Dublin 2

July 15, 2010

The gulls cry whenever there is light, and ghost over the city, pale and portentous, when there is not. Took to the streets. Stuart is gone from O’Neill’s, but the staff continues merry and friendly. Went to Pravda and watched a wonderful French film, about munitions dealers and a man with a bullet in his head, in honor of Bastille Day. A while at the Corner Bar on Parliament Street, but it was somehow awful. I have one beautiful memory from there, but repeated awfulness detracts from it visit by visit. Despite my hatred of tours, I booked one for today, I suppose because in all these visits I have never been to Newgrange. The weather looks exactly terrible for such an outing. Why they hung a mirror directly in front of the desk I don’t know. I need a haircut.

Evening. I’ve stayed in, trying to warm up after a day in the driving rain. Patrick the merry blond bus driver (who turned out not to be our driver after all) chatted copiously between the tourist office and Busaras. I learned, among other things, the reason for something I had often observed myself: the difference between Irish police and American. There are actually no police in Ireland. They are officially the Garda Sochiana, the guardians of the peace, and they take that difference seriously. The garda keep the peace. They do not necessarily arrest for the breaking of particular laws. So, Patrick says, always negotiate with the Garda. Apologize and promise to be good, and they won’t bother with you. Peace is what counts, not convictions stats. “You, being an American, they won’t be able to stand the paperwork. They’ll say ‘just don’t shoot anybody else,’ and let you go.” John eventually drove us to the Hill of Tara. Nick and I had been there fifteen years ago, but it was before the season and we pretty much roamed around on our own. I had done research, and was right about what was what, but the tour and the video in the church showed me how complicated and sacred the place really had been: the emblem of a race and thousands of years of history. Unfortunately, the Irish weather intervened as we stood on the sacred heights, wind and driving rain, from which neither we nor the day recovered. Our guide was still talking when we broke and ran for cover. John said, “I have to admit, I never saw rain like that.” My theory is this: I was about to touch the Stone of Destiny, and it was about to cry my name three times and proclaim me the High King of Ireland, but the gods didn’t want the upheaval right now, and sent the deluge to postpone the revelation. Next time. Saw the castle at Trim and a variety of ruined abbeys, and then another of the world’s most sacred places, Bru na Boinne. First it must be said that the Boyne is the most beautiful of rivers. It surrounds its valley in three sides, making an island in old days when to cross even the Boyne’s gentle expanse was a peril. Lovely and lyrical now, knee deep in grass and overhanging trees. Newgrange– well, I need to see it another time. I was cold and miserable, and afraid of becoming sick, and the cold water squished in my shoes as I walked, and I went heedless into the marvelous place, photographing it in my mind to think on later. Did become quite sick from the hurried and doughy lunch, and the thought occurred to me that I would be the first one to throw up inside new Grange (one supposes) in five thousand years. Averted that, and made it to the parking lot, where of it all the pouring rain left not a trace.