Day 25 - From Crypt to Coquetry

Chloe is sitting on the plinth under the O'Connell statue, nibbling at a sandwich when I approach at 10:32. In the days of mobile phones and instant updates we have managed a rendez-vous without exchanging digital identities.

There are no fixed plans for the day, other than visit the Guinness Storehouse (a revisit, for me). We begin our wanderings aimlessly, as all wanderings should be. They lead us to Christ Church Cathedral, steeped in history: the crypt goes back a thousand years. It is this, of course, which we enter. Like all old subterranean places should be, it is dusty and musty, the ceilings are low, the lighting is feeble. A curator flits behind pillars, one eye on the mysterious guests who are really just two naive tourists. There is a coffee shop in the corner. Tables lie next to relics, no one is seated. Why not have tea in the crypt or filter coffee? Or enjoy a scone near the Rat and the Cat? We don't. It would have to be the gloomiest  place to have coffee imaginable, ensconced by those grey brick supports, served by an old lady who emerges from the shadows once in awhile to chat with those who have seen the light of day, recently.

Admirers of relics should of course visit this foreboding dungeon. It is the biggest crypt in Ireland and Britain. You feel the weight of history, and the cathedral, pressing down on your soul.

Where else to go next but the complete opposite? The Guinness Storehouse and its rarefied Gravity Bar, where the best views of Dublin may be  imbibed with a pint of black liquid.

Chloe makes a good co-tourist. We're both equally curious and occasionally prone to losing each other. We enjoy many sweet silences - I find this is rare with people, these days. Maybe because the first thing a lot of people do when silence ensues is whip out their phones. Chloe takes two sips of her complimentary Guinness then hands it to me. She nibbles on another sandwich, smiling occasionally. Gazing out the window on a beautiful sunny day looking at the myriad of houses, smoke coming from their stacks, is as refreshing as the drink in hand.

As the afternoon ambles onward I mention to Chloe that I want to see one of Dublin's most cherished landmarks, the statue of Molly Malone. All legends have their variations, and Molly has assumed mythical status in Dublin. The statue was unveiled in 1988, but the legend of Molly goes back 400 years. Was she real or not? Chaste fishmonger or urban whore? Or both? Whatever she was, I lose no time posing for a discreet photo shoot next to the well-endowed bronze woman.

The sun reclines, and we head back to our respective B&Bs. Although I get Chloe's email, it is obvious that after a delightful day we are unlikely to see each other again. She is off to the north west tip of Ireland to protest against logging of protected trees, or something like that. It was good to have company. Friend for a day, memory for a lifetime.

I walk up Gardiner Street, enter my temporary abode, close the curtains, and have an early evening siesta.

Day 24: Recollections in the Temple

Yes, you've guessed it. I'm not actually travelling any more but writing this blog from memory. A year later! My photos serve as a guide. Will I ever finish this log of my travels? Eventually. But in a sense I'm still travelling. I pulled up stumps in Sydney recently and moved to London, so much did these travels influence me. But I will try to recall the rest of these voyages - the next 40 odd days in fact, before moving on to my pilgrim's progress in the big smoke that is London.

Day 24 was a quiet day - initially.

After sending my affairs back to Sydney, I wander around aimlessly, as is my wont, until I enter Dublin's famous Temple Bar district. I pick the nearest random pub, plug myself into a chair, and listen to the successive folk musicians who play upon the stage to an audience who can both drink, chat and listen at the same time - all with respect. Songs range from love of Dublin, love of history, love of love and each musician strums with heartfelt emotion and total absorption in their art.

During a break between musicians I drag out my notebook and begin jotting the day's memories. I notice a young girl with brown hair and a neat curved fringe doing what surely is the same thing. I summon the courage to approach her. She is from Normandy, her English is sparse but commendable, and she more than wants to talk. She is pretty (is anyone from France not?), even with the yellow overlapping teeth, and very sweet in the way she searches for English words - "What is it I want to say? Ah, arrgh, drat! drat. Nevermind."

