As a previous entry suggests, yesterday I spent hours sitting in the park—St. Stephen’s Green—but I also spent some of that time wandering around, looking at flowers and fountains and the lake and ducks. There’s a stone footbridge curving over the lake, where a painter had a canvas on an easel (looked like the painting was more or less complete) and where lots of people stopped to admire the view. There are a couple of spots where big rocks overlook the lake, but unfortunately a railing prevented me from climbing on the rocks and sitting there, dangling my feet just above the water. I guess the city doesn’t want to be responsible for drownings. It’s funny, given what other parts of Ireland are like. It reminds me of that windy and rainy day we trudged around the Dingle Peninsula, climbing over slick stone walls to look at really old ruins. Well, actually, the 7th century oratorium isn’t a ruin—it’s been kept up for all these years. Amazing.
Anyway, from the park I wandered a bit through Temple Bar and saw street musicians and such, did not find the Internet juice café I used nearly two weeks ago, went back to the hostel and inquired about the Internet room, but it turns out the system is down, but there’s an Internet café down the street and around the corner on Parliament Street. So I went there—E2 per hour, but without the friendly service and nice ambiance. And no juice. I might try Temple Bar tonight and check my flights online. That sounds like a good idea.
It’s after 9 am, and I’m hanging out on a bench in the Archbishop Ryan Park, the one with the Oscar Wilde Memorial (the “Fag on a Crag”). The first tour of Oscar Wilde House is 10:15 am, so that’s why I’m in this neck of the woods.
All street lights in Central Dublin are friendly toward the blind. When the light has a red standing figure meaning “don’t walk,” there’s a slow and steady, deep beep. When it’s time to walk, and you see a walking green figure, there’s a sharp sound at first, like an SF lazer pistol, followed by quickly frantic beeps. It I think gets slower as it turns to a yellow standing figure.
Many pedestrians plunge into the street when the light is red, but that’s a good way to get hit by a bus. There have been a couple times I’m crossing the street and I see a bus coming right at me. Fortunately, because there are so many tourists, many streets have, painted in white at the edges of the crosswalk, an arrow and the words “Look right” or “Look left.”
The Dublin Writers’ Museum
In the Land of Youth
Irish Fairy Tales by James Stephens
Mary Lavin (1912-1996)
Brendan Behan—the drinker with the writing problem.
Elizabeth Bowen
Kate O’Brien (1897-1974)
Children’s literature:
Ella Young (1867-1956)—Celtic Wonder Tales (1910)
The Tangle-Coated Horse
Patricia Lynch (1898-1972)—The Turf Cutter’s Donkey
Meta Mayne Reid—The McNeills at Rathcapple
With Angus in the Forest
(And just what were ye doing with Angus in the Forest?)
Ellis Dillon—The Island of Ghosts
The Spirits of The Attic—Mary Arrigan
The Spirits of the Bog--ditto (She must be a very spirited writer.)
Banshees, Beasts and Brides from the Sea –Bob Curran
Truly Wilde: the Unsettling Story of Dolly Wilde, Oscar’s Unusual Niece by Joan Schenkar (Looking at just the cover photo, I thought I was looking at a female version of Oscar Wilde—the resemblance is that strong.)
The house that houses the Dublin Writer’s Museum is quite beautiful. It’s from the 1760s and was originally an Anglo-Irish aristocrat’s house and later home of whiskey-related Jamieson. There’s a wrap-around staircase with an extremely high ceiling from which hangs a big lantern, and over the stairs are two huge stained glass windows, with a fanlight at the top, and they date to the mid 1890s. Most of the rooms have molded and painted ceilings, and there are chandeliers here and there. After you go upstairs, you can wander into the library, which is mostly painted blue (lightish) and has very tall dark wood g lass-doored bookcases full of books by Irish writers. Then the other major room in that part of the house is the gallery of writers, which looks like it should have been a ballroom, but instead it was originally two rooms and the wall between them was taken out and replaced with Neoclassical, shiny goldish marble columns. It has crystal chandeliers, one in each half, with the wall moulded painted gold—it’s pretty much a white and gold room—and the windows are almost as tall as the room—which like the others has about a fifteen-foot ceiling. Rugs lie on the floor, two elaborate black fireplaces containing large bouquets of realistic flowers (some eucalyptus, so it’s probably combo of silks and dried). The room is circled with large gilt-framed portraits and bronze busts on pedestals—all, of course, Irish writers. Also, this is the room where I saw the one-woman 50-minute production of Irish Writers Entertain courtesy of the Irish Actors Theatre Company. It’s every day, seven days a week, at 1 pm, and I rather get the impression that it’s several actors taking turns, so it’s not always Eileen O’Sullivan doing it, although she did a fine job. It includes impersonations and songs, about Irish history.
When I first arrived at the museum, I was in footsore tourist mode, so after paying admission I went back to the café and had a pot of tea and a large scone full of chocolate chips. Afterwards, I took the audio tour, interrupting it to see the little play and then going back to the audio tour.
Now I’m at the Garden of Remembrance, right in front of the museum. There’s a curving patio off the street, with some bright flowers and a brightly painted blue and gold railing, and steps I haven’t gone down yet (though I intend to) that lead to more flowers and benches down below, and on the other end a flight of stairs leads up to a statue that I’m going to visit in just a bit.
I didn’t mention that from here I can see the writer’s museum. It’s actually 2 18th century mansions right up next to each other, with red brick facades and tall, skinny windows and ironwork balconies and big chimneys. Looks like typical Dublin architecture, but it’s more interesting inside.
Also, the Writer’s Gallery has “Fates” figures painted with a gold background, on the ceiling and on panels of at least two doors. Metallic gold background, that is.
It’s a bright sunny day and in the seventies—I was sweating by the time I walked all the way to the Writers’ Museum. This morning I walked from the hostel to Merrion Square, where I wandered around the park until about 10. Unfortunately, the notice on the door at A1 Merrion Square, Oscar Wilde House, stated that there will be no tours today, not till Wednesday! This was, like, a major reason for me to go to Dublin. Grrrr. Well, at least I saw it from the outside. But it's not as if I'm likely to return to Dublin, at least not for a very long time. I have so many other countries to visit.
After that disappointment, I walked through Temple Bar and stopped at Celtic Note, the music store, to find out if they’d found the North Clegg Cd, but no such luck. I did find pencils for my coworkers at one of those cheesy touristy shops, and also got a couple tiny bottles of Harp Lager. I then kept walking, across the Halfpenny Bridge, to O’Connell Street, up Abbey St., and I found the Busaras Bus Station that I need to get to in the morning, so I then went on to the Writer’s Museum, after a brief rest at the feet of Daniel O’Connor. The statue, that is. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve walked five miles today.
Later--
After my little occupation at the Garden of Remembrance, I went all the way back to the hostel (after walking through huge crowds, mainly on O’Connell Street, which has nasty fast food and arcades and stores more than anything else) and got the new password for the room (oddly I couldn’t find my original slip of paper—it must have fallen out of my pocket, even though I’m wearing my cargo pants) and got up to the room, where I dropped off my shopping bag from the museum and my raincoat and took my bottle of sunscreen with me to the rest room at the bottom of the stairs, where I freshened up and refilled my water bottle. Finally, I headed for the Queen of Tarts, the café that Bob said was really good for lunch (and I had said, “Oh, and what about dinner?” and I got a sarcastic comment about dinner should be just as good, unless they change cooks)—but it turned out they only serve breakfast and lunch, so dinner isn’t just as good. It was still just barely open, and she did say I could get something to go, so I got a couple of potato cakes and found a little grocery store-like shop where I bought cranberry juice, a banana, and a mint chocolate Cadbury bar. I then proceeded to the grounds of Christ Church Cathedral, but they chase people off the grounds at 7 pm. Oh well—I had a little bit of time sitting on the steps leading down into the foundations of an older church, rather fascinating thing in front of the cathedral. I wonder if this was unearthed in the 20th century.
Now I’m on a stretch of grass in sight of the cathedral, separated by an alley. Bad timing—some guy was yelling at a woman in the alley, and a couple of cops came along, and when the cops were done breaking that up, they came onto these grounds and were talking with a couple of young women—making me wonder if they’d be chasing off everyone here, but they walked off with those two, so I don’t know what that was about. So much for ambience during my dinner. Everyone was watching—there are several people here, as if it’s a public park, although it rather looks like the grounds of the butt-ugly government office building that’s on top of an ancient Viking treasure. I should have brought a shovel.
