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.  

Day 19 - The Incredible Zany Ineffable Opentop Bus Tour

Yes, I said in London "why do a tour?", especially one of those open top bus tours. I studied history at university and literature - a large part of this was of the English variety hence I was well equipped to explore London on my own initiative. Dublin is a different story. I know James Joyce hung out here for awhile before heading to the continent. Yeats is Dublin's darling poet. Guinness, Kilkenny. But what else do I know about Dublin, let alone Ireland? I therefore submit to an open top bus tour.

As opposed to most of these tours  I am given commentary by the actual driver, and not a cheap pair of plastic ear buds that keep falling out and a pre-recorded voice that is out of sync with where you are. The tour is acceptable. I must go to the Guiness Factory, Trinity College, the Jameson Distillery ... The Writer's Museum. For most of the circuit I'm the only one aboard. In Sydney you see a lot folks cruising through Pyrmont atop these red double deckers. This could be frustrating: I worked in Pyrmont and seeing these people cruise past as if there wasn't anything else to do in the world made me, well, want to hop on.

The driver points out a statue of Oscar Wilde, reclining in gaudy clothes and grinning at the house where he lived before he left Ireland to become part of the English establishment.

I hop off at O'Connell St, the main thoroughfare north of the Liffey and have a beer and meal at the pub chain Madigans. A typical Irishman of the last generation recounts tales of the town. I can't understand a word he says. Yes he's got a thick Irish accent, but he's drunk more than camel at a refuelling stop on route to Mecca through the Sahara carrying seven bags of trinkets while draped in five Persian carpets for sale at the bazaar. One thing I do understand. His round blue eyes sparkle when he says, "Better get a taxi if you're heading to Lower Gardiner - that place is a bit rough. Rather be safe." He sways. "Wouldn't want to see you" - he rocks back and forth - "knifed would I?" This statement is accompanied with an upward stabbing action. "This city has drug problem."

I take my leave during a pause in his ramblings and eat a hearty Irish stew. Later I forget his advice, luckily without consequence.

Day 19 - My abode for a week

Lower Gardiner St is my destination after hopping off the airport bus. Aren't these airport buses and trains convenient. London's is of course the best, costing less than three pounds. Sydney's? Daylight robbery at $15.

As I make my way to Lower Gardiner St the road side becomes increasingly strewn with rubbish, the pavements covered in fresh spittle; the gait of the pedestrians is tough. They're all walking with homey purpose, wearing trackies or hoodies like apprentice gangsters. This doesn't look promising. I can't find my guesthouse either. In fact, there is no sign of a guesthouse at the number I'm seeking. Next door there is. I try there and am greeted by a friendly middle aged man who proclaims he owns both guesthouses, the once nextdoor being without signage. However as there are problems with the shower in the room I was to originally stay, I am given a small upgrade.

South of the Liffy it's a bit cleaner

 I have a few difficulties piercing his Irish accent and at one point show him my hearing aids and ask him to speak up. He admits he's also got a hearing loss and needs aids - he says his loss is about 75% but he must be exaggerating a little. Either that or he's an expert lip reader.
"Are you lip reading?" I ask him.
He leans forward. "What?"

The furnishings inside are markedly different from the scrappy street below my window. Opposite is a church, classical style with five pillars, Mary atop the pediment. Every second person who passes the church crosses themselves.

Day 19 - Rub a dub Dublin

I get to Edingburgh airport without a hitch and am glad I upgraded my accomodation from dorm to single room. Yes, I'm getting old. Nothing worse than rising in the morning and having to pack your things in the dark so you don't wake any groggy Australian tourists.

But at the airport I'm unaware of EU regulations. I chuck out by Bic disposal razor when I don't need to. You see, these orange Bic disposable razors are the best you can get and beat any quintuple blade Gillete by a far shave. Those stupid multi-blade razors always get facial hair stuck in them and are designed to cut you after three shaves to make you replace the blade. But those cheap-as-chips Bics? Smooth and comfortable. But this is a travel blog not a men's grooming site. Suffice to say I lost my last precious Bic.

Little did I know that no liquids over 100ml are allowed on EU flights and any under this amount must be sealed in plastic sachets. Those fucking terrorists have made life so hard. I almost throw away the whiskey I've bought for a friend, but the security attendant informs me that I can check the whiskey in and expedite my way through security the second time.

I follow her directions and skip the security line-up. But I'm confronted with a burly shaven blonde boofhead standing after the scanning gates who gets his kicks feeling me up. I mean, a quick frisk is acceptable, but once he starts juggling my balls he's crossed the line. Yes, they are my gonads dickstrap, not sacks of cocaine.

The flight to Dublin is most pleasant. Seeing the Irish coastline edge its way into view is a treat. The disembarkation is smooth, and there is no one at customs asking me if I have anything to declare, to which I would have to reply, a-la Oscar Wilde, "only my genitals."

Day 18 - Come Aussies come Aussies come

Third day of the tour and we get up close and personal with Loch Ness, although no sign of the monster. Our guide is adamant there is something in the loch, and is equally adamant that it's not a monster.
"Aye, I'm sure there's something there, but it's not right to call it a monster. It's not a monster," he says with the Scottish downward inflection.
"Are you sure it's still there?" I query. "The legend of the Loch Ness Monster has been around for a while. The monster might have died of old age."
"It's not a monster."
"That may be the case," I think to myself, "but if it can't show its slimy neck to a bunch of hungover Aussie tourists then it's lost my sympathy." Then again, maybe it hasn't been paid by the warders of the loch, or quite reasonably it doesn't like Aussie tourists.

Our cries of "come Nessy come Nessy come," are not heeded. The chant our guide shows us has gestures that resemble a rugby haka - perhaps the Scottish rugby team could adopt it. I can see the Wallabies quivering in their boots as the Scotch cry, "Come Aussies come Aussies come!"

At the end of the tour we're invited to contribute to the visitor's book for the amusement of "the ladys in the office." I inscribed these lines of doggerel:

     In the Highlands wild and windy cold
     Goes Busabout with tourists bold
     Mostly Aussies, a Brit and a San Jose,
     In unison we all shout AYE!
     Yay Aye it is more whisky please
     In the Isle of Skye we did not freeze
     But kilted Joe did warm our hearts
     With lusty tales from these old parts.
     Aye aye we sang, "come Nessy come",
     And stood on the field of Culloden,
     We also saw the Wallace tower
     Cometh the man cometh the hour.
          Bye snowcap peaks
          Farewell ye lochs
          Adieu bog peats
          Hello warm socks.