My delightful chat with this welcoming French girl - and we must have talked for at least an hour - is cut short, because I query a couple of blokes buying some creamy looking shots. "What are those?"

"They're good. Want one?"

Only fate knows if this was a good or bad decision. I agree, and they join our party. I have lost the exclusive company of Chloe, but gained a creamy shot.

They are from all over the place - one is from Italy, one from Spain and one is Irish with impeccable French. He and Chloe converse in total fluency for a while. The trio are beta-testers, and not for business programs. They have the job that many of us lads would sell our soul for - testing computer games. Work comes and goes, but at the moment they are trying to break a first person shooter. How fun would that be? Spending your day trying to run through walls, blast pipes with a BFG, falling 100 feet just to make sure you die.

Everyone goes outside for a cigarette. Everyone in this group smokes. I join them. After all, I am a social smoker! Even if that means I'm sometimes having a social cigarette ... by myself. The conversation continues over beer barrels for tables. Another guy, travelling alone, joins us. He is from Germany, has massive black hole earrings, tattoos on neck, arms and legs, facial piercings. He is an alternative dude who is soft and sweet. Chloe takes an instant liking to him. Later on I find them inside, legs interlocked, deep in shallow conversation. If only I hadn't agreed to that shot.

Last drinks are called and we all part amicably. Chloe and I agree to meet tomorrow. She hasn't seen the Guinness Storehouse and I have an extra day on my ticket. We'll meet at the statue of Daniel O'Connell, 10:30 tomorrow morning.

Day 23 - Packing up stuff

I wander about aimlessly on Day 23, but do achieve an important objective. I mail some of my stuff back home. You see, the Australian dollar is doing so mighty fine that I'm buying too much - especially clothes - and my suitcase is rapidly threatening to become a big bulging black bag about to burst. It's pretty heavy too.

So I grab meeself a cardboard box from Dublin's central post office on Connolly Street - a historic building in itself - and head back to my room to see how much I can fit inside it, or, I should say, cram inside it. 

To my surprise and great relief, I can fit about half my clothes, some of my shoes, and extra stuff I thought I'd need, such as a spare pair of gloves, a spare beanie, spare socks, extra jumpers etc. I get the feeling I'm going to miss some of this stuff when I go to Paris. But now I don't care, there's a lot I can buy with the good exchange rate.

I fold the box into a cube that any geometrician would be proud of, tape it with that ugly brown masking tape and, hi ho, walk down Upper Gardiner Street to the post office. It takes me a while to fill out the customs declaration form. Declaring a set of socks takes up so much space there's almost not enough room to mention  'half filled notebook', and I have to leave out 'pretty blue woollen scarf'. The form asks you to be precise with dimensions, so if I was packing underpants I'd probably lie.

I stroll back to the B&B, liberated as one who has divested themselves of life's sundries. I imagine my box on a journey of its own - by van, crane, ship ... I could write "A Blog of the Box" - but don't worry, I'll spare you.

Day 22 - The Gravity of drinking Guinness

Arguably the most famous tourist attraction in Dublin is the Guinness Storehouse. The approach to the storehouse conjures all sorts of steampunk fantasies.

A few friends who have been here pointed out that although it is a must see, it is also a glorified marketing exercise for Guinness. The first three floors talk you through the making of this great stout. I plead ignorance on the intricacies of brewing booze. The manufacture of whiskey and stout seem have a lot in common. I believe one of the prime differences is the roasting of barley that gives Guinness its distinctive black and creamy texture. Arthur Guinness certainly turned beer making into an science and art.

The elaborate exhibition contains a waterfall emphasising the importance of water and a trellis of climbing hops which have climbed at least five metres up the wall!  There is a bewildering array of pipes and valves, a veritable maze of tubing. I am reminded of the complex mechanisms of the Tower Bridge in London. The age of the technology looks similar here, and just as complicated - human ingenuity at its finest. Maybe some of the pipes are just air-conditioning vents or simple plumbing. Who knows? 