Since I’m not having a leisurely meal, maybe I’ll go wander around Temple Bar, although I’ve walked so much today that I don’t feel a lot like wandering, and I don’t feel like walking all the way back to the Gate Theatre to see the American play View From the Bridge (which I saw at the Rep during my Webster days), so I’ll go to Temple Bar, and at some point I’ll hopefully find that Internet café I used previously. I could also have some tea.
Showing posts with label Dublin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dublin. Show all posts
Monday, August 8, 2005
Sunday, August 7, 2005
The Importance of Being Earnest
Abbey Theatre, Dublin
Oddly, the Abbey doesn’t allow patrons in till a quarter till 8 (and the performance is scheduled for 8 pm). So I wandered around the building—there are paintings as you go upstairs to the balcony and bar, and there are paintings all around the room upstairs. Some are by John Yeats (W. B.’s dad), such as the portrait of Lady Gregory. (At the National Gallery today, I saw similar portraits, because I went to the Yeats gallery.) I eventually sat down and continued reading the Dublin book Liz lent me, until it was just about time and I went downstairs, bought a program from a cute boy, and sat down: three rows back, dead centre. If I had been in the front row, I would have been at knee level, but I liked where I was, because I got a good look at detail. Costumes, costumes, costumes!
Scenery: a French café at the turn of the century, when Oscar Wilde has gotten out of prison and is living in poverty and experiencing writer’s block. It is a colorful, whimsical, Art Nouveau sort of café, with floral stained glass windows in curving shapes, a stained glass double door with the naked male figure that’s also on the posters and the program. There are lamps with brightly colored, flower-shaped glass shades. Upstage left is a bar counter and plenty of bottles and glasses. Upstage left are café tables and at the back an ivory-colored chaise lounge and matching cushioned chair. There are several circular café tables covered with pale pink cloths and then green satin tablecloths over the pink. Downstage center was one of these tables, along with a couple of café chairs. Oh, yes, I should mention the curving staircase—to the left and above the double doors. And in front of the chaise lounge were two tall lampposts with coat hooks around them (later serving as trees in the garden scene). Downstage right is one of the café tables, which begins with a peacock sculpture atop a matching peacock-feathered tablecloth.
Rather than a normal start to The Importance of Being Earnest, there’s the framework story with Oscar Wilde at this café at the end of his life. Several attractive young men—prostitutes—are hanging out there and Oscar Wilde shows up, aged, wearing purple velvet and knee breeches and shoulder-length hair as when he was young. He has confrontations with men who disapprove of him, and Frank Norris shows up and sits down with him center downstage. Oscar drinks a green beverage—absinthe—and Frank thinks it’s disgusting. They have a conversation about Oscar’s poverty, and that if he’d only write he wouldn’t live in poverty, but Oscar explains that his writing isn’t about misery (but if he had written after prison, it would be about misery—and I think I should add here that he did write and publish a couple essays concerning prison life, and of course “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”). The conversation is reminiscent of Frank Norris’s biography of Oscar Wilde. They talk about his once-popular plays, and after Frank leaves, so does everybody else, and Oscar is the only one onstage, at the center table, reminiscing about The Importance of Being Earnest, and he begins to recite the first few lines, till the voice of Algernon takes over offstage. Algernon calls his butler, Laine, and next thing you know, Oscar gets up and becomes Laine while Algernon comes onstage talking, and The Importance of Being Earnest has begun in earnest. Somewhat later, when Algernon and Earnest are together and Laine announces Lady Bracknell and Gwendolyn, there’s a somewhat “awkward” moment: a Bosie-like young man shows up instead of Gwendolyn, and he runs into another room, while Oscar/Laine frantically looks around, again announcing the two women, and he grabs off the lounge a green peacock-feather appliquéd skirt, which he proceeds to quickly put on. He goes to the peacock tablecloth, grabs the peacock and tablecloth, and runs out the upstage centre double doors. Waiting for the two women, Algernon and Earnest are starting to look bored and perplexed downstage, crossing their arms and such, and finally, “Laine” is heard offstage saying, “Lady Blackwell and Miss Gwendolyn.” In march, center stage, Lady Bracknell (Oscar) wearing a peacock skirt, a peacock shoulder cape, and an enormous hat with a peacock on it, accompanied by a Bosie-like and very blonde Gwendolyn in a beautiful 1890s dress in yellow and turquoise. (I say Bosie-like, but “she” really looked female, the actor was that pretty.) The audience was laughing and applauding loudly!
The dress that Gwendolyn was wearing in “her” first scene was like something out of a Harper’s Bazaar fashion plate. A yellow floral skirt with a turquoise waistcoat, a yellow and turquoise striped necktie over a white shirtwaist, and over the waistcoat and skirt was the open-fronted dress itself, turquoise embroidered in yellow swirly designs, and huge gigot sleeves. Very mid-1890s, and very like something I’d make.
But anyway, the one complaint I came up with is that Cicely had, well, not really five o’clock shadow, but enough that “she” should have had “her” pale face waxed. Gwendolyn, on the other hand, was convincing as a female, with golden hair in a chignon under a spiffy brimmed hat. The actor had very bright blue eyes and pale skin, and a resemblance to Bosie, Lord Alfred Douglas. Oh, yes, they both spoke in falsetto, unlike Lady Bracknell, who is described as having a Wagnerian voice.
The ending of the play has the framework story again, though briefly. Earnest is saying, “…the vital importance…” and Lady Bracknell/Oscar says, “of being earnest,” in a very earnest voice. Normally, it’s a funny line, but here it becomes sad. The lights dim, characters dance around Oscar and he changes out of his gown and hat and it wearing the purple velvet suit, and soon he and the waiter from the first scene are the only ones on stage. Oscar returns to the central table (I think there’s some change in the set first) and asks the waiter for absinthe. The waiter goes behind the counter and picks up the crystal decanter—it’s now empty of the green liquor, and he politely informs Oscar of this, but mentions that there’s white wine. Oscar takes out a cigarette during this, and the play ends with him lighting a match, lifting it, and blowing it out.
A melancholy and haunting, and more or less nonfiction, framework for an otherwise very comic play. Actually, I’m certain that the writer of this framework first read Frank Norris’s bio on Oscar Wilde, because I recall something very similar in it—perhaps even almost the same scene, since it was a bio with tidbits of conversation between Oscar and his biographer.
Oh, yes—I should mention that there was a second Lady Bracknell costume, similar to the first but even more comical a version of 1890s women’s fashion. It was much the same in construction, but the fabric was a metallic gold, orange, and brown material, with three dimensional silk flowers and leaves and vines attached, curving from the side of the skirt and around the cape, and of course big orange flowers on her brimmed hat. The audience clapped and laughed. This is a show in which the costumes—or at least some of them—got ovations.
I’m still at the park, and that’s the second time I’ve seen a group of three Goth young women in Dublin, whether or not they’re the same ones. I’ve seen a few other individuals who definitely looked Goth, but it seems to be only females—at least in a flamboyant sort of way, as opposed to guys with black sleeveless shirts, tattoos, and many piercings.
My last breakfast with the tour group—at the Trinity College breakfast cafeteria (they have another dining hall besides that)—involved lots of chatting, so that we were at the able well after most of us were done eating. But anyway, the reason I mention this is because the party animal Dave told the group about some kids like in their early twenties, who he and Lynn met at a pub the night before. He said that one of them was so outgoing and talkative that he made Bob look quiet, which I found rather amusing given the way Bob talks (but at least he says really interesting things—he teaches a history class at I forget which college). Dave described these “kids” as wild, and finally he said just to give us “an idea of how wild these kids were,” he explained that one of them had tattoos covering his arms and chest and countless piercings, and there were bumps up and down his arms where—I think where he’d inserted needles. These wild kids were delighted that they were Americans and wanted Dave and Lynn to stay with them all night, but they explained that no, they had to return to their friends. The kids didn’t think they should hang out with other Americans while in Dublin (and by the way these boys were Irish).
Since it’s a Sunday, hopefully there won’t be a drunk coming in and making lots of noise at the hostel….of course, I’m planning on going to bed around 10 pm, so I should get plenty of sleep no matter what happens. Well, unless the building burns down. I shouldn’t come up with such ideas. Anyway, there’s the possibility that, since this is Sunday, lots of people will be getting to bed early, and I’ll still have to climb into bed in the dark.
At least the hostel is very clean—that’s the important thing—I’ve read some scary things about Dublin hostels, such as they tend to be dirty, and then there was Karen’s account of having a hole in the middle of the mattress. Compared to that, I have it easy!
