The return...
The disadvantage of a long weekend is that it’s just long enough for you to feel like you are actually on a proper holiday; then you have to come home.
Although we have most of Saturday to sightsee before catching our flight, it still has that depressing ‘it’s Sunday and I’ve got to go back to work tomorrow’ feel to it, so much of our ‘ooh, look at that’ comments have an enforced jollity to them as we try and pretend that we are not sad to be leaving so soon.
We do more wandering. The weather is grey and drizzly – a perfect excuse for finding another cute pub, reading the papers and necking more Guiness. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t live in Dublin – as the drink is more like a meal I would end up an anorexic alcoholic.
We slouch back to the hotel in the afternoon to get our bags – wave goodbye to the Dergvale hotel and its funeral meal accompaniments…and then goodbye to the tall pointy thing in O’Connell Street that makes people bump into other people whilst staring at how high it is and continuing walking.
We look like seasoned professionals on the bus this time – correct change ready and waiting in hand as the bus pulls up (strangely on time as well – is it only England who cannot fathom this public transport malarkey?).
The airport looms into view, and the waiting lounge becomes our home once more. It does supply very good cake however, and we munch contentedly as the clock ticks on. We board the plane on time, the plane takes off on time and we land slightly before we are meant to – are the Irish pilots on some kind of bonus scheme for minutes saved?
It is grey, cold, wet and miserable in England. Our dejection at being home is compounded when (after ringing the parking people to let them know we are back, and being confidently told that the minibus will be there in 5 minutes to pick us up) we discover that they have told 47 other people the same thing. The ensuing fight to get on the bus is equivalent to old ladies at a jumble sale after they have been told that there is a pair of good quality gardening slacks on the clothes stall. We admit defeat on the first one – but develop a good tactic to ensure we get a seat on the second. He stands with the bags at one end of the layby – I stand with tickets at the other. The bus arrives and we board it from different ends in a way that the SAS would be proud of – steely-eye staring at the opposition, thrusting elbows and me shouting ‘go, go, go, go!’
We try not to look at the open-mouthed innocents left standing on the pavement for the second time – in the hard world of airport pick ups it is survival of the fittest… and I feel that we have established our place in the food chain.
We pick up the car, and get going – I make a point of reminding him that this trip had been my idea, and paid for by my bank account, so out of courtesy he should return the compliment…I quite fancy Barcelona next time...
Stay out late tonight? That will be a coddle....
We conclude that last night's late meal seemed to have contributed to our inability to keep our eyes open, and so an earlier start tonight might enable us to see some of Dublin's night time festivities.
As we had such a huge breakfast we are both happy about combining lunch and dinner into a mid-afternoon meal which should then leave us clear to go back to the hotel around 5pm to get ready to come back out and hit the pubs, and that way hopefully manage to stay awake past midnight.
We decide that it would be rude to wander through Temple Bar without sampling another Guiness, so we stop off in The Vat Bar (which gets its name from name from the vat house in the Guinness Brewery in St. James Gate where Guinness is stored in large copper vats). He gets very excited when he discovers 'the snug', which seats the two of us very cosily - and we happily while away an hour drinking and listening to a bizarre jukebox of diddly-diddly Irish music interspersed with 80's synthesiser hits.
Around 3.30pm we decide that we could force a meal down, and so the snug gives way to Gallagher’s Boxty House, one of those restaurants that feels so homely I honestly believe I could walk into the kitchen and find my mum cooking merrily away. (Glass of sherry in hand of course....)
After braving the icy wind between the pub and here, sitting by the crackling fire is bliss, and a glass of red wine plus a tureen-full of Murphy's Irish stew leaves me feeling warm and less able to fit into my trousers. He has the Dublin Coddle - a ham, sausage, potato and onion casserole that keeps him quiet for the best part of half an hour. We amuse ourselves by watching a middle-aged woman trying not to be embarrased by her extremely drunk and incomprehensible father, who is abusing the waiter for not having some kind of rare flan on the dessert menu.
So, we're fed and watered, and for the moment warm. Before the 'after-dinner snooze' feeling takes us over we force ourselves outside again, and head back to the hotel. On entering the reception we say hello to a man behind the desk, who informs us that we should stop off at the 'lively' and 'party-like' hotel bar before we go out again. So we do.
It's hard to tell in Ireland what people are celebrating - clothes and atmosphere seem to be the same for weddings and and for wakes. But there are a lot of people in suits in the bar - all who know each other, and all who are switching between solemnity and hilarity in alternate and somewhat disturbing turns.
We sit in the corner with our drinks, listening to how nice a room full of Irish accents sound - can't imagine sitting in a pub in Basingstoke and thinking the same thing somehow...
