Dustin
Day 9: Anniversary Offal
Macey and I had discussed a Bloomsday trip as far back as 2015 (she for the joy, I for the Joyce), and it felt good to finally wake up on June 16th and be in Ireland. To have it also be our first anniversary? I couldn’t have planned such perfection!
Macey’s mom, conveniently, had a seminar to attend this weekend, so we had the day all to ourselves. Our wander-quest began at Phoenix Park, the largest city park in Europe and home to the Wellington Monument (a key figure in part of Finnegans Wake). We wove our way through unexpected palm trees, discarded clothing, and spectacular flowers, and began our long walk along the Liffey.
At high noon we were due at the James Joyce Centre for a celebratory breakfast, and I had thought that we could use the interim to stroll throughout Dublin to get our brains in the proper Joycean mindset. Naturally, we decided on a whim to try to sneak in a whole ‘nother event, and we found ourselves hustling along an industrial side street to take a tour. We had to pay homage to the patron of Dublin, the financier of St. Stephen’s Green, the ur-brewer himself, Arther Guinness!
The Guinness Storehouse is a truly impressive visitor’s center. The interior architecture and floor-planning are not only beautiful, but also extremely well thought out. If you’re ever there, it’s absolutely worth it, despite being such a high-traffic attraction! We got a dose of Sigaty luck at the pour-your-own sample bar when the woman ahead of us announced that she hated Guinness and that we were welcome to her pint. Score! Off we scampered then, with our perfect pours, up to the top floor for panoramic views of dear, dirty Dublin.
Fact of the day: Guinness’ characteristic flavor and color (which is actually a deep ruby red) come from the barley, which is roasted at 232 degrees Celsius.
We gulped our stout as quickly as we could, but we came out of the storehouse in a bit of a dire time crunch. Fortunately, there was a cab waiting right outside, and we had a lovely chat with the driver on the way about Irish politics, unjust imprisonments by the English, and the former red light district known as Monto. We gave him our thanks, he tipped his hat, and we hopped out just in time for the noon group to be invited inside. Excellent!
Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
So spat “Leopold Bloom” into my (tolerant, wonderful, and open-minded) bride’s face during lunch, shortly after the fried kidneys were served to accompany our full-Irish plates. The food was fabulous, the dramatic readings and songs were performed well and with gusto, and we even happened to be dining with high Irish officials: Senator David Norris and the taoiseach himself! After the entertainment quieted down, we exchanged our anniversary presents to one another. Much to our amusement, it turned out that we had both bought them, sneakily, at the gift shop near Yeats’ grave. We truly are on the same wavelength!
After breakfast, we explored the museum part of the JJC. I found the description of the cramped, hectic conditions in which Joyce wrote rather inspiring, as it’s so easy to get caught in the trap of needing “ideal conditions” for inspiration to strike. This all would have been a pretty satisfying way to celebrate our anniversary’s co-holiday, but my (tolerant, wonderful, and open-minded) bride consented to a presentation of more readings and music at Wolfe Tone square. Little did she (or I, for that matter) know, the readings would go on for a solid three hours. Their quality was worth the commitment, however, and at the end she felt almost like she had read the book as well. Our Senator friend made an appearance for a reading; evidently, he has also worn the hats of thespian and Joyce scholar in his life.
Refueled by ice cream, we headed back to the riverside promenade (of which I will never have enough) to absorb more Dublin ambiance. We spent a good deal of time watching the trials of one tenacious seagull as he tried, over and over, to abscond with a carcass that was probably just a tiny bit too much for him to handle. Every time it seemed like he was home free—splash!!—back into the river the limp meat would tumble, and again he would float along with it, carefully positioning his beak in the hope that this time, it would be the right way. After many attempts, he let the mystery victuals float off and flew on in search of easier prey. Released from the spell, we went off to seek our own nourishment.
One pub date at O’Shea’s later, we kept wandering the streets, through Trinity, down Grafton street, and finally running into “Leopold Bloom” at Davy Byrne’s, enjoying the well-deserved drinks being stood by his friends. He apologized for not being in character, but I found him to be rather convincing as Bloom even so.
We took the DART out to our remote suburb and had a final romantic walk along quiet, green streets. If this is what anniversaries are like, I sure am glad that we get to have so many more together!
Day 10:
Since we weren’t able to on our actual anniversary, we let ourselves sleep in the following day. After a lazy checkout, we started up Killiney hill in pursuit of natural beauty on our way to the tower at which we were engaged. Home to such folk as Enya and Bono (near whose house I played my whistle frantically, in the hopes that he might be sitting on a balcony and have a moment of confusion), the views are spectacular, but I don’t think the residents habitually walk up and down. Near to death, we were reinvigorated by a little old man who passed us going the opposite way. “Don’t lose heart,” he said with a chuckle, “you’re almost to the top, and it gets easier then!” Another thing that helped was drinking a couple of the Guinnesses that we were carrying… to lighten the weight I was carrying, of course.
Hitting the park part of the hill, we immediately made the risky choice and ascended what we named that “advanced path,” brambling up a semi-path overgrown with needly bushes and very steep. It was hard (especially after the walk was already so intense) but it was very gratifying when we finally saw the first of the “follies” (a pyramid, a tower, and a “witch’s hat”) that crown the hill. Macey knew which way to go thanks to the “bread crumbs” of snacks falling out of the now-ripped bag I was hefting through the wilderness.
We took longer than we should have, as always, and rushed to the James Joyce Tower so we could revisit the site of our engagement, only to find a surprise: only their winter hours are listed on Google. We had plenty of time! (That’s a hot tip of the day: many attractions throughout the world change their hours seasonally, and not all of them are hip enough to let Google know. Double check when timing is critical!) The tower was a bit busier than it had been in October 2016, but it was just as interesting (probably more so for Macey, after her deep foray into Ulysses) and beautiful as it was before. Exhausted after our hike and full of happy memories, we sat down on a bench on the beach to wait for Macey’s mom to pick us up after the conclusion of her seminar and decided to drink another beer and eat all of the snacks, mostly to punish them for having made me carry them around all day.
That evening we found ourselves in the well-preserved medieval town of Kilkenny. Many were skeptical of our blasé attitude towards planning (or not planning) parts of the trip, but our first night with nowhere planned to stay was a smashing success: directly next to the parking spot we found was a B&B, and they had received a cancellation that day which meant there would be room for us. Hot dog! Down the street, we supped heartily at Matt the Miller’s, regaled by a talented trad band with an inspirationally good whistle player. I was particularly impressed by a three-song medley that included Wagon Wheel, of all things.
Macey’s mom wanted to rest and Macey wanted to get some things done, but I wasn’t ready to go in, so I got a bit of solo recharge time to cap the evening. I watched the band until they started looping their set, then walked the dark streets of Kilkenny, thinking of The Pogues and, eventually, playing the whistle to no one on a bridge with a view of the castle. The moon was cold and bright.