Oddly, the Abbey doesn’t allow patrons in till a quarter till 8 (and the performance is scheduled for 8 pm). So I wandered around the building—there are paintings as you go upstairs to the balcony and bar, and there are paintings all around the room upstairs. Some are by John Yeats (W. B.’s dad), such as the portrait of Lady Gregory. (At the National Gallery today, I saw similar portraits, because I went to the Yeats gallery.) I eventually sat down and continued reading the Dublin book Liz lent me, until it was just about time and I went downstairs, bought a program from a cute boy, and sat down: three rows back, dead centre. If I had been in the front row, I would have been at knee level, but I liked where I was, because I got a good look at detail. Costumes, costumes, costumes!
Scenery: a French café at the turn of the century, when Oscar Wilde has gotten out of prison and is living in poverty and experiencing writer’s block. It is a colorful, whimsical, Art Nouveau sort of café, with floral stained glass windows in curving shapes, a stained glass double door with the naked male figure that’s also on the posters and the program. There are lamps with brightly colored, flower-shaped glass shades. Upstage left is a bar counter and plenty of bottles and glasses. Upstage left are café tables and at the back an ivory-colored chaise lounge and matching cushioned chair. There are several circular café tables covered with pale pink cloths and then green satin tablecloths over the pink. Downstage center was one of these tables, along with a couple of café chairs. Oh, yes, I should mention the curving staircase—to the left and above the double doors. And in front of the chaise lounge were two tall lampposts with coat hooks around them (later serving as trees in the garden scene). Downstage right is one of the café tables, which begins with a peacock sculpture atop a matching peacock-feathered tablecloth.
Rather than a normal start to The Importance of Being Earnest, there’s the framework story with Oscar Wilde at this café at the end of his life. Several attractive young men—prostitutes—are hanging out there and Oscar Wilde shows up, aged, wearing purple velvet and knee breeches and shoulder-length hair as when he was young. He has confrontations with men who disapprove of him, and Frank Norris shows up and sits down with him center downstage. Oscar drinks a green beverage—absinthe—and Frank thinks it’s disgusting. They have a conversation about Oscar’s poverty, and that if he’d only write he wouldn’t live in poverty, but Oscar explains that his writing isn’t about misery (but if he had written after prison, it would be about misery—and I think I should add here that he did write and publish a couple essays concerning prison life, and of course “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”). The conversation is reminiscent of Frank Norris’s biography of Oscar Wilde. They talk about his once-popular plays, and after Frank leaves, so does everybody else, and Oscar is the only one onstage, at the center table, reminiscing about The Importance of Being Earnest, and he begins to recite the first few lines, till the voice of Algernon takes over offstage. Algernon calls his butler, Laine, and next thing you know, Oscar gets up and becomes Laine while Algernon comes onstage talking, and The Importance of Being Earnest has begun in earnest. Somewhat later, when Algernon and Earnest are together and Laine announces Lady Bracknell and Gwendolyn, there’s a somewhat “awkward” moment: a Bosie-like young man shows up instead of Gwendolyn, and he runs into another room, while Oscar/Laine frantically looks around, again announcing the two women, and he grabs off the lounge a green peacock-feather appliquéd skirt, which he proceeds to quickly put on. He goes to the peacock tablecloth, grabs the peacock and tablecloth, and runs out the upstage centre double doors. Waiting for the two women, Algernon and Earnest are starting to look bored and perplexed downstage, crossing their arms and such, and finally, “Laine” is heard offstage saying, “Lady Blackwell and Miss Gwendolyn.” In march, center stage, Lady Bracknell (Oscar) wearing a peacock skirt, a peacock shoulder cape, and an enormous hat with a peacock on it, accompanied by a Bosie-like and very blonde Gwendolyn in a beautiful 1890s dress in yellow and turquoise. (I say Bosie-like, but “she” really looked female, the actor was that pretty.) The audience was laughing and applauding loudly!
The dress that Gwendolyn was wearing in “her” first scene was like something out of a Harper’s Bazaar fashion plate. A yellow floral skirt with a turquoise waistcoat, a yellow and turquoise striped necktie over a white shirtwaist, and over the waistcoat and skirt was the open-fronted dress itself, turquoise embroidered in yellow swirly designs, and huge gigot sleeves. Very mid-1890s, and very like something I’d make.
But anyway, the one complaint I came up with is that Cicely had, well, not really five o’clock shadow, but enough that “she” should have had “her” pale face waxed. Gwendolyn, on the other hand, was convincing as a female, with golden hair in a chignon under a spiffy brimmed hat. The actor had very bright blue eyes and pale skin, and a resemblance to Bosie, Lord Alfred Douglas. Oh, yes, they both spoke in falsetto, unlike Lady Bracknell, who is described as having a Wagnerian voice.
The ending of the play has the framework story again, though briefly. Earnest is saying, “…the vital importance…” and Lady Bracknell/Oscar says, “of being earnest,” in a very earnest voice. Normally, it’s a funny line, but here it becomes sad. The lights dim, characters dance around Oscar and he changes out of his gown and hat and it wearing the purple velvet suit, and soon he and the waiter from the first scene are the only ones on stage. Oscar returns to the central table (I think there’s some change in the set first) and asks the waiter for absinthe. The waiter goes behind the counter and picks up the crystal decanter—it’s now empty of the green liquor, and he politely informs Oscar of this, but mentions that there’s white wine. Oscar takes out a cigarette during this, and the play ends with him lighting a match, lifting it, and blowing it out.
A melancholy and haunting, and more or less nonfiction, framework for an otherwise very comic play. Actually, I’m certain that the writer of this framework first read Frank Norris’s bio on Oscar Wilde, because I recall something very similar in it—perhaps even almost the same scene, since it was a bio with tidbits of conversation between Oscar and his biographer.
Oh, yes—I should mention that there was a second Lady Bracknell costume, similar to the first but even more comical a version of 1890s women’s fashion. It was much the same in construction, but the fabric was a metallic gold, orange, and brown material, with three dimensional silk flowers and leaves and vines attached, curving from the side of the skirt and around the cape, and of course big orange flowers on her brimmed hat. The audience clapped and laughed. This is a show in which the costumes—or at least some of them—got ovations.
I’m still at the park, and that’s the second time I’ve seen a group of three Goth young women in Dublin, whether or not they’re the same ones. I’ve seen a few other individuals who definitely looked Goth, but it seems to be only females—at least in a flamboyant sort of way, as opposed to guys with black sleeveless shirts, tattoos, and many piercings.
My last breakfast with the tour group—at the Trinity College breakfast cafeteria (they have another dining hall besides that)—involved lots of chatting, so that we were at the able well after most of us were done eating. But anyway, the reason I mention this is because the party animal Dave told the group about some kids like in their early twenties, who he and Lynn met at a pub the night before. He said that one of them was so outgoing and talkative that he made Bob look quiet, which I found rather amusing given the way Bob talks (but at least he says really interesting things—he teaches a history class at I forget which college). Dave described these “kids” as wild, and finally he said just to give us “an idea of how wild these kids were,” he explained that one of them had tattoos covering his arms and chest and countless piercings, and there were bumps up and down his arms where—I think where he’d inserted needles. These wild kids were delighted that they were Americans and wanted Dave and Lynn to stay with them all night, but they explained that no, they had to return to their friends. The kids didn’t think they should hang out with other Americans while in Dublin (and by the way these boys were Irish).
Since it’s a Sunday, hopefully there won’t be a drunk coming in and making lots of noise at the hostel….of course, I’m planning on going to bed around 10 pm, so I should get plenty of sleep no matter what happens. Well, unless the building burns down. I shouldn’t come up with such ideas. Anyway, there’s the possibility that, since this is Sunday, lots of people will be getting to bed early, and I’ll still have to climb into bed in the dark.
At least the hostel is very clean—that’s the important thing—I’ve read some scary things about Dublin hostels, such as they tend to be dirty, and then there was Karen’s account of having a hole in the middle of the mattress. Compared to that, I have it easy!
George Bernard Shaw's Birthplace
I walked all the way down to the house where George Bernard Shaw grew up.
Here's the message on a plaque on wall of front facade:
Bernard Shaw
Author of Many Plays
Was Born in this House
26 July 1856
Like in London, these oval plaques on the walls are popular.
After getting up at about 9 am—lying in bed at the hostel and wondering how on earth I’d climb down from the top bunk—I went out to the dining room on the ground floor, and it turns out that they stop serving breakfast at 9 am and the place is bare; there’s only the vending machines.
I walked all the way to Shaw’s birthplace—found it—and it turns out the hours I have are incorrect: they don’t open till 2 pm, like 2-5, rather than 11-5 on Sundays. On the bright side, at least I know how to get here (assuming I come back later) and I saw the vegetarian café Juice on my way over, and it opens at 11 am. By the time I get there, it should be open.
