O'Connell Street, The Liffey and Irish Pubs
Dublin: Making a Start
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| Ireland |
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| Dublin |
The quality of the light, the short green grass and the wheeling seagulls made it clear that we had landed by the coast. Beyond the
airport, and after a short ride on Ireland’s M1, the bus dived into a lengthy
tunnel and emerged into the city. The route passed the docks before turning to
follow the Liffey into the heart of Dublin and then zig-zagging through streets, some broad and some
that appeared far too narrow for a double decker bus. We hopped off near our hotel at the top of O'Connell Street.
A Short Walk from the Parnell Memorial to The Dublin Spire via Moore Street Market then Down to the Liffey
Charles Parnell
After checking in, we strolled past the Parnell monument. Charles Parnell (1846-1891) was an unusual Irish nationalist in that he was a
member of the Anglo-Irish elite, and a land owner and landlord who fought for
land reform. A man of great charisma he was politically damaged by a scandalous
divorce and died of a heart attack aged only 45. It has been speculated that
had he survived, the birth of an independent Ireland might have been a lot less bloody.
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| The Parnell Monument, Dublin |
The rotunda behind the monument dates from 1757 and was the world's first purpose built maternity hospital.
Moore Street Market
From Parnell Square we turned into Moore Street where the legendary Molly Malone plied her trade. Maybe we were too late in the day
but it seemed a rather half-hearted market. We were amazed by how few Irish
voices we heard. There were plenty of tourists, and we were adding our
non-Irish tones to that, but there were also many non-Irish non-tourists. There were brown and
black faces in abundance, the hotel reception staff were south Europeans,
Vietnamese and Koreans ran the restaurants round the corner, the Moore Street stall
holders seemed to be mostly Chinese, while the street also has a Polish café and supermarket.
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| Moore Street Market, Dublin |
Henry Street, Admiral Nelson, The Floozie in the Jacuzzi and the Spire of Dublin
At the end of Moore Street we turned west along Henry Street, a long pedestrian shopping street; much of it looking a little sad and down at heel.
Turning back towards O'Connell Street we found ourselves heading straight for the Spire of Dublin. Had we been here in the early 60s we would
have been walking towards Nelson’s Pillar. There had been much rejoicing when
the news of Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar reached Dublin. The city fathers were
quick off the mark and perched the admiral atop a 40m high pillar over 30
years before London erected his column. Although a third of
Nelson’s sailors at Trafalgar had been Irish, the pillar was the brainchild of
the Anglo-Irish protestant elite and after independence there was much
discussion about whether it was an appropriate monument for the capital
of an independent nation. Discussions came to an end in March 1966 when the IRA,
with their usual preference for bombs over democratic process, blew Nelson up.
In the late 1980s the site was occupied by Anna Livia, a sculpture by Éamonn O'Doherty, better known as 'The Floozy in the Jacuzzi.' Many Dubliners grew to like her, but the authorities wanted something more 'appropriate' and she was removed in 2001. After ten years in a crate she was repositioned in Croppies Memorial Park, appropriately beside the River Liffey - Anna Livia Plurabelle was James Joyce's embodiment of the river in Finnegan's Wake.
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| Henry Street pointing straight at the Spire of Dublin |
As part of the 1999 redevelopment of O'Connell Street a competition was held to find a suitable replacement, and The Spire was the
winning entry. If this was the winner I dread to think what the losers looked
like. The architects describe it as having an ‘elegant and dynamic simplicity
bridging art and technology.’ It has won several international prizes, but to
me it looks like the wrong monument in the wrong place - though the ‘right
place’ for a 120m steel knitting needle eludes me.
Down to the Liffey past the Post Office
We continued towards the Liffey, passing the Post Office which played such an important part in the 1916 Easter Rising. The poorly
organised rebellion was launched, with German help, while 200,000 Irishmen were
voluntarily fighting in British uniforms against Germany. The rising failed to
generate momentum and was quickly put down. As if determined to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, the British authorities put the leaders in front of firing squads and turned them into heroes.
At the end of the street, we crossed the road to the O’Connell Bridge and had a stare at the Liffey. A line of beggars sat on the
bridge, crouched on the pavement below the parapet at 10m intervals, each
silently holding up a plastic cup. Business seemed poor. Their light brown skin
and the women's long dresses suggested they were not Irish, perhaps they were
eastern European Roma, but as they are the default whipping boys for all sorts
of social ills, I will refrain from jumping to conclusions [and we came across beggars in the next two days who
were genuinely local].
