perhaps I just need to spend more time in the city, perhaps in the company of locals, who can show me a side of the city I’ll never know as a tourist.

I wouldn’t rule out a return visit, but it won’t be high on my list.

I meant to mention this.

I spotted this on the side of a firm’s van, while we were driving from Penryn to Cardiff.

Hyperbolic advertising has long since departed from the realm of the reasonable claim, but this tops everything, don’t you think?

“Passionate about your laundry”? When? Before cleaning it? Whilst cleaning it? When sniffing it? After it has been cleaned?

Even one’s own missus or mother is not passionate about our laundry, so how can some group of hired hands claim to be, just because they’ve been given the thankless task of getting the skiddies off our grundies for financial gain?

‘Passionate’: It’s one of those once precious, yet now awful words that have been hijacked by the business world and redefined to mean ‘someone who actually gives a shit about the job he’s doing and takes pride in delivering a high quality product’.

Admirable, but it’s hardly passion, is it?

I really don’t like the idea of someone being passionate about my laundry. It makes me fear that my smalls may come back more in need of a wash than when I entrusted them to the other party’s care.

Ugh.

Today, we went back to where it all began for me: Dún Laoghaire and St Michael’s Hospital, the place where I was born.

From there, we drove to Sorrento Road in Dalkey (Deilginis), the site of the family home at the time I was born; and therefore the first house I ever lived in.

This is the very house that my father, Tony, came back to 41 years ago, expecting to find my mother and me still living there, as we had been doing. Only, the family had recently left the house without trace and it would be another 41 years before Tony finally managed to track me down again. Bizarre.

Tony was with us and it was quite an emotional moment for him to stand side by side with me outside that house.

Tony directed us around an area known locally as Paddywood, a play on Hollywood and the home of Ireland’s rich and famous, including Bono, The Edge, Enya and Van Morrison.

The sun shone pretty much all day, which was perfect for enjoying the views across the sea from Dalkey.

Later in the day, we visited the Church of the Assumption, which is the church where I was christened.

We’re heading off for two days in Dublin next, after a fantastic stay with the new family here. We probably won’t have any access to e-mail whilst in Dublin.

The last couple of days have brought better weather.

We went to the beautiful historic site of Glendalough (Gleann Dá Loch) yesterday, which was basking in glorious sunshine. Glendalough is the site of a glacial valley, but there are also monastic ruins, lakes and other interesting features.

Parking took a while, as the site is incredibly popular with locals and tourists alike. Eventually, though, we did manage to park and then went to visit the ruins. Afterwards, we walked to the upper lake, which was flanked by beautiful, tree-studded hills.

Today was overcast, but very warm. We went to the village of Avoca (Abhóca), which rose to fame as the setting for the old BBC drama series, Ballykissangel.

The village itself isn’t terribly interesting, but it’s also the site of the oldest working woollen mill in Ireland, owned and run by the Avoca company, a.k.a. Avoca Handweavers. We had a good lunch at the mill’s café and bought a couple of lamb’s wool throws at the shop.

After the scenic drive back, we took Eloïse to Greystones beach, which she had been patiently asking for all day. A quick trip to the playground finished off the day and we returned home to a lovely dinner, prepared by Oma Bernie.

Our trips out and about have only spanned a few hours each day, leaving the larger part of the day for chatting and getting to know my half-brothers. Eloïse, too, has revelled in getting to know her uncles. She has warmed to them very quickly and loves to kick a football around the lawn with them.

Tomorrow will be our last day here for the foreseeable future. On Wednesday, we’ll make a short hop northwards to the Irish capital, Dublin, and continue our journey there.

Penryn to Cardiff was an unpleasant drive in torrential rain. It literally didn’t stop for a single moment. There was an accident on the M5, too, which slowed us down somewhat, but we arrived in Cardiff (Caerdydd in Welsh) in good time anyway, at about 14:15. Lucas slept the entire way.

Once at out hotel, we checked in and then went out again, to see what we could of the city. It continued to rain all afternoon, I’m sorry to say.

The next day, the weather was better, so, after a hearty breakfast, we went to the very well preserved Cardiff Castle. We managed to see all of that before the rain returned, leaving the afternoon free for ducking in and out of Cardiff’s many Victorian arcades, which add quite a bit of character to an otherwise pleasant, but not terribly striking city.

Friday was the next big travel day, this time from Cardiff to Kilquade in Ireland, via the Fishguard to Rosslare (Ros Láir) ferry.

The drive to Fishguard was nice, passing through rolling Welsh hills and valleys. The occasional tractor formed the only annoyance. Again, Lucas was asleep for the entire journey.

The 3.5 hour ferry crossing was very pleasant, with surprisingly good food (albeit served slowly), activities for the children and — most importantly of all — calm waters.

On the Irish side, Lucas immediately became fussy and so we had to stop a number of times to sooth him.

We finally pulled into the driveway of Opa Tony and Oma Bernie’s house at around 20:45. There was much excitement, so both Eloïse and Lucas ended up going to bed much too late, as, indeed, did their parents.

Meeting my three half-brothers was, of course, a unique experience. Eloïse is already warming to her three new uncles and enjoying the antics of Opa Tony.

The weather here isn’t any better than in England and Wales, but, undeterred, we went for a long walk today around the neighbouring town of Greystones (or Na Clocha Liatha, as it’s known in Irish) and its south beach.

Greystones is a pleasant little town, about 27 km from Dublin and in possession of most if not all of the things that our travelling party needs to survive: a good coffee shop, tasty baked goods and organic food. It’s a good place to start the Irish leg of our tour.

We’ll hang out here with the family for a few days before moving on. Nothing is planned for either the stay here or the days following it; we’re still playing everything by ear.