Sunday’s not a good day to be in Dublin—they don’t even have plays on Sunday. Even St. Louis has plays on Sunday, and it’s flamingly Catholic.
In hindsight, next time I’m hanging out alone in a foreign city, and the hostels don’t have single rooms, I’ll splurge and stay in a dorm or hotel, at least part of the time. Just have to spend less on books! Well, not get any souvenirs, probably. Easier said than done.
I suspected that if I got a bed in a dorm room with 16 beds, I’d be with 15 college students, making noise and coming in at all hours, but I didn’t anticipate an obnoxious drunk babbling on and on at one am. I got to the hostel a little before 11:30 pm last night (the play was out at 11), and the lights were on in the room, #118, “the Harding Room” and a few people were asleep or at least in bed. I tried to keep quiet, got my stuff to take a shower, but had to ask for help with the door—you have to simultaneously press the “door release” button and push the door open. It’s really quite easy for me now that I know how.
Julia Kavanaugh (1854-1877)—Irish novelist (portrait in National Museum of Ireland)
After finding that Bernard Shaw’s birthplace would be closed till 2 pm, I sat on the steps and rested for a bit, writing in this journal, and then I backtracked till I came to the vegetarian restaurant called Juice, but it wasn’t 11 am yet, so they weren’t open. Fortunately, I was carrying my bottle of tap water. Ireland does not have drinking fountains. If you order ice tea in Ireland, you’ll be laughed at, as Dave or someone on the tour discovered. If you ask for ice, you might be laughed at, though I don’t think that’s the case in such an urban place as Dublin.
Anyway, I wandered up the street and looked at the store fronts and the 18th century architecture. That South Great George St. has a fine selection of ethnic restaurants—there’s even an Indian restaurant right next door to the Chinese restaurant Good Food.
After Juice opened, I had water (went through two glasses), an incredible glass of “apple juice” that was almost a smoothie and surely contained pineapple, and I had a big salad with cooked tofu in a Chinese sauce. While eating, I read more of Liz’s book on Dublin and noted that the National Gallery opens at noon on Sunday, so I decided to go there and stay till about 2. I did just that but stopped at a couple stores in Temple Bar along the way.
I went back to the hostel for the new (daily) password, sunscreen, and my sunglasses.
I’ve finally been through George Bernard Shaw’s birthplace and took a couple of pictures—I figure since Karen has pictures of Oscar Wilde House for me, it’s OK to not take pictures there. Well, at least, I only have one picture left, so I might do that. It was sort of like a time machine, going back and seeing Shaw’s childhood, of which he didn’t have a lot of nice things to say. Hmm. His mom was a singer and had pretensions.
When watching the film A Man of No Importance, I used to think some of the actors, such as Rufus Sewell, were doing English accents rather than Irish, because they couldn’t get it right. But I was very wrong—Rufus Sewell was definitely speaking with a distinctly Dublin accent. There’s a somewhat annoying young man talking with almost the same voice beyond the next tree.
I’m in St. Stephen’s Green, the most popular park in Dublin, and from what little I’ve seen so far, I much prefer Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park in London. There is a band in the distance—I think I’ll put my shoes back on (now that I’ve rested my sore feet) and go try to find this bandstand….
I did find the bandstand, but I didn’t feel like parking myself there—I went back to this lake that I found on the way, ducks, rocks, weeping willows—very pleasant. Though I’m rather dubious about the background sounds—I can still hear the band at the bandstand, but louder than that is drums—like a parade—coming from the opposite direction, possibly from outside the park, because it’s in the direction of the Fusilier’s Arch. The drums remind me of London, particularly the strange procession similar to a Chinese dragon but with mice masks, by the Thames on the way from the Globe. I think I’m in the mood for rather gentler music.
At Shaw’s birthplace, I had a recorded tour guide [now the band is playing Beatles music] and one of the things the tape said was [Oh, baby ducks!] “Imagine living in a house with no privacy,” and went on to mention servants running up the stairs and such. Yeah, you don’t get much privacy staying at a hostel, either! Not to mention going to a park occupied by so many people. But at least this isn’t my permanent home, and now I finally want to go back to my house and cats, even though they’re in Bigotville. Sometimes I’m really a homebody, like Linda.
I’m hearing Italian accents and Japanese—well, in both cases, they’re speaking their native tongues, not just accents. In some ways, Dublin comes off as a smaller and less impressive version of London. Give me the steep hill leading to the Abbey Cultural Centre in Ballyshannon, or the wind and rain of the Dingle Peninsula, rather than this!
Maybe on the way back from the park I might stop at a café or pub and have tea, but I don’t intend to return to the hostel before 9 pm today, maybe ten. I can take a shower and go straight to bed, and then I’ll be prepared to wake up early the next two mornings. I want to get to Oscar Wilde House by 10:15 tomorrow morning, for the first tour, and the following morning I want to get up really early—by 7—to get to the bus station so I can get to the airport in plenty of time. In fact I might want to find the Busaras bus station tomorrow, after Oscar Wilde House, just so I know the way and don’t get lost on the morning that I’m hopping on a plane. Bus stations and airports make me nervous, really—but I’ll be fine once I’m at the correct terminal.
I’ve concluded that Liz had the right idea in hanging out in Dublin alone before the tour—not to mention staying at the Eliza Lodge--not after the tour and staying at a hostel. After all that socializing, and whirlwind tour, and music, and luxurious hotel accommodations, here I am in a metropolis and staying at a hostel where I feel out of place, since I’m neither in my early 20s nor traveling with friends or classmates. On the other hand, I am in Ireland still, for a little longer, and I’m doing sightseeing during the day—and of course there was the play last night at the Abbey Theatre.
Now the strange drums are accompanied by a horn—or maybe that doesn’t go with the drums. Maybe I’ll walk around to the other side of the lake and see if I can get a good look at the performers—perhaps something like the Kodo drummers.
Here's the message on a plaque on wall of front facade:
Bernard Shaw
Author of Many Plays
Was Born in this House
26 July 1856
Like in London, these oval plaques on the walls are popular.
After getting up at about 9 am—lying in bed at the hostel and wondering how on earth I’d climb down from the top bunk—I went out to the dining room on the ground floor, and it turns out that they stop serving breakfast at 9 am and the place is bare; there’s only the vending machines.
I walked all the way to Shaw’s birthplace—found it—and it turns out the hours I have are incorrect: they don’t open till 2 pm, like 2-5, rather than 11-5 on Sundays. On the bright side, at least I know how to get here (assuming I come back later) and I saw the vegetarian café Juice on my way over, and it opens at 11 am. By the time I get there, it should be open.
Sunday’s not a good day to be in Dublin—they don’t even have plays on Sunday. Even St. Louis has plays on Sunday, and it’s flamingly Catholic.
In hindsight, next time I’m hanging out alone in a foreign city, and the hostels don’t have single rooms, I’ll splurge and stay in a dorm or hotel, at least part of the time. Just have to spend less on books! Well, not get any souvenirs, probably. Easier said than done.
I suspected that if I got a bed in a dorm room with 16 beds, I’d be with 15 college students, making noise and coming in at all hours, but I didn’t anticipate an obnoxious drunk babbling on and on at one am. I got to the hostel a little before 11:30 pm last night (the play was out at 11), and the lights were on in the room, #118, “the Harding Room” and a few people were asleep or at least in bed. I tried to keep quiet, got my stuff to take a shower, but had to ask for help with the door—you have to simultaneously press the “door release” button and push the door open. It’s really quite easy for me now that I know how.
Julia Kavanaugh (1854-1877)—Irish novelist (portrait in National Museum of Ireland)
After finding that Bernard Shaw’s birthplace would be closed till 2 pm, I sat on the steps and rested for a bit, writing in this journal, and then I backtracked till I came to the vegetarian restaurant called Juice, but it wasn’t 11 am yet, so they weren’t open. Fortunately, I was carrying my bottle of tap water. Ireland does not have drinking fountains. If you order ice tea in Ireland, you’ll be laughed at, as Dave or someone on the tour discovered. If you ask for ice, you might be laughed at, though I don’t think that’s the case in such an urban place as Dublin.
Anyway, I wandered up the street and looked at the store fronts and the 18th century architecture. That South Great George St. has a fine selection of ethnic restaurants—there’s even an Indian restaurant right next door to the Chinese restaurant Good Food.
After Juice opened, I had water (went through two glasses), an incredible glass of “apple juice” that was almost a smoothie and surely contained pineapple, and I had a big salad with cooked tofu in a Chinese sauce. While eating, I read more of Liz’s book on Dublin and noted that the National Gallery opens at noon on Sunday, so I decided to go there and stay till about 2. I did just that but stopped at a couple stores in Temple Bar along the way.
