At the Edge of Ireland Read Free Page B

immigrant from Nigeria who had been sent to manhandle our luggage along almost half a mile of sidewalks to a tiny, disheveled apartment that was to be our home for a few days. We complained vehemently about the garage, the luggage system, and the apartment and—our first break of the day—we were rewarded with far larger and newly refurbished accommodations.
    And it was not a good idea to go in search of the Irish tourist office. “Sure, it’s just a little stroll down the street and across the bridge,” said the girl at the hotel reception desk. But it turned out to be a very long hike, and the office wasn’t there anyhow. It apparently had been closed up for weeks and vanished without leaving so much as a relocation address (a rather odd debacle in a country so dependent upon the goodwill of tourists).
    And it was not a good idea for me then to look at the map and say, “Well, why don’t we have a stroll into town…It’s just a short walk across St. Steven’s Green.” It was, in fact, a major ambulatory expedition along broad streets lined with officious-looking, Corinthian-columned, neo-Stalinist monoliths until—ah! the relief of it all—we suddenly entered that oasis of green calm. There were bubbling fountains, chirpy choruses of birds, and cool shade beneath enormous oaks and beech trees whose branches curved gracefully to caress velvety grasses and vibrant flower beds. A small sign announced we had discovered—almost by chance—this beautiful twenty-two-acre Manhattan Central Park in miniature created around 1880 courtesy of the Guinness family, prime doyens of Dublin’s affluent aristocracy.
    Statues abound here—including (of course) James Joyce, a Henry Moore memorial for W. B. Yeats, and a huge monument to Wolfe Tone, one of Ireland’s greatest nationalistic leaders. A band was tuning up on the delicately filigreed bandstand. But most appealing were the people—locals sprawled on the lawns eating their sandwich lunches, lovers nestling and nudging beside the winding footpaths, travelers of all ethnic and national origins slowly wandering and wondering at the encyclopedic array of plants and trees—and Anne and me, utterly beguiled by this mellow, magical place.
    The mellowness ended abruptly as we emerged on the pedestrianized Grafton Street, whose gay (in all its interpretations) intimacy, retail hoopla, street-busker rowdiness, and crowded youthful brouhaha, complete with tumults of giggling teenettes zigzagging about with hen-party abandon (if you’ve never seen one of these events—don’t!), made us realize that, finally, we had found the heart, or at least one of the three hearts, of Dublin. And although it was not a good idea to have left the umbrella back at the apartment because of regular tumultuous downpours of spring rain, we still laughed and hugged in delight at finally sensing the enticing people-powered spirit of the city.
    And where better to celebrate our belated arrival in this place of creators, writers, con artists, and cock-a-jays but at John Kehoe’s little pub on Anne Street South right next door to the tiny and oh so gorgeously redolent Sheridan’s Cheese Shop. (This immediately became our favorite retail focus, with the possible exception of the nearby Marks & Spencer Food Hall.) And what a greeting we received at that pub, one of over a thousand within Dublin’s city limits. People turned and smiled; the barmaid welcomed us as if we’d been regulars for years, and in no time at all, our very first beautiful, black, smoky-flavored, cream-topped pints of Guinness were set before us. Although here I exaggerate a little. It wasn’t really “in no time.” It was actually quite a few expectancy-laden minutes because we’d forgotten the ritual three-stage (sometimes even four) process of stout pouring, whether it be Guinness, Murphy’s, or Beamish, the three