After a lovely weekend down at the end of the road in Garnish, West Cork, we found ourselves passing through the village of Béal na mBláth. Taking the opportunity and being so close we decided to visit the site of the the ambush of Michael Collins and his subsequent death at a bend in the road just outside Béal na mBláth. The ambush site is marked by a huge celtic cross and an interpretative sign located approximately where Collins was shot in August 1922. A small marker (which I show here) marks the spot where Collins expired.
Michael Collins was one of the leaders in the movement that resulted in Irish independence and was tragically assassinated on an inspection tour of his home county of Cork during the Irish Civil War.

The ambush site is located on what is still a small and winding road surrounded by hills on either side – a superb choice for an ambush. A large celtic cross is surrounded by a well maintained ironwork fence at the bend in the road. There are yearly commemorations of the anniversary of the tragic loss of Michael Collins to the future of Ireland. The siginificance of the loss is still the subject of conjecture and has much to do with the colour of one’s political stripes. Fine Gael hail Collins as the forefather of the party and sees the anniversary as a spiritual annual event. Fiana Fáil supporters on the other hand may be a little more tight lipped on their opinions about the event. In either case, the significance of the event is of unquestionable importance in Irish history. An article from the Independent published in 2007 eloquently expressed the significance of Michael Collins to modern Ireland.
Interestingly, the cross itself is littered with coins. I presume they are left as good luck tokens, but found this a curious practise. Maybe tribute to Michael Collin’s role as finance minister?

Although a rather ‘soft’ day yesterday, circumstances demanded a flying visit to Glasnevin Cemetery. The occasion was the public opening of the crypt of Daniel O’Connell, one of the great Irish figures of the nineteenth century. I felt compelled to make the journey, and with a small group of weather braving souls we paid a sort of tribute to the Great Liberator.

I have been wanting to visit Glasnevin since arriving in Ireland and it had, until yesterday, eluded my grasp. The cemetery as you can read from the linked wikipedia article is the largest nondenominational cemetery on the island and it contains the last resting spots of some of the most notable public figures of the last two centuries. In fact, the article claims it contains the remains of over 1.5M souls. That seems a rather heady claim, but bears consideration. Existing during famine times the cemetery existed during a period when roman catholics were not permitted to maintain their own cemeteries and had to conduct what rites they could in protestant graveyards.
Certainly Glasnevin is on par with a place like Pére LaChaise in Paris as the national cemetery. However, the cemetery in Paris is rather lush and you have a feeling of creeping organic decomposition and a sense that you are at the portal to the underworld. At Glasnevin, there is a sense of reaching out towards heaven. The vast collection of monuments soar upwards and you feel surrounded and amongst the concrete remembrances, but clearly on a worldly plain.

The cemetery is hard to miss. As you approach you can see the magnificent round tower erected over the crypt of Daniel O’Connor for a great distance and on closer approach the towering walls and guard towers at the corners make the site unmistakable. Even on a dreary day one is in awe on approach. This feeling of great appreciation that one is in a special place is all the more heightened as you walk amongst the markers of figures that you may only be familiar with from the pages of history books or spoken in reverence. Casement, Boland, Devoy, Brugha, Collins, Maud Gonne Macbride, to but name a few. And only a few as the weather was filthy and I now look forward to heading out on a sunnier occasion to pay proper respect to the memory of the many more that are buried here.

The President of Ireland, Mary McAleese, gave a very thoughtful and extremely poignant speech (in the driving rain) paying tribute to O’Connell as one of the first human right activists and connected his legacy directly to the ideals of the Irish people today. The visit was brief, but we did manage to get down to the crypt and actually touch O’Connell’s sarcophagus. The vault itself is decorated with motif’s rooted in the nineteenth century, fine celtic knot work and bold statements of the accomplishments of the great man. I hope that the pictures that I share can do this justice.

On another note there is a huge shiny new visitors centre nearing completion which promises to ‘tell the story’ of the souls buried at Glasnevin…I look forward to seeing the interpretation.

If you choose to visit Glasnevin, Bus 40 leaves from Parnell Square quite frequently and drops you right at the gates to the cemetery. Bus 140 is even better as it comes right from UCD down the dual carriage way, Leeson Street, Stephen’s Green and across the river right past the cemetery as well, so it is very easy to reach. For myself, I hope that I can find a nice dry day to revisit and experience the cemetery.

Well, after a long hiatus here’s a quick blog post. Won’t try to cover all that has changed since the last one…now married and living in a fine house in Dublin. I do feel driven to cover the vote on Lisbon tomorrow.