It is getting close to 7 o'clock, and so far our pub crawl has taken in...the hotel bar. We leave, and walk down the hill towards the city centre - stopping on route at the smallest pub in the world, and one I imagine that is usually home to regulars only. When I order a vodka and lemonade he empties a measure of Smirnoff into a glass, then gives me a litre bottle of lemonade for me to top up as and when. If he had left me the vodka bottle as well, I would see no reason to leave. Ever.
The next place is about as far away from my images of cosy Irish pubs as I could possibly have got. Large and open-plan, I am the only woman in there - not something I normally complain about - but we are the only ones under 65 as well. In my very generalising way, I imagine that the men in there have been sat with a pint of bitter in their hand since opening time, and who use the pub as a male bonding area to escape their tyrannous Irish wives who stand on doorsteps with rolling pins. Or something like that. And everyone was watching Eastenders on the television in the corner.
After spotting my favourite sign of the holiday so far (above the door to the male toilets - 'No prams allowed in here'...) we move on again. Winding our way (increasingly more unsteadily) towards Temple Bar, we stop in various pubs on route, before ending up merrily tapping our feet to an Irish band in a huge pub that still retains all the features of the bank it used to be. Prices have also obviously been kept in line with inflation as well...
We actually manage to stay out until around 1am, before we admit defeat and head back. We agree we have had a great night, but we worry that tomorrow morning won't feel as though we have really been out. Ok, so we might be able to boast a hangover, but with the smoking ban strictly in force over here, our clothes are not going to be infused with that lovely stale tobacco smell....
Breakfast with the Pope
After a comparatively comfortable sleep (the heating turned itself off and refused to come back on again, so the room felt a little like how I imagine a night in the freezer compartment of my fridge would feel; and him waking up violently around 2am thinking that an imaginary psychotic burglar was about to join us) we made our way down to breakfast in good spirits.
We discovered that it is very hard to retain those good spirits whilst trying to eat bacon and eggs to a very loud radio broadcast of the Pope's funeral. Latin prayers, liturgical ceremonies and spectator wailing are not the most cheerful way to start your day - but any whispered jokes or stifled giggles were put paid to by the fierce expression of the waitress and her insistence that we have everything on the breakfast menu. Comparisons with Father Ted's Mrs Doyle would be old hat but even still......
Still, we left feeling full, if a little depressed after the dining room soundtrack. Stepping out into the bright and sunny (and ok, bloody freezing) Irish spring weather, we set off down the hill and found the Dublin Writer's Museum (yes, the map had moved it several streets away, but we still found it) which was fascinating. As was the Old Post Office, Trinity College and all the other fantastic buildings that Dublin has to offer. Yes, yes - lovely architecture and all that, but best of all for me however, were the pedestrian crossings in the town. Display boards on the traffic lights that counted down the number of seconds until you could safely cross the road (Why? Are people really that impatient? '23 seconds until I can cross the road? Sod that for a game of soldiers, I'll stay on this side thank you very much!') and excellent beeping noise (it has an urgency to it reminiscent of the final round on a quiz show) - that was a constant source of amusement to me. I have a feeling that the novelty wore off for him quite early on, but I'll definitely be starting up a campaign to introduce them to the UK/the South of England/Dorset/Bournemouth/my road as soon as possible.
Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ellipse/
A double room in the Bates Motel? Certainly Madam.
After reluctantly leaving our safe haven (why does sitting in a pub feel more like home than home sometimes?) we embark onto the adventure of finding our hotel. On my map it looks perfectly simple to find but we know now that that doesn't mean anything. And so it proves. Round the bend to the left, under the bridge, up the hill and it's on your right is what it says. After applying ourselves to the map's twisted logic we discover that it's actually round the bend to the right, nowhere near a bridge, down a hill and to the left. Still, we made it, although at this point we haven't seen the inside of the place yet.
We have a history of staying in 'interesting' hotels. In Liverpool for New Year 2004 we had a room with a door that didn't fit the frame, wooden slats on the floor that slid about when you walked on them, wardrobes with no fronts, and a huge vent between us and the next room which meant we had to spend an hour listening to the occupants crucifying a selection of Kylie hits. In London we chose one that looked like the Ritz on the website, but actually turned into a Travelodge once you were past reception. This one was my favourite, purely for the 'Welcome Brochure' that we were given on arrival. This solemnly proclaimed that guests were allowed no more than two of the bar's 'special' Bloody Marys, and were also not permitted to invite 'ladies of the night' to their rooms. Disappointingly we obeyed the rules, and did neither.
So when the Dergvale Hotel (chosen as I hoped the strange name might indicate further weirdness) turned out to be relatively normal we felt a little deflated. If we'd known then about breakfast tomorrow we needn't have worried...
After settling in (i.e. he unpacks everything he is carrying and puts it in the correct place; I figure out how the television works) we plan our big Irish craic. Partying all night, drinking the bars dry - off into the Dublin evening we go!
....................
We are getting old. We find a superb Italian restaurant (hmm, lost the Irish connection immediately there, didn't we?), eat and drink wine until his credit card refuses to