After decades of dreamy Irish fantasies – those lilting voices! – I’ve finally arrived.
[Warning, numerous literary references headed this way.]
So far, I’ve tapped my feet to live Irish music in a rowdy pub; crossed the Liffey by Ha’penny Bridge; joined a reading of Joyce’s Ulysses at Sweny’s (and got my bar of lemon soap, as all pilgrims must); walked in the footsteps of Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, and William Butler Yeats; heard loads (and loads) about Saint Patrick; and visited Dublin Castle, where I spotted non-fiction versions of Tana French’s Dublin Murder Squad detectives. Wowza!
Not once have I heard “top a the mornin’ to ya,” but lots of “oh he’s a feckin’ idjet.” Perhaps I’m in the wrong neighborhoods.
Here are some photos for your enjoyment.
Live all you can. It’s a mistake not to.