When I started here last year I just missed the No vote. I did witness the multitude of signs on all the street posts (resoundingly no) and I have a collection somewhere. This time around the Yes side is determined not to be caught napping. Tomorrow will tell the tale.

On the absolutely esoteric side, I wanted to share a couple posters. This first No poster, I simply don’t get, but then maybe I am missing all the subtle hints. There are actually two versions. One is dated 1945-2009 – the other 1916 -2009 and the tag line – European/Irish Democracy? What the hell do they mean? They both feature the same little girl’s face with the eyes changed in colour…a lovely green tint for the nod towards the Easter Rising. I just have no clue. Is a poster like this supposed to make me want to vote no? Am I defending the poor waif’s shattered dreams? The poor wee thing.

Just to be somewhat even handed though, here’s another crap poster (there are good ones out there too) by the yes side entitled ‘Yes in the City.’ Almost enough to vote No. Not sure what this one is trying to convey either, but all it says to me is that Yes means materialism and whiny navel gazing. I feel compelled to protected my country of residence from that sort of thing.

All the signage does make for the most colourful street scenes, so to make up for the fine autumnal colours that I expect that I am missing in Canada, I am finding my enjoyment on street lamp foliage rather than maple trees this season.

I have been truly blessed to have enjoyed some spectacular weather here in Ireland. In my travels I have experienced periods of moisture (some intense, but most rather subtle). The last few weeks have delivered especially lovely weather – conveniently and assuredly on the weekends. Today was bright, sunny, clear and with an autumnal sharpness in the air. To broaden my irish experience today it was very enjoyable round of golf at the Stepaside Golf Club. It’s a public course, but certainly finer than many Canadian private ones. I will admit to having not been golfing in probably a decade. So today was a big trial. Would I still have a semblance of ability?…might I still have some proper form?…would I embarass myself in front of my partner? Heaven forfend. As it was the day was brilliant, the course was a delight and I seemed to be able to still drive a good ball. It was just great to be out in the Irish countryside and soaking in the rays and ambience. The long game was reasonable, the short game – well, alas needs a bit of work. But, if this were to be bringing me out to the Irish golf courses with greater frequency, I say: let’s do it!

A couple of weeks back I booked a pair of tickets to see Luka Bloom at Vicar Street. I had heard of the venue and catching a big name there seemed like a fine idea. Then I saw in my email from ticketmaster that Art Garfunkel was playing the local venue. Wow! Art Garfunkel live. Checking ticket prices I found they were double normal rates and a bit steep so was reticent about booking. Last night a sweet angel confirmed that seeing Art Garfunkel would be an amazing experience. We figured we’d see how it seemed in the morning and go from there. Unfortunately, although there had been tables and seat available yesterday morning all available today was standing room. €70 for a place to stand seemed a bit steep and was not sure of the venue. Then to complicate matters, my office was broken into last night, so when I arrived today to do a little work I found a lot of glass and bits of pieces of wood, and no laptops. That was troubling enough in itself, determining how to actually proceed in such a situation in a foreign land was an additional challenge. No one from the building was available, then couldn’t reach anyone from my own organisation. So…managed to contact the local police and arranged for a constable to visit. On the upside, we got some good prints and no one was actually injured or the like. So…the distraction of the B&E was a little off putting. It means about 3 months of work down the tubes for me, but now its just a matter of focusing on how to get past it. So, I tried again to get tickets for Mr. Garfunkel. Alas only standing room, despite going to the online site, phoning ticketmaster and the venue itself. As my lovely companion was reticent about standing through the show I was disappointed, but she resolved that we should go for it…and she could not have been more right! I made a couple lamb chops and some sides and after wolfing them down we jumped in a taxi for the venue. Our luck held and sure enough there had been cancelations and we got absolutely awesome table seats on the floor. Vicar Street is an amazing venue. Amazingly intimate. Art Garfunkel gave an stunningly romantic show and spending it with someone special makes the world seem right. A perfect night.

Ah ’tis a fine Sunday when you can slip on up to the six counties for a leisurely visit. I decided in the am to see where I might find myself and Cork was approachable, but a slower trip. belfast made the most sense at just over two hours. Its a fine ride to the north and all the better when the weather’s sweet and Sunday’s was a peach. As we crossed the Boyne I sensed the day would go well- there’s always a certain pang of significance to the crossing especially when one is pushing on into Ulster.

