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.
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.