I went back to the hostel for the new (daily) password, sunscreen, and my sunglasses.
I’ve finally been through George Bernard Shaw’s birthplace and took a couple of pictures—I figure since Karen has pictures of Oscar Wilde House for me, it’s OK to not take pictures there. Well, at least, I only have one picture left, so I might do that. It was sort of like a time machine, going back and seeing Shaw’s childhood, of which he didn’t have a lot of nice things to say. Hmm. His mom was a singer and had pretensions.
When watching the film A Man of No Importance, I used to think some of the actors, such as Rufus Sewell, were doing English accents rather than Irish, because they couldn’t get it right. But I was very wrong—Rufus Sewell was definitely speaking with a distinctly Dublin accent. There’s a somewhat annoying young man talking with almost the same voice beyond the next tree.
I’m in St. Stephen’s Green, the most popular park in Dublin, and from what little I’ve seen so far, I much prefer Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park in London. There is a band in the distance—I think I’ll put my shoes back on (now that I’ve rested my sore feet) and go try to find this bandstand….
I did find the bandstand, but I didn’t feel like parking myself there—I went back to this lake that I found on the way, ducks, rocks, weeping willows—very pleasant. Though I’m rather dubious about the background sounds—I can still hear the band at the bandstand, but louder than that is drums—like a parade—coming from the opposite direction, possibly from outside the park, because it’s in the direction of the Fusilier’s Arch. The drums remind me of London, particularly the strange procession similar to a Chinese dragon but with mice masks, by the Thames on the way from the Globe. I think I’m in the mood for rather gentler music.
At Shaw’s birthplace, I had a recorded tour guide [now the band is playing Beatles music] and one of the things the tape said was [Oh, baby ducks!] “Imagine living in a house with no privacy,” and went on to mention servants running up the stairs and such. Yeah, you don’t get much privacy staying at a hostel, either! Not to mention going to a park occupied by so many people. But at least this isn’t my permanent home, and now I finally want to go back to my house and cats, even though they’re in Bigotville. Sometimes I’m really a homebody, like Linda.
I’m hearing Italian accents and Japanese—well, in both cases, they’re speaking their native tongues, not just accents. In some ways, Dublin comes off as a smaller and less impressive version of London. Give me the steep hill leading to the Abbey Cultural Centre in Ballyshannon, or the wind and rain of the Dingle Peninsula, rather than this!
Maybe on the way back from the park I might stop at a café or pub and have tea, but I don’t intend to return to the hostel before 9 pm today, maybe ten. I can take a shower and go straight to bed, and then I’ll be prepared to wake up early the next two mornings. I want to get to Oscar Wilde House by 10:15 tomorrow morning, for the first tour, and the following morning I want to get up really early—by 7—to get to the bus station so I can get to the airport in plenty of time. In fact I might want to find the Busaras bus station tomorrow, after Oscar Wilde House, just so I know the way and don’t get lost on the morning that I’m hopping on a plane. Bus stations and airports make me nervous, really—but I’ll be fine once I’m at the correct terminal.
I’ve concluded that Liz had the right idea in hanging out in Dublin alone before the tour—not to mention staying at the Eliza Lodge--not after the tour and staying at a hostel. After all that socializing, and whirlwind tour, and music, and luxurious hotel accommodations, here I am in a metropolis and staying at a hostel where I feel out of place, since I’m neither in my early 20s nor traveling with friends or classmates. On the other hand, I am in Ireland still, for a little longer, and I’m doing sightseeing during the day—and of course there was the play last night at the Abbey Theatre.
Now the strange drums are accompanied by a horn—or maybe that doesn’t go with the drums. Maybe I’ll walk around to the other side of the lake and see if I can get a good look at the performers—perhaps something like the Kodo drummers.
Saturday, August 6, 2005
Dublin, Ireland
We had breakfast in the cafeteria at Trinity College. Even a cafeteria supplies, of course, tea and the ubiquitous little pitchers of milk. The group really parted, and then I dragged my wheeled suitcase down the sidewalk to the hostel, Kinlay House, to check in--that’s if I can at that early hour. I forget, really.
For the hostel, you have to bring a towel. Sounds like a Douglas Adams joke.
Dublin Authors:
Joseph O’Connor (Sinead’s brother)—writes novels, such as The Star of the Sea. What a talented family.
Jennifer Johnston
John Banville
Nuala O’Faolain—author of Are You Somebody
Clair Kirby
Eavan Boland
Roddy Doyle—The Woman Who Walked Into Doors.
Poetry Ireland: www.poetryireland.ie
I wandered around Dublin Castle and went to the Chester Beatty Library and Museum
(Lots of Asian stuff, and most of the stuff there is manuscripts and such) After looking at the exhibit, I went to the little museum shop and got a Tibetan coloring book (gee, I might make my own thangkas using some of these pictures), a catalog of this museum, and a Buddha magnet.
I saw Raj Kunwar—an old Indian romance novel, about a woman who transforms into a deer.
Plaque on a stone wall around Dublin Castle—on the Chester Beatty side (yes, the library is in the compound of Dublin Castle):
No 7 In Hoey’s Court (now demolished) about 100 ft NW of this spot
It is reputed that Jonathan Swift Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, was born on the 30th day of Nov 1667. He died on the 19th day of Oct, 1745 MCMXII
For the hostel, you have to bring a towel. Sounds like a Douglas Adams joke.
Dublin Authors:
Joseph O’Connor (Sinead’s brother)—writes novels, such as The Star of the Sea. What a talented family.
Jennifer Johnston
John Banville
Nuala O’Faolain—author of Are You Somebody
Clair Kirby
Eavan Boland
Roddy Doyle—The Woman Who Walked Into Doors.
Poetry Ireland: www.poetryireland.ie
I wandered around Dublin Castle and went to the Chester Beatty Library and Museum
(Lots of Asian stuff, and most of the stuff there is manuscripts and such) After looking at the exhibit, I went to the little museum shop and got a Tibetan coloring book (gee, I might make my own thangkas using some of these pictures), a catalog of this museum, and a Buddha magnet.
I saw Raj Kunwar—an old Indian romance novel, about a woman who transforms into a deer.
Plaque on a stone wall around Dublin Castle—on the Chester Beatty side (yes, the library is in the compound of Dublin Castle):
No 7 In Hoey’s Court (now demolished) about 100 ft NW of this spot
It is reputed that Jonathan Swift Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, was born on the 30th day of Nov 1667. He died on the 19th day of Oct, 1745 MCMXII
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wandering Around Ireland
Kilmainham Gaol
Kilmainham is a big old stone historic prison in Dublin. Over the front door is a fascinating carved design of a five-headed serpent or dragon. (I have so got to make a sculpture based on it).
The old jail (gaol) is close to the Irish Museum of Modern Art, so we got to drive around this beautiful 18th century building, which was recently fixed up according to the bus driver, Matthew. Behind the museum, we saw a very beautiful French garden, with statues and carefully trimmed shrubs that form geometric pattern, very symmetrical set up. Toward back are two mazes made from shrubs. Front gates—just enough room to get the bus through, dark grey, have upper part of armor on posts on either side of gate. But there wasn’t room for the bus to get to the prison through there, so we had to turn around and use a different route.
In one jail yard, like a courtyard, stones were pulled up, body placed under, and quicklime poured to dissolve the body—make room for more bodies.
Great Famine—jail was crowded, because people committed crimes (stealing) to get in jail so they’d be guaranteed one meal a day. Before it was two a day, but they wanted to discourage people from committing crimes just to get in prison. Didn’t work.
The cells were build for one prisoner each, but sometimes it was overcrowded, like five in one cell during the Famine. 170 cells total.
1921—Three prisoners tried to break out, didn’t work first and second nights. On the third night, one (Mike Mahoney?) decided not to participate because 1) it didn’t work before and 2) he was innocent of the crime and expected he’d be set free after his trial, which was coming up soon. But the breakout was a success the third day, and the guy who decided not to escape was falsely accused by a false witness and hanged.
West Wing—oldest remaining part of Kilmainham Gaol, built in the 1700s, and that’s where DeValera’s cell is—or down the hall.
Room with green fireplace: Charles Parnell’s cell, furniture from his house, fire every day, visitors and his own family. Special because he was politician, wealthy and famous. He was allowed to leave his cell, walk around, even take a walk to the park. When his nephew died in Paris, he was allowed to go out for two weeks, as long as he promised to return. He went for the funeral in Paris, and kept his promise: returned in two weeks.