Belfast has a strange gateway railway station. The central statin doesn’t quite seem that central, and yet I gather is more central than it once was…so it’s all rather relative I suppose. What sort of image does Belfast conjure up for you? Recent times of course remind us of the troubles, of sectarian violence, of division, and of extremes. yet, when I was through in April on my way up the north Antrim coast, it was clear that Belfast is a city of resurgent affluence, new construction, investment and certainly different circumstances than the view from outside might portend. You may also remember the Harland and Wolf shipyards that produced the Titanic and of a working-class urban centre. Belfast is not the place of memory. The first impression as you walk into town, even on a Sunday is that its a bit of a shopping town. They have some quite large city centre malls – the Tesco is even situated in a restored neo-classical masterpiece. There are pedestrian friendly streets, a wealth of high-end boutiques, cafe’s and … as of last week a bright spanking new Apple store. The scale of the city is a pleasant surprise. Very walkable and very densely rich. The architecture has the feel of fin-de-siecle turrets, arches and fine craftsmanship. A lot of red, sandstone mason’s pride.

I had a superb and filling late lunch at ‘Made in Belfast’ – a wonderfully eclectic eatery. A pint of Guinness along with some Belfast crab on brown bread (with olive oil, pesto, cherry tomatoes). I was warned that the burgers were not available (some incomprehensible explanation) and that the special of the day as a substitute was roast beef. Well, when in belfast, go for the special. It was delicious and was served with a wonderful au jus, carmellized onions, broccolli and green beans. I was able to charge my mobile at a plug alongside my table, pop onto the internet on a dwindling laptop battery and satiate my noontime needs.

After some wandering about to get feel for the city, I did feel obliged to pop into the Crown pub for another pint. Don’t be counting…I may have had more than one with lunch. But, the Crown is renowned. The only disappointment was the unavailability of fresh oysters…my heart had leapt at the possibility. All the more so as it would have been a sense of connectedness with the west on Sunday. The stores close at a very generous 6pm on Sundays, so this worked well for me catching a 7pm train back to Dublin. The trains were all on time, comfortable and quite reasonable in cost. The trip home was a packed crew…presumably returnees from a full weekend in the north.

The currency situation is rather odd I find. Having gotten used to Euros, all is well…you just don’t do the conversion and life seems alright. In point of fact in Dublin, you are paying in euros, directly what you would pay in dollars, so life is more expensive here. There has been a lot of press lately about how many of the chains are gouging customers in the republic. However, despite this, I found that I was actually paying in sterling what I am paying in Euros. That’s a wee bit more again. This was not the case in all venues, as the pints cost me £2 as opposed to being as high as €5 in some Dublin pubs at certain times…curiosity…liquor costs vary by time of day in Ireland. Novel.

All in all, though, a fine place for a visit and I’ll look forward to tripping up again to get further afield.

Today’s objective (as tho’ the day needed an objective) was to finally explore the National War Memorial Gardens and Phoenix Park. Bottomline: It’s a really, freakin’ enormous park. We already knew it was the largest walled park in the world, but the scale is not really appreciable until move about its extents under your own steam. It’s a rustic park for most parts – thankfully the more rustic, the more quiet and peaceful. The smell is delicious. I rode placidly appreciating the views of distant villages, across vista’s entirely within the parkspace itself and occassional glimpses out of the greenery and off in the distance towards the cranes in Dublin. Parts of the park are more developed than others – near the Aras an Uachtaran (the President’s House) is very ceremonial, where the Ordinance Survey offices are tucked unobtrusivelly into a forest nook. The around the Wellington Monument was crawling with people. Apparently it was Septemberfest and Some sort of Soccerfest as well. There was a cricket tourney all coexisting within a mere corner of the park. The Dublin Zoo (also a constituent part of the park) was busy with families coming and going.

The National War Memorial gardens were the polar opposite. Its also a substantial park, but it’s somber and respectful (as it should be) the hilly grounds very much a manicured space festooned with ruiney-looking monuments. Respect and reverance. On the downside I swam back in the pouring rain. Well, at least the larger portion of the day was dry. Quite the change from yesterday, the sunburn effects of which I can still feel

Was up to the border this morning via train. A soggy beginning, but the sun won out in the end. We set off south passing through Slane and appreciating the main square where four identical Georgian houses are places octagonally on the main intersection. Very stately.
Armed with a neat new TomTom One GPS unit we set off for Tara. With the sun bursting through we find the sacred hill. There is little scale to the actual mounds themselves. There’s sheep wandering about and many pats to avoid. The moats around the mound are just enough to keep you on your toes, but just grassy knolls really. Now, I had taken a look at pictures of the stone of destiny…and somehow it all seemed much bigger.
But lest ye think that I was dismayed by the scale or setting…it’s a magical experience! The view from the mound is absolutely spectacular…according to accounts you can see all four provinces (kingdoms) from the hill. I am convinced. The vista is amazing. The stone is smaller than expected, but here’s the thing…it pulses with energy. No kidding. I used the stone like a divining rod and could easily feel the energy flowing from it. Now, if things were all as they should be, it should have been wailing…as it is claimed when the true king touches it, it will cry out in a shriek that can be heard throughout the island. For me…it was silent. Imagine my disappointment I was thrilled to visit Tara. What a treat and what a special guide.