 Nineteenth and early twentieth century technology was as mind-blowing then as technology is now, and perhaps more aesthetically pleasing.

Further up is a whole exhibit devoted to the history of Guinness advertising. The retro posters give a sliver of insight into 20th century values. These posters are more artistic than ads today. They aim to get messages across simply and are from an age before theories of advertising (and persuasion) had matured. Many pubs display posters like these as collectors items. They may seem strange and dated to us, but that was popular culture back then.

At the very top of the Guinness Storehouse is the Gravity Bar which offers the best views of Dublin. Unfortunately, by the time I reach the top night has fallen. But when I get my complimentary Guinness the bartender advises me to keep my ticket and come back during the day, for this is a sight that is not to be missed.

I linger over my Guinness and chat to a couple of girls who plan on going clubbing tonight. Am I getting too old for that? The bartender informs them of some of Dublin's best nightclubs and I bid them farewell - they've got to go home first and spend two hours - yes two hours - getting ready.

Day 21 - Monks and Magic

My open-top bus tour ticket lasts three days, with free travel on Dublin buses. I better make use of it! I embark towards Trinity College, Dublin, home to the legendary Book of Kells - an 8th century illuminated manuscript of the gospels and a 'must see' according to a Sydney Morning Herald travel feature. Founded in 1592, Trinity College is Ireland's oldest university, and is certainly older (by several centuries) than any building in Australia. Needless to say, the university has a grand, schoolmaster British majesty about it, the like that my imagination conjures when reading Tobias Smollett or Samuel Butler.

Before viewing the actual Book of Kells you are treated to an exhibit which relates its twelve hundred year history and summarises calligraphy, ornamentation and illumination. Why do they call it illumination and not just illustration? The scribes let their imagination run riot. A simple "b" beginning a paragraph could become a twisted tree with a saint peering from its bows. Elaborate title pages are like medieval versions of Where's Wally or Animalia. The variety of pigments range from lustrous green, yellow and red to lapis lazuli.

After the comprehensive history of illumination, spanning more than six rooms, you finally reach the little chamber where the actual codex is on display, housed inside a glass covered table barely two metres square. After all the beat up this is a bit of a let down. Only two folios are on display at any one time - a full page illumination, and a page of latin calligraphy. Very pretty. 

The exhibit is still well worth going to. The Book of Kells is not the only medieval codex on display. Trinity College Library is in possession of several illuminated manuscripts, and although these might not have the same mystique and legendary tale of intrigue, theft and monkish heroism, they are yet impressive and important relics.

The exhibition entry also entitles you to have a squizz in The Long Room, repository of many rare books. Oh to be a librarian amongst these musty tomes, allowed to pass beyond the ropes where us lay tourists can only stare, letting our eyes wander up the ladders to shelf level Q where the pages of some three hundred year old alchemical treatise remain closed to mortal eyes, and have not tasted air since an itinerant scholar in black robes retrieved it from the shelf many centuries ago - only to realise it wasn't the 17th century gardening almanac he was seeking after all.

Venturing down this 200 metre long hall with its  dark vaulted ceiling makes you scratch your head in wonder, and its aisles and its old tomes has any book collector salivating, eagerly anticipating his next adventure into an antique shop in the hope he may acquire a book as old and rare as one of these ... you can easily see where writers like Terry Pratchett and JK Rowling find inspiration for their unseen universities and gothic magic schools.

I would provide you with a picture of the library ... but no photos are allowed, not even without flash ... of course this didn't stop some naughty German tourists turning and taking a few snaps as they walked down the exit stairs, much to the annoyance of a nearby guard.

