50 Shades of Green

It’s a spectacular contrast to fly from the parched golden-brown of a Spanish summer to the vivid green fields and forests of the Emerald Isle. A patchwork of greens, bordered by darker green hedgerows and dotted with stone houses and barns – are we caught in the opening credits of ‘Father Ted’? Padraig kindly collected us from Dublin airport and we drove up to Newry, just across the border in Northern Ireland. By the way, there is now an expressway to Dublin, no longer the ‘rocky road’ of the old Republican anthems. Next day we woke to the sounds of birdsong, the sight of more green fields, hills and grand trees and the incomparable taste of Irish wheaten bread, Irish butter and a proper cup of tea! We were settled snugly in Padraig’s little stone house along with Caroline who was preparing to swim the North Channel, and Patrick and his son who were having a camping adventure in the camper van parked out the front. Up the road was another stone cottage, home to Padraig’s folks, Mickey and Bridgeen along with assorted grandkids, mates and family at various times. This was one of those great places where you never knew who was going to turn up to dinner, but they would be welcome anyway!

Bridgeen outside her cottage

Padraig was busy with the channel-swimming crew so we took the train into Belfast for the day - and what a welcome surprise that was. I think we must have been under the influence of newsreels of the Troubles from the 70s, but we were expecting a grim, grey wasteland of a city and it turned out to be anything but. Not that the past has been forgotten, but it has been integrated into a handsome and reinvigorated city. At this time of the year it was also filled with flowers, with each city block trying to outdo the others with planter boxes, hanging baskets and flower-filled parks. There are fine historic buildings and even the old hotspots of the Falls Road and the Shankhill Road are brightened by shops and cafes and of course their famous murals. The docklands are an interesting place, and a museum there commemorates the building of the Titanic (‘Sure she was in fine shape when she left here!’) On Bridgeen’s recommendation we headed for the Smithfield Markets for lunch, where we found all sorts of goodies including locally made pies, cakes, sausages and curries. Back for a lovely quiet night in the Newry countryside…

The next day Bridgeen took us in hand for a visit to the Cooley Mountains, commanding a great view from Slieve Foy over Carlingford and Greenore (yes, with the song running through our heads – ‘… and I’ll say farewell to Carlingford, and farewell to Greenore/ And I’ll think of you both day and night, until I return once more’).  And by the way, we had an excellent view across the ford to where ‘the mountains of Mourne run down to the sea’. There’s a lot to be said for knowing your Irish folk songs and stories by way of enriching your travels! The mountains remain quite wild, with wild flax, blackberries, raspberries and beautiful heather, along with peat bogs that are still harvested by hand. On a fine day you can see six counties from the summit. We enjoyed a delicious lunch down at Ruby Ellen’s Tearooms in Carlingford village, and I heartily regret not leaving enough room for cake, though I have it on good authority that the cakes are outstanding. We had a wander around the historic old town and introduced Bridgeen and Caroline to the art of Geocaching with a couple of good finds.

Peat harvest - wild flax

Sunday was a big day, with Mickey competing in the Belfast Iron Man and Bridgeen in the Belfast Harbour Swim. Both performed like champions, then, rather than collapsing for the afternoon they took us around to enjoy some of their favourite Belfast experiences – the Cathedral, a couple of beautiful historic pubs and hotels, and some great murals celebrating local culture.

On our remaining days in Newry we visited Camlough Lake, Padraig’s local swimming hole and site of the world record relay swim (one of his many remarkable achievements, along with solo English Channel and North Channel swims, ice swimming and much else); Bridgeen’s highly successful childcare centre, also the building site for Padraig’s newest venture, a pool and swim school; an ancient church and burial ground; a picturesque ruined castle – and of course several fine eateries. We spent the evenings around the Mallon’s ever-expanding dining table, or at one of the two favoured local pubs. On our final night we celebrated Caroline’s successful solo crossing of the North Channel (Ireland to Scotland) at Doyle’s Pub, which is also a funeral parlour! According to Padraig, it boasts Northern Ireland’s Grumpiest Publican, and he was in fine form. On our way out, he nodded towards five of his faithful customers and suggested that we take “this shower of shite” back with us to Australia – though on reflection he decided that they were such damaged goods they wouldn’t last five minutes - even the sharks wouldn’t have them. They all loved it of course!

When it came time to leave on the train to Dublin, we really felt as though we were leaving family. If all goes to plan, however, we’ll meet up again in Lanzarote in December!

The train journey took us along the coast and through more delightful green fields. We found our way to another great Airbnb, this time a lovely modern apartment right on the banks of the Liffey next to Phoenix Park. Getting to know our host, Cristina, a multi-lingual biochemist from Brazil, was one of the many pleasures of our stay in Dublin.

The Liffey

For me, Dublin is a city of literature, and of course it makes the most of this in targeting tourists, though many of its literary greats were not appreciated in their day. We saw the Abbey Theatre where playgoers rioted after John Synge’s “Playboy of the Western World” and again during Sean O’Casey’s plays - Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw avoided Irish audiences by staging most of theirs in England and Beckett saw himself as an internationalist; the many pubs that claim a connection with James Joyce, his alcoholic father, or his most famous character Leopold Bloom from Ulysses. Then there’s Yeats, Brendan Behan (more pubs), Oliver Goldsmith and my personal favourite, Jonathan Swift, so a pilgrimage to St Patrick’s Cathedral was essential. Swift was Dean of St Patrick’s and he is buried there, beneath the famous Latin epitaph that translates as “savage indignation can no longer tear his heart”. The church also holds several manuscripts and death masks, which somehow make the great satirist seem very present. We visited the Writers’ Museum which celebrates all these remarkable writers and more.  I learned that Laurence Sterne, another personal favourite and author of Tristram Shandy, also wrote in Ireland. Later we found the strange and remarkable poet Gerard Manley Hopkins’ grave in the Jesuit corner of Glasnevin Cemetery. I’ve always wondered how one small place managed to produce such a disproportionate number of writers (not even counting the songwriters) but just wandering the streets listening to the musical language, the humour and wordplay in conversations and shop signs, you start to get a sense of where it might originate.

Spring in Temple Bar

St Patrick's Cathedral

If you look carefully, she copped a bullet above the collar bone during the Easter Rising in 1916

Dublin is another wonderfully walkable human-scale city, full of cosy pubs, fine buildings, monuments and landmarks that recall its often tragic and violent past. We enjoyed a production of the musical Once and the classic pub night with traditional music at Nancy Hands, our local. And of course there was a lot we didn’t get to see – the massive Guinness factory from the inside, the Book of Kells at Trinity College, lots more theatre and music, not to mention seeing more of the countryside and the west coast – so we have no choice but to come back next year in the camper van!

Nancy Hands