A wee bit of wet, but a very warm welcome greeted me in Tipperary this weekend. My good friend Keza and her lovely girls are staying with the Ryans on their place near Atshanboy. I headed out early Saturday morning and the train to Thurles was efficient and ontime. Keza and Seamus Ryan met me at the station and I got a wonderful guided tour of the rolling lush scenery that is Tipperary. It was a treat. Despite persistent rain, Seamus gave me a quick run around some of their fields and tour of the farm. We also took a quick look to one of their houses – a fixer-uppers dream just waiting for the right taker. We attended a christening at the afternoon and I was welcomed by the O’Dwyers to the family party. We watched the GAA and partook of a lavish potluck. Everyone was open and welcoming and made me feel just great.
After mass we had a lovely evening of deep discussion. Sunday found Keza, the kids, Seamus and I off for a castle tour and we spent a couple hours at Cashel. Absolutely spectacular! Part of the edifices on the Rock of Cashel date from 550AD and it is a site connected with Munster royalty until the 12th century, when it was gifted to the Irish Church and became the seat of the Archbishop of Cashel. The enormous limestone rock upon which the cathedral is constructed is absolutely immense, the buildings some of the most spectacular ruins that I have ever witnessed. Mary, our lovely tour guide held us enraptured with tales, ribald commentary and a sparkling whit. We learned about the ancient cross of St. Patrick around which one can gain eternal immunity from toothaches if you can make your hands meet on giving it a bear hug. Keza has a picture of me desperately trying to accomplish said feat. The cross is placed on the supposed coronation stone of the kings of Munster, although there is some dispute over whether the rock we saw was the actual stone of history. Upstairs are the painstakingly reconstructed vicar’s choir featuring goat’s skin windows and a marvelous ribbed ceiling of Irish oak. Proceeding outside we were regaled with stories of the renegade archbishop who held both the protestant archbishopric of Armagh simultaneous with the Roman Catholic one of Cashel, all the time writing sweet nothings to Elizabeth I. We appreciated the awe-inspiring over-construction of the cathedral, Cormac’s chapel, a curious round tower and a huge assortment of stunning celtic crosses. The graveyard surrounding the cathedral is still receiving internees and the views from it are spectacular in all four directions. The rock is a commanding presence over the countryside and it is clearly evident why it would have been chosen as the seat for the high-king of Munster. It’s very difficult not to be overwhelmed by the sheer scale of Cashel Rock and the buildings on it. The roofless cathedral has a commanding majesty even missing significant portions of what was once a pre-medival stronghold. I was very reminded of Laon in France, with a rougher, more rugged visage.
We visited the reconstructed Holy Cross Abbey on the way back to the Ryan farm. It to was breathtakingly beautiful. All the more so for it having been a roofless and rundown ruin twenty years ago, painstakingly reconstructed using original techniques. Although the abbey dates from more recent times – the 14th century – it has a wonderful serenity to it and the craftsmanship in the reroofing is simply brilliant. Up Tipp!

One thing that has enamoured me of this town is the wealth of little things going on that one can avail oneself of informally. Today is an excellent case in point. I headed over to the Academy at noon to help with some interviews for an IT position there. I was a few minutes early, so I cut down Kildare Street and popped into the National Library. They have a W.B. Yeats exhibition on and I had discovered this amazing display featuring notable Irish voices reading selected poems. The readings are delivered in this gazebo-like area with images projected aside words on translucent screens. It’s a uniquely captivating experience and I find myself transported from the work-a-day world onto (dare I say it) a transcendental plain. Its really a very special experience and I took ten minutes to savour a few poems and then headed onto my appointment. Entrance is free and its just inside the building. Its a splendid little place along the way. It allows you to spike your journey with some variety.

I work quite near St. Stephen’s Green and it has the obvious attractions of parkland, strollers (flaneur) and serendipitous engagement – like the brass band from two weekends ago. I live beside the RDS (Royal Dublin Society) grounds and one of the highlights of the year here is the annual Horse Show. It started the other day and has been attracting huge crowds. I don’t even have to contend with the horsey set though, as I can sit on my balcony and it overlooks the show grounds. Its quite a treat. The dressage, show jumping, all sorts of wonderful displays…and I don’t even have to leave my home. I remain truly blessed in the wonderful little diversions.