He attempted to gain independence through nonviolent means, through communicating with the English parliament. His speeches, however, inspired some people to rebel not so peacefully, and that resulted in his going to jail.
East Wing—Victorian, open and airy (looks like Reading Gaol, in the film Wilde). Glass ceiling, like a conservatory. Inside painted white, archways, natural light. Some of the cells have artwork you can see through the peephole—it’s all relevant to the prison’s history (particularly as a political prison—all the rebels of 1916, 97 men, were executed there). One painting was called “When Love Dies” and had as the background full-size white bricks that blended with the wall, and grey, black—that at some point I thought looked like a penis and at some point I thought looked like a chain that was breaking. “Woman weeping” was abstract-ish—face with a hand on the cheek, I think, and mostly in red—and a cloth was draped over half the canvas.
“The Prison Cell”—messy ball of rusty wire/metal, about three feet tall and six feet wide, reminiscent of a nest. Also, in the big open center space, there are metal walkways for each of the three levels, and metal stairs. Spiral metal staircase leading to top level and used for feeding time. With this set up, one guard could keep an eye on many cells at once. Also rolled out a carpet as he moved along so he cold sneak up on prisoners. Some prisoners carved messages over the outside of the cell door, such as the town they came from. One said “To let” and another gave the name of a hotel.
Graffiti decorates many of the cell walls. Steps are generally very worn, some even slanting downward. It took 26 years to renovate starting in the 1940s, but there are still some unsafe places, and some walls in corridors have a derelict, crumbly look. ("I do not like yon Cascius. He hath a derelict and crumbly look." OK, that's not quite Shakespeare.)
Kells
We took a one-hour drive to the town of Kells, where some of us had lunch at the Heritage Centre (tea, potatoes with Mediterranean vegetables). Liz mentioned at lunch: Americans for the Arts has a website that gives statistics on stuff like how many artists in a town.
After lunch, I lost track of where everyone was and wandered up the road. I saw a really old—medieval—round tower in the distance, so I went for it. It was at St. Colum’s Church, build in 1805 and the yard is full of extremely old tombstones, a few of which are high crosses, as in Celtic knotwork. Also, there’s a round tower in ruins (missing the pointed roof) and I drew a quick sketch, since I forgot to put a new disposable camera in my purse and don’t want to ask Matthew (the driver) to open the luggage compartment just so I can get a camera out of my bag. I was concerned about time, because it was an hour by the time we left the Heritage Centre, so I only had one half hour to wander through the town. I met up with a couple more people-Dave & Lynn—and we walked back to the Centre, where they went in for brochures and I sketched the medieval high cross in front of the Centre.
Something I didn’t get around to writing in Dublin: not all Irish people have red or blonde hair. Some have brown or black hair. Some have pink, or maroon and black, or yellow and black. I saw one guy with butt-length blonde dreadlocks. Also, there are Asians and Africans, some English or Japanese tourists, and people speaking what sounds like Slavic languages. Bosnian refugees? This of course all applies to Dublin, not the rest of Ireland.
I just saw a stone hawk with a horse’s head. It was in front of someone’s house.
Here I am writing on a moving bus, tricky as it is, and we’re listening to pretty Irish music. Bob McWilliams, being the radio announcer, bought some CDs in Dublin and is sharing them with us. Later they will no doubt be on the air, and I might even turn on the radio and recognize them. Dave joked that he could do his radio show right here on the b us. Bob also mentioned that he’s already recorded Sunday’s show in Kansas.
Bush=Terror
(Graffitti on back of highway sign—I had to smile, glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed that Shrubco is the most dangerous terrorist organization on the planet.)
The Iron Mountains—visible from the bus, not as high as the Rockies, but beautiful. A big one is flattish.
Enneskellin
We’re in Northern Ireland! Duck! Just kidding. No wonder I saw a British flag on top of a tower down the highway; that sort of weirded me out. Dave didn’t announce that we’re in Northern Ireland (by the way) until after we’d passed that flag.
Royalist flag: white background, red cross, white star in center with red hand, British crown above star and small British flag in upper right corner. These flags and British flags fluttering on many street light poles—every bloody pole. Showing off loyalty to England. Enneskellin is very Protestant and Royalist, but Dave said this isn’t as militant about it as other towns in Northern Ireland.
It’s just as well that we’re just passing through on our way to Ballyshannon, because this place gives me the creeps. To think my psycho relatives make such a big deal about our Irish ancestry, when this is where my Scotch-Irish ancestors came from! But then, that’s the side of the family that I am utterly disenchanted with—weird that I could have been brainwashed about relatives for all these years. For that matter, it’s gotten so anymore it’s hard not to be ashamed of being white. Sure, I know we’re all a part of this planet and everyone is part of the human family, but this attitude I've recently developed is thanks to Shrubco, Bigotville, and my Evil Stepfamily.
Ballyshannon
Last night, still in Dublin, we arrived at the Cultural Center—a beautiful yellow Georgian house—and went downstairs, through a room, upstairs, etc, like it was a maze, till we were in the balcony of an auditorium. When we went through what looked like a living room, there was a lovely fireplace and I could smell a peat fire (and see it) for the first time. Strange, smoky/earthy scent. (Actually, later Dave explained that that was a particular type of wood fire, not peat. So much for that.)
We just arrived in County Donegal—a yellow house had green words painted on the facade: “Welcome to Donegal.”
“79 people killed on Donegal roads in 2004”—sign we just passed, right after talking about the perilous road.
Stuck in traffic just outside of Ballyshannon--street sign ahead:
Beal atha Seanaidh
Ballyshannon
The first person to use the bus toilet was Matt the judge, and at least one person took a picture of him opening the door, amidst much giggling. We’ve been on the bus a bit too long. Noel took a picture, and Dave (not the guide, the other Dave) said, “We know what you really want to take a picture of!”
Ballyshannon is the oldest town in Ireland (according to the welcome sign).
Kilmainham is a big old stone historic prison in Dublin. Over the front door is a fascinating carved design of a five-headed serpent or dragon. (I have so got to make a sculpture based on it).
The old jail (gaol) is close to the Irish Museum of Modern Art, so we got to drive around this beautiful 18th century building, which was recently fixed up according to the bus driver, Matthew. Behind the museum, we saw a very beautiful French garden, with statues and carefully trimmed shrubs that form geometric pattern, very symmetrical set up. Toward back are two mazes made from shrubs. Front gates—just enough room to get the bus through, dark grey, have upper part of armor on posts on either side of gate. But there wasn’t room for the bus to get to the prison through there, so we had to turn around and use a different route.
In one jail yard, like a courtyard, stones were pulled up, body placed under, and quicklime poured to dissolve the body—make room for more bodies.
Great Famine—jail was crowded, because people committed crimes (stealing) to get in jail so they’d be guaranteed one meal a day. Before it was two a day, but they wanted to discourage people from committing crimes just to get in prison. Didn’t work.
The cells were build for one prisoner each, but sometimes it was overcrowded, like five in one cell during the Famine. 170 cells total.
1921—Three prisoners tried to break out, didn’t work first and second nights. On the third night, one (Mike Mahoney?) decided not to participate because 1) it didn’t work before and 2) he was innocent of the crime and expected he’d be set free after his trial, which was coming up soon. But the breakout was a success the third day, and the guy who decided not to escape was falsely accused by a false witness and hanged.
West Wing—oldest remaining part of Kilmainham Gaol, built in the 1700s, and that’s where DeValera’s cell is—or down the hall.
Room with green fireplace: Charles Parnell’s cell, furniture from his house, fire every day, visitors and his own family. Special because he was politician, wealthy and famous. He was allowed to leave his cell, walk around, even take a walk to the park. When his nephew died in Paris, he was allowed to go out for two weeks, as long as he promised to return. He went for the funeral in Paris, and kept his promise: returned in two weeks.
He attempted to gain independence through nonviolent means, through communicating with the English parliament. His speeches, however, inspired some people to rebel not so peacefully, and that resulted in his going to jail.
East Wing—Victorian, open and airy (looks like Reading Gaol, in the film Wilde). Glass ceiling, like a conservatory. Inside painted white, archways, natural light. Some of the cells have artwork you can see through the peephole—it’s all relevant to the prison’s history (particularly as a political prison—all the rebels of 1916, 97 men, were executed there). One painting was called “When Love Dies” and had as the background full-size white bricks that blended with the wall, and grey, black—that at some point I thought looked like a penis and at some point I thought looked like a chain that was breaking. “Woman weeping” was abstract-ish—face with a hand on the cheek, I think, and mostly in red—and a cloth was draped over half the canvas.