Day 20 - Expert Whiskey Tester

A fellow traveller on the Scotland trip had remarked that at the beginning of the Jameson Distillery tour, wait for the guide to seek 10 or so volunteers for whiskey tasting. I keep my arm cocked, ready for the question, and when she asks, "I need 10 people for whiskey tasting at the end of ...," my hand shoots up before her sentence is complete.

Having already been to Bells Distillery I'm eager to reinforce the whiskey making process. An expert can tell a good batch of barley merely by looking or feeling a grain, although this takes ten years experience. Then there's the washing, the mashing, the roasting, distilling and maturation in casks.

Some of the casks have glass covers, allowing you to behold the liquid's rich copper colour. These casks were initially full. The longer a whiskey is left to mature, the greater the evaporation - hence you can see why mature whiskey is more expensive - it takes longer and there's less of it left!

  

* * *

The whiskey testers-elect take their places on the long bench, observed by the rest of the tour group (perhaps wishing they'd also had foreknowledge of the ultimate taste testing). Three shots are laid before us.

"There are no right or wrong answers," we're told. "I'm going to ask you questions about look, smell and taste. The three samples are Scottish, American and Irish."

Apparently the point of the exercise is to gather feedback for the distillery's benefit.

I adjudge the American whiskey (or bourbon to be more accurate) as having the best smell, but kindly judge the Irish as having the best taste. Perhaps I'm a bit harsh on the Scotch - the Irish like to say their whiskeys have none of the smokiness that marks Scotch, but this is one of the pleasures of Scotch - a full, peaty palate. 

Nonetheless, I am now an expert whiskey tester! 

(... and a little bit tipsy ...)

Day 20 - Writers Museum

I rise early enough to acquit myself of the free breakfast, although early risings are increasingly a struggle. The host of the B&B prepares a passable bacon, eggs and sausage, giving me enough carbs to support the long walks I invariably undertake as a traveller. When you're exploring a new city, an hour's walk is a stroll in the park. New streets and boutiques, different fashions, houses the like you've never seen with gaudy coloured doors flanked by classical pillars (my host has a poster of 'Dublin Doors' in the lobby). 

Nothing looks far apart on a tourist map.  Around the corner is the Writers Museum and this is where I immediately head. It's actually a half hour walk but this takes me through what I think is Chinatown in Dublin - at least there are lots of Asian eateries and mobile phone stores. At one of these stores I ask for an international sim card but the seller can't clearly explain the benefits of the card he offers me. I'm used to Lyca or Lebara which give you international calls from 1c a minute. As the shopkeeper really can't say anything more than that the card fits in your phone and works, I decline his offer.

The Writers Museum is in John Jameson's old house and this is good place to start my day as I'll go to his  distillery later. An audio tour is included in the admission price - I've tried to avoid these as they usually don't say anything more than what is written on the placards. And it's a bit antisocial walking through a museum holding a black box to your ear.

Just what should one find in a writers museum? Indeed is it worth having museums for writers at all? Behold tourists, come and read about writers, see their relics, typewriters, unpublished masterpieces scrawled on table cloths.

The Irish Writers Museum is quite handy for me because apart from patches of Joyce and Yeats what else have I read of Irish flavour? I know of Shaw, haven't read him. I've read a fair bit of Wilde but he's only Irish-born, spending his professional years in London before his exile to Paris. I learn that Joyce also took a similar path, believing a writer shouldn't confine himself to a particular culture - at the age of 22 Joyce left Ireland for the continent. Yeats was more parochial, searching out Irish identity, confounding Dublin's Abbey Theatre over a hundred years ago.

The musuem has Joyce's old piano in the centre of one of its rooms and although of course it's locked, I'm tempted to touch it, to feel the very wood of this inspired man where he passed his more leisurely hours. For some reason I refrain, though I'm the only soul in the room and the piano literally begs for an idolatrous caress. Perhaps I believe that if I ever make something of my writing it's not going to be because I touched Joyce's piano.