Pieces of Dublin

This morning I saw Dublin as it's supposed to be seen: streets still wet with rain, the sky nothing but a grey veil. À Joycean morning if any, except for the tourists. I made my way up to Frederick Street and Dorset Street, to find a sudden charm and quiet in Eccles Street. I'd thought that the neighbourhood would be sort of unpleasant – not directly in the centre, so there were no tourists up and about and Dorset Street has a shabby feel over it. Eccles Street however put me instantly at ease. It was broad and peaceful, but moreover, it had the unexpected feel of a special place. Ofcourse, Eccles Street is special to me in the way that I try tro write about it, but actually being there and seeing it and feeling the feel of that place, made it truly special. It was no doubt different than I had imagined it: richer, broader, more colourful. I had been afraid I'd only take a few pictures and leave, but instead I felt so at ease I walked up and down the street and took a lot of pictures. There turned out to be church at the end of the street, with a nice mosscovered celtic cross in the yard, just next to something more modern: a tree turning into a globe, made out of hands, with a fire inside. It must've been meant to be enormously meaningful, however, I didn't quite get it. I guess old symbols just work better for me.

I then made my way to the Garden of Remembrance, which – in spite of hobo bums and tourist bums and an Indian-styled person chanting “harimen harimen harimen”- still manages to remain something of a, by lack of a better word, hallowed place. The leaders of the Easter Rising were held here, before being trnaported to jail and shot. Now, it's a place that commemorates Irish freedom fighter, or, as it's said in the plate near the statue, 'the generation of the vision'. There's a cross-shaped pond, with mosaics of ancients weapons: spears and swords and a shield with boars. I'd have to look it up, but I'll wager it was some grand Irish hero of old who bore boars on his shield. At the end, there's a statue of the Children of Lir, in the middle of there transformation from human to swan. Apart from Deirdre, so aptly named Deirdre of the Sorrows, the Children of Lir is the saddest tale Irish legends have to offer. So there you have it: utter heroism and utter grief; remembrance of heroes and deeds long gone to remember heroes and deeds not so long gone, but all the more shattering. Remembering, you can leave it to the Irish allright.