“The Prison Cell”—messy ball of rusty wire/metal, about three feet tall and six feet wide, reminiscent of a nest. Also, in the big open center space, there are metal walkways for each of the three levels, and metal stairs. Spiral metal staircase leading to top level and used for feeding time. With this set up, one guard could keep an eye on many cells at once. Also rolled out a carpet as he moved along so he cold sneak up on prisoners. Some prisoners carved messages over the outside of the cell door, such as the town they came from. One said “To let” and another gave the name of a hotel.
Graffiti decorates many of the cell walls. Steps are generally very worn, some even slanting downward. It took 26 years to renovate starting in the 1940s, but there are still some unsafe places, and some walls in corridors have a derelict, crumbly look. ("I do not like yon Cascius. He hath a derelict and crumbly look." OK, that's not quite Shakespeare.)
Kells
We took a one-hour drive to the town of Kells, where some of us had lunch at the Heritage Centre (tea, potatoes with Mediterranean vegetables). Liz mentioned at lunch: Americans for the Arts has a website that gives statistics on stuff like how many artists in a town.
After lunch, I lost track of where everyone was and wandered up the road. I saw a really old—medieval—round tower in the distance, so I went for it. It was at St. Colum’s Church, build in 1805 and the yard is full of extremely old tombstones, a few of which are high crosses, as in Celtic knotwork. Also, there’s a round tower in ruins (missing the pointed roof) and I drew a quick sketch, since I forgot to put a new disposable camera in my purse and don’t want to ask Matthew (the driver) to open the luggage compartment just so I can get a camera out of my bag. I was concerned about time, because it was an hour by the time we left the Heritage Centre, so I only had one half hour to wander through the town. I met up with a couple more people-Dave & Lynn—and we walked back to the Centre, where they went in for brochures and I sketched the medieval high cross in front of the Centre.
Something I didn’t get around to writing in Dublin: not all Irish people have red or blonde hair. Some have brown or black hair. Some have pink, or maroon and black, or yellow and black. I saw one guy with butt-length blonde dreadlocks. Also, there are Asians and Africans, some English or Japanese tourists, and people speaking what sounds like Slavic languages. Bosnian refugees? This of course all applies to Dublin, not the rest of Ireland.
I just saw a stone hawk with a horse’s head. It was in front of someone’s house.
Here I am writing on a moving bus, tricky as it is, and we’re listening to pretty Irish music. Bob McWilliams, being the radio announcer, bought some CDs in Dublin and is sharing them with us. Later they will no doubt be on the air, and I might even turn on the radio and recognize them. Dave joked that he could do his radio show right here on the b us. Bob also mentioned that he’s already recorded Sunday’s show in Kansas.
Bush=Terror
(Graffitti on back of highway sign—I had to smile, glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed that Shrubco is the most dangerous terrorist organization on the planet.)
The Iron Mountains—visible from the bus, not as high as the Rockies, but beautiful. A big one is flattish.
Enneskellin
We’re in Northern Ireland! Duck! Just kidding. No wonder I saw a British flag on top of a tower down the highway; that sort of weirded me out. Dave didn’t announce that we’re in Northern Ireland (by the way) until after we’d passed that flag.
Royalist flag: white background, red cross, white star in center with red hand, British crown above star and small British flag in upper right corner. These flags and British flags fluttering on many street light poles—every bloody pole. Showing off loyalty to England. Enneskellin is very Protestant and Royalist, but Dave said this isn’t as militant about it as other towns in Northern Ireland.
It’s just as well that we’re just passing through on our way to Ballyshannon, because this place gives me the creeps. To think my psycho relatives make such a big deal about our Irish ancestry, when this is where my Scotch-Irish ancestors came from! But then, that’s the side of the family that I am utterly disenchanted with—weird that I could have been brainwashed about relatives for all these years. For that matter, it’s gotten so anymore it’s hard not to be ashamed of being white. Sure, I know we’re all a part of this planet and everyone is part of the human family, but this attitude I've recently developed is thanks to Shrubco, Bigotville, and my Evil Stepfamily.
Ballyshannon
Last night, still in Dublin, we arrived at the Cultural Center—a beautiful yellow Georgian house—and went downstairs, through a room, upstairs, etc, like it was a maze, till we were in the balcony of an auditorium. When we went through what looked like a living room, there was a lovely fireplace and I could smell a peat fire (and see it) for the first time. Strange, smoky/earthy scent. (Actually, later Dave explained that that was a particular type of wood fire, not peat. So much for that.)
We just arrived in County Donegal—a yellow house had green words painted on the facade: “Welcome to Donegal.”
“79 people killed on Donegal roads in 2004”—sign we just passed, right after talking about the perilous road.
Stuck in traffic just outside of Ballyshannon--street sign ahead:
Beal atha Seanaidh
Ballyshannon
The first person to use the bus toilet was Matt the judge, and at least one person took a picture of him opening the door, amidst much giggling. We’ve been on the bus a bit too long. Noel took a picture, and Dave (not the guide, the other Dave) said, “We know what you really want to take a picture of!”
Ballyshannon is the oldest town in Ireland (according to the welcome sign).
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Dublin and Oscar Wilde
I just saw a bird that at first I thought was a pigeon, but it crowed. Wow, I never thought I’d hear a noise like that out of a pigeon. I took another look, and it appears to be a cross between a crow and a pigeon—it has the white, blue and grey wings of a pigeon but otherwise is a black crow. Weird. (Later I saw more of these birds and learned that they're jackdaws.)
I’ve returned to the Archbishop Ryan Park after going over and taking pictures of 1 Merrion Square, the house where Oscar Wilde grew up. It’s only down the street from the house where he was born, which is much more modest, just a tall rectangle that appears to be part of an apartment building—meaning, the buildings are identical (18th century Georgian) and right up against each other, no space at all. But anyway, I’m at this sort of patio in the park. You go up cobblestone steps to a cobblestone surface with park benches (green with black ends and with graffiti), and a stone mausoleum-like structure with three bricked-in archways and urns on top.
Just down the walkway is the Oscar Wilde Memorial, otherwise known as the Fag on the Crag—a sculpture of him on a rock—where tourists from different countries are continually flocking. A student sat down and started sketching him. Across the path from him are two rectangular, glossy dark stone pillars with numerous quotes, on all four sides; in his handwriting. On top of each is a statue representing beauty—one a male torso and the other a nude female, both in Greek style, very Oscar Wilde.
Some of the Oscar Wilde quotes on columns:
There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it but molds it to its purpose.
Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.
Being natural is only a pose.
It seems to me all look at nature too much and live with it too little.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.
This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.
Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.
I have slightly more than an hour before I have to be back at the lodge (Eliza Lodge) to meet up with the rest of the tour group—but actually check-in is 1 pm, in less than an hour, since it’s 12:15. Birds are trilling, the weather is beautiful (very below 100 degrees), and beautiful plants surround me. There are a few people around, but it’s not a big crowd like around Temple Bar and the Quay.
I feel like I’ve wandered all over Central Dublin—maybe I have. I found my way to the Abbey Theatre, but the box office opens at 10:30 am, and I was an hour early (gee, at the Symphony it was 9 am). So I walked around to get to know the neighborhood, like O’Connor Street I saw a pretty building, Neoclassical with columns and statues on the roof—in the distance and decided to find out what it was. It turned out to be the Post Office, and right there in the front window is the famous statue of Cuchulain commemorating the rebellion of 1916. After that, I wandered my way back across the river (the Halfpenny Bridge is cute, and I’ve crossed it about three times now) and I more or less circled the Temple Bar areas, looking at what shops are there. Boots is one of them, and a juice/sandwich shop called O’Brien’s is about three locations that I’ve seen so far. After that, I went back to the Abbey Theatre and got a ticket for The Importance of Being Earnest. Then I headed back across the bridge and found the birthplace of Oscar Wilde (21 Westland Row), and the house where he grew up (1 Merrion Square, now the College of Dublin), and the Oscar Wilde Monument. Quite a communing with Oscar Wilde.
Dub-lin (Black Pool)—Viking settlement is now under Dublin Corporate Offices (government office—ugly building)
Later—9:10 pm—
When I was done hanging out with Oscar, I got back to the Eliza Lodge, when I heard a cheerful male voice call, “Susan!” I turned and there was Phil Wilke, a representative of Kansas Public Radio, which is responsible for this tour. He was accompanied by our guide, Dave. I commented on how startling it was that I’d only been in the country for a few hours, and someone called my name. So we had jokes about “Who do you know in Ireland” along with greetings. It turned out that most of the tour group had arrived and my room wasn’t ready yet. Maid service was working on it, but I could hang out in the first floor lounge (one floor up). So I went up there and chatted with other members of the tour. Eventually my room was done and I got my luggage in it and it wasn’t long after we had a meeting in the lounge, re-introducing ourselves and whatnot.
