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Adventures in Ireland, Part I:
From Dublin to Downpatrick
By trixie000
You can read about my Irish escapades over the next month (a new installment will be posted weekly throughout October), and you can always read details in my journal, Ireland—From Dublin to Limerick.
Day 1
Mildly delirious after my 6am arrival in Dublin, I stopped by the Dan Dooley car-rental agency, picked up my Ford Focus, and prepared to hit the road. A stick shift, you say, with my left hand? A-hah. No problem! I suppose I could have switched to an automatic, but hey, I usually drive a manual (and I take a certain amount of pride in my ambidexterity). After lurching out of the driveway, driving in the bus lane for a good mile or so, and affably waving away the shouts and horns of fellow drivers, I somehow managed to find the Brooks Hotel, which is located in the chic Temple Bar area. Credit the luck of the Irish for my safe arrival.Fortunately, the city is easily accessible by foot, so I was able to leave behind the ordeal on wheels and set forth on my intended task: to see Dublin in a day. Expecting a densely urban environment—something like London, perhaps, but smaller—I was quite surprised to find the low buildings and relaxed atmosphere of the city center.
Since it was 8am on a Saturday morning and the city was still asleep, I began at the southwestern side of Dublin at the famous St. Patrick's Cathedral (where Jonathan Swift was dean from 1713 to 1745), its expansive garden still in full bloom, and then made my way to the 11th-century stout stone steeple of Christchurch Cathedral. I meandered down Dame Street, buzzing with people and traffic, walked around the imposing Dublin Castle, and then crossed the river Liffey to check out the famous Abbey Theater. The theater was completely renovated after the great fire of 1951, however, so it is not the 1903 original founded by Yeats.
Back across the Liffey, I entered the gates of Trinity College, founded in 1592. It's exactly what you'd imagine it to be: gray stone buildings, dazzlingly green grass, and students scurrying past on crisscrossing footpaths. The Old Library, built in 1712, is absolutely worth a visit if you are at all interested in literature. It has over 200,000 rare and antiquated books, and you can walk through the long, echoing corridor in awe of the majestic panoply of knowledge so entombed, inhaling the sickly-sweet odor of the aged books. Also housed here is the 5th-century Book of Kells, one of the finest examples of medieval illustrated manuscripts.
After the intellectual intensity of Trinity College, I was more than ready for shops and street performers on lively Grafton Street, the capital's main pedestrian thoroughfare. I walked the length of it until I hit St. Stephen's Green, a verdant and pristine park. From there, it's only a short walk to Merrion Square, which has some of the best examples of Georgian architecture in Ireland: smooth brick facades, three stories of rectangular windows that grow shorter as they rise (an intentional optical illusion), arched and columned doorways, and lead-pane fan windows. The bright multicolored doors, legend has it, are there to enable late-night revelers to find their respective homes (they do look very much alike).
That evening, I congregated with 30 or so other unsuspecting tourists at the Duke Pub for Colm Quilligan's Dublin Literary Pub Crawl. As we sipped Ireland's most celebrated export, Guinness, bits and pieces of works from the most famous Irish authors and playwrights were acted out by our guides. A dash of Oscar Wilde here, some Samuel Beckett there, all encompassed by historical and political contexts. The guides, all local actors, were enthusiastic and jovial, and after hitting five pubs, the crowd was appropriately spirited. And yes, it's true what they say: the Guinness really is better in Ireland. After the tour, I made a few more auxiliary stops in the Temple Bar area with my newfound cohorts in libation. I hit a point of exhaustion around midnight, however, and slowly made my way back to my hotel, where I promptly passed out like someone copiously drugged.
Day 2
The wake-up call sounded at 8:30am, and I awoke with a start, unaware of my location. Once I realized that I was indeed in Ireland, I threw on clothes and ran out to get my car—only to find the lot was closed until 11am! Excellent. Since I was forced to sleep for 2 more hours, I woke up rather refreshed and ready to go.
Over coffee on Grafton Street, I had a moment to ponder the cheerful city. As much as the Irish protest that Dublin is the least authentically Irish place in Ireland (similar cries are heard within the major cities of any country, I suppose—New York isn't America, Bangkok isn't Thailand, and so on), I was still impressed by the capital of the Emerald Isle. It is surely more cosmopolitan than any other city I visited in Ireland, but it maintains an old-fashioned charm with its cobblestoned streets, brightly colored storefronts, low buildings, and exceptionally friendly people.
Once I made it out of the maze of one-way streets that comprise Dublin, my driving difficulties—or more aptly, my hysteria—substantially diminished, and I was prepared for the drive up into County Down to Downpatrick. It was just me, my Ford Focus, and the long, winding roads. It was a stunning ride: I passed through Drogheda and Newry, the splendor of the countryside becoming more dramatic the further out of Dublin I got, until I was eventually sailing up and down the patchwork hills, trying to avoid an accident while taking in the startling vistas.
Less than 48 hours after leaving Manhattan, I found myself decked out in a jaunty riding hat and jodhpurs, perched on the third seat of a lolley (truck), ready to take on Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet—and this coming from someone who's ridden a horse once in her life. (I always find it delightfully peculiar how fantastical situations become completely normal if they happen quickly enough.) I was taken to the Annseley Castle, a former residence and now a national park, in Castlewellan, where I mounted my horse. Its height—and, well, the fact that the beast was alive—was rather disconcerting. It only took a half hour or so, however, to feel completely comfortable; even when my horse broke out into random, seemingly joyful and obstreperous trots, I felt on top of it (ha!).
Back at Drumgooland House, I enjoyed an amicable dinner with my gracious hosts, and after staring out my bay window into the immensity of dark and quiet of the County Down night, I fell asleep more soundly than Sleeping Beauty. Chalk it up to the Irish air, the exercise, the meal, and the silent evening.
Day 3
After eating my first proper Irish breakfast—various fried meats (including back bacon), fried bread, eggs, and the ubiquitous crumbly soda bread, which is hearty, grainy, and highly addictive—I said a reluctant farewell to the McLeighs. I then cruised over to the St. Patrick Center in Downpatrick, an elaborate museum tracing the history of Christianity in Ireland through the life of St. Patrick. The exhibits take you back in time to 400 A.D.—St. Patrick's writings are actually the oldest documents in Ireland. The museum is especially good to see if, like me, your knowledge of such matters is vague at best.
By early afternoon, I was back on the road, cruising along on the M1. Looking back in my rearview mirror, I said a melancholy farewell to Dublin, County Down, and the Drumgooland House—until next time, I thought, and bid them a mental adieu.
Next up: Eniskillen, Lough Erne, and Erincurrach Cruising (where I'm presumably spending the night on a boat).
CATCH UP WITH THE SECOND LEG OF MY TRIP NEXT WEEK!
In the interim, and for more details, see my journal, Ireland—From Dublin to Limerick.