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| The River Liffey, looking downstream from O'Connell Bridge |
Daniel O'Connell
We turned to face the O’Connell monument. Daniel O’Connell (1775-1847) trained as a lawyer and became a politician. He fought tirelessly
for Catholic emancipation and was an important part of the successful campaign to
permit Catholics to sit in the Westminster parliament. His battle against the
1801 Act of Union that merged Great Britain and Ireland was less successful,
but he was a man of great principle (he never advocated violence) and charm and he
was widely admired on both sides of the Irish Sea.
On the whole I am not keen on nationalists, people who would kill or die for what Kurt Vonegut called a granfalloon - a collection of people with a label who believe that gives them something in common, but O’Connell was, by all accounts, an admirable man. It was a shame, then, that a pigeon was semi-permanently
stationed on his head, but perhaps he would have seen the funny side.
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| Daniel O'Connell and his resident pigeon |
Back up O'Connell Street
O'Connell Street is wide, reputedly the widest street in Europe, and has plenty of room for a line of statues, from O’Connell at the
bottom to Parnell at the top. Some are of worthy citizens, like the 1879 statue
of Sir John Gray who greatly improved Dublin’s water supply, while others,
predictably, are of nationalists William Smith O'Brien and Jim Larkin.
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| William Smith O'Brien (front), Sir John Gray (behind - and that wretched spire |
There was also Father Matthew, the apostle of temperance. A well-meaning man, no doubt, but fighting an uphill struggle, we thought as we turned into a
side street and headed for Branigan's Beer Emporium.
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| Father Matthew, the apostle of temperance, O'Connell Street |
Irish Pubs
The world is full of ‘Irish pubs’ and I carefully avoid such folksy fakes whether in Portugal, Laos or anywhere between. The sole exception
was PJ Murphy’s in Hong Kong where we were dragged by our daughter with a cry
of 'Melted cheese!' Living in mainland China, where cheese is unavailable, she
had come to Hong Kong as much for a toasted cheese sandwich as to meet her parents.
Branigan's Beer Emporium
Branigan's really was like an ‘Irish pub’, folksy, but for once totally genuine. In the late afternoon it was hardly busy, but the barman
greeted us like friends and eventually brought us some Guinness - it does not
pay to be in a hurry, Guinness needs time to settle.
I have often been told that Guinness is better in Ireland. I was sceptical, but it did not take me long to agree that it is certainly
different. The strongly burnt/bitter flavour of highly roasted barley is absent
and it is a softer, creamier more approachable brew. And does that make it
better? I tend to believe that anything that is easier to eat or drink,
anything that panders to the common denominator is dumbed down and hence
inferior, but I am not totally consistent - I do not lunch on dung sandwiches, and
I prefer honey to beeswax like everybody else. My conclusion? Irish Guinness is
rich and creamy and in every way lovely, while Guinness in England in harsher
and more bitter, and if that is the general view I will happily go along with it.
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| Madigan's Drinking Emporium, O'Connell Street |
Madigan's Dinking Emporium
In the evening we walked down O'Connell Street to Madigan's a self-described drinking emporium - Dublin is full of emporia. It was another typical Irish pub with dark panelling, fancy woodwork and many alcoves. Again the welcome was warm and the Guinness good, but unlike Branigan's, the clientele was cosmopolitan. Our alcove contained three Irishwomen, a Dutch couple and two Germans as well as us. A party of Dutchman sat by the bar in orange football shirts, talking to some English lads and pretending to be sympathetic about their team’s very different fortunes in Brazil.
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| Madigan's Drinking Emporium, O'Connell Street |
The food was not art. My Irish cottage pie differed from its English counterpart by having 'strips of slow cooked Hereford beef’ as well as
mince. It was saved from being unpleasantly dry by the pot of gravy served with
it. Lynne’s stuffed Gaelic chicken breast gained little from the promised
whiskey in the sauce but benefitted greatly from being stuffed with
well-flavoured wild mushrooms. It was all comfort food, but none the worse for that
and reasonably priced.
And what have we learned from our first venture into Dublin?
1) We have always thought of the Irish as being a people who emigrate, and indeed they have made major contributions to the populations
of English speaking nations around the world – even the Prime Minister of Papua
New Guinea is one, Peter O’Neill. But equally Ireland, or at least Dublin, is
home to many immigrants.
2) Guinness in Ireland really is different – indeed it really is better.
3) Irish pubs are extraordinarily welcoming, and the bar staff exude an effortless charm that has to be felt to be believed.
4) I am not going to escape from Irish nationalism for the
next three days. No resentment is aimed at me personally, so I’ll just have to suck it up.