Dave gave us a walking tour and sort of history lesson on Viking Dublin. Next to Christ Church Cathedral is a mosaic of the floor plan of a Viking house, the foundations of which are now a few feet away under a butt-ugly new office building. On the site of this building, archeologists found a treasure trove of Viking stuff, and they had a limited time to unearth it because the jerks wouldn’t change their plans to start building the ugly box on a specific date. Ugly, plain, grey concrete block, and there’s still an ancient treasure trove under it, though what they did excavate is in a local museum, the Dublin History Museum.
We also walked around the façade of Christ Church Cathedral, where Dave said they have vespers, I think it’s called, a choir singing something quiet and soothing, and it’s supposed to be at 6 pm—he even double-checked. And we walked to Trinity College—which is gorgeous—and before that we went to a piece of the original Dublin Wall, dating to 1180 and in excellent shape—even the metal gate, in an archway, has survived. It leads to an old church called St. Aul’s or something. Before Trinity, we went to Dublin Castle and looked at the lovely eighteenth century courtyard. At Trinity College, we admired the architecture and went in to a building with a café where some of us got drinks, and some used the restroom. (I got a raspberry-cranberry fruit juice that was yum yum.)
Afterwards, some of us went to a pub near the lodge—Fitzsimmons—for tea and to socialize, and I ordered a snack in addition to tea, since I skipped lunch—it was grilled French bread topped with cheese. It turned out to be a big slice accompanied by a salad of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and dressing. The tea was great—I asked for cream, and there was a lump of real cream in the bottom of my cup, in addition to a small porcelain pitcher of milk.
When we went to hear the music at Christ Church Cathedral, the doors were locked, so we waited around for someone to open the doors (there are benches just outside) and talked. I chatted with Liz, who volunteers with the Lawrence Public Library, and we talked library talk and also about my sculpting with sculpey, she told me about how she dies it off and on—though not in the past five years—and she’s taught kids to sculpt. Actually, she’s a professor in the Design department at KU in Lawrence.
Since the music wasn’t happening after all, we went to another pub near the Lodge, the Farriday or something like that (it’s painted bright red and the other is brown) and it just had still water (my snack had been filling enough) while the others had meals—and most had Guinness. I’ll probably try it tomorrow, or certainly at some point during the trip, since I haven’t tasted it since college…and didn’t like it then.
I afterwards went to the Internet café—the keyboard is like in England, so I grope around the keyboard looking for the right shift key. And AOL long distance has gotten weirder—apparently I can’t just click on addresses and send—I have to type up all the addresses.
I’ve returned to the Archbishop Ryan Park after going over and taking pictures of 1 Merrion Square, the house where Oscar Wilde grew up. It’s only down the street from the house where he was born, which is much more modest, just a tall rectangle that appears to be part of an apartment building—meaning, the buildings are identical (18th century Georgian) and right up against each other, no space at all. But anyway, I’m at this sort of patio in the park. You go up cobblestone steps to a cobblestone surface with park benches (green with black ends and with graffiti), and a stone mausoleum-like structure with three bricked-in archways and urns on top.
Just down the walkway is the Oscar Wilde Memorial, otherwise known as the Fag on the Crag—a sculpture of him on a rock—where tourists from different countries are continually flocking. A student sat down and started sketching him. Across the path from him are two rectangular, glossy dark stone pillars with numerous quotes, on all four sides; in his handwriting. On top of each is a statue representing beauty—one a male torso and the other a nude female, both in Greek style, very Oscar Wilde.
Some of the Oscar Wilde quotes on columns:
There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it but molds it to its purpose.
Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.
Being natural is only a pose.
It seems to me all look at nature too much and live with it too little.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.
This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.
Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.
I have slightly more than an hour before I have to be back at the lodge (Eliza Lodge) to meet up with the rest of the tour group—but actually check-in is 1 pm, in less than an hour, since it’s 12:15. Birds are trilling, the weather is beautiful (very below 100 degrees), and beautiful plants surround me. There are a few people around, but it’s not a big crowd like around Temple Bar and the Quay.
I feel like I’ve wandered all over Central Dublin—maybe I have. I found my way to the Abbey Theatre, but the box office opens at 10:30 am, and I was an hour early (gee, at the Symphony it was 9 am). So I walked around to get to know the neighborhood, like O’Connor Street I saw a pretty building, Neoclassical with columns and statues on the roof—in the distance and decided to find out what it was. It turned out to be the Post Office, and right there in the front window is the famous statue of Cuchulain commemorating the rebellion of 1916. After that, I wandered my way back across the river (the Halfpenny Bridge is cute, and I’ve crossed it about three times now) and I more or less circled the Temple Bar areas, looking at what shops are there. Boots is one of them, and a juice/sandwich shop called O’Brien’s is about three locations that I’ve seen so far. After that, I went back to the Abbey Theatre and got a ticket for The Importance of Being Earnest. Then I headed back across the bridge and found the birthplace of Oscar Wilde (21 Westland Row), and the house where he grew up (1 Merrion Square, now the College of Dublin), and the Oscar Wilde Monument. Quite a communing with Oscar Wilde.
Dub-lin (Black Pool)—Viking settlement is now under Dublin Corporate Offices (government office—ugly building)
Later—9:10 pm—
When I was done hanging out with Oscar, I got back to the Eliza Lodge, when I heard a cheerful male voice call, “Susan!” I turned and there was Phil Wilke, a representative of Kansas Public Radio, which is responsible for this tour. He was accompanied by our guide, Dave. I commented on how startling it was that I’d only been in the country for a few hours, and someone called my name. So we had jokes about “Who do you know in Ireland” along with greetings. It turned out that most of the tour group had arrived and my room wasn’t ready yet. Maid service was working on it, but I could hang out in the first floor lounge (one floor up). So I went up there and chatted with other members of the tour. Eventually my room was done and I got my luggage in it and it wasn’t long after we had a meeting in the lounge, re-introducing ourselves and whatnot.
Dave gave us a walking tour and sort of history lesson on Viking Dublin. Next to Christ Church Cathedral is a mosaic of the floor plan of a Viking house, the foundations of which are now a few feet away under a butt-ugly new office building. On the site of this building, archeologists found a treasure trove of Viking stuff, and they had a limited time to unearth it because the jerks wouldn’t change their plans to start building the ugly box on a specific date. Ugly, plain, grey concrete block, and there’s still an ancient treasure trove under it, though what they did excavate is in a local museum, the Dublin History Museum.
We also walked around the façade of Christ Church Cathedral, where Dave said they have vespers, I think it’s called, a choir singing something quiet and soothing, and it’s supposed to be at 6 pm—he even double-checked. And we walked to Trinity College—which is gorgeous—and before that we went to a piece of the original Dublin Wall, dating to 1180 and in excellent shape—even the metal gate, in an archway, has survived. It leads to an old church called St. Aul’s or something. Before Trinity, we went to Dublin Castle and looked at the lovely eighteenth century courtyard. At Trinity College, we admired the architecture and went in to a building with a café where some of us got drinks, and some used the restroom. (I got a raspberry-cranberry fruit juice that was yum yum.)
Afterwards, some of us went to a pub near the lodge—Fitzsimmons—for tea and to socialize, and I ordered a snack in addition to tea, since I skipped lunch—it was grilled French bread topped with cheese. It turned out to be a big slice accompanied by a salad of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and dressing. The tea was great—I asked for cream, and there was a lump of real cream in the bottom of my cup, in addition to a small porcelain pitcher of milk.
When we went to hear the music at Christ Church Cathedral, the doors were locked, so we waited around for someone to open the doors (there are benches just outside) and talked. I chatted with Liz, who volunteers with the Lawrence Public Library, and we talked library talk and also about my sculpting with sculpey, she told me about how she dies it off and on—though not in the past five years—and she’s taught kids to sculpt. Actually, she’s a professor in the Design department at KU in Lawrence.
Since the music wasn’t happening after all, we went to another pub near the Lodge, the Farriday or something like that (it’s painted bright red and the other is brown) and it just had still water (my snack had been filling enough) while the others had meals—and most had Guinness. I’ll probably try it tomorrow, or certainly at some point during the trip, since I haven’t tasted it since college…and didn’t like it then.
I afterwards went to the Internet café—the keyboard is like in England, so I grope around the keyboard looking for the right shift key. And AOL long distance has gotten weirder—apparently I can’t just click on addresses and send—I have to type up all the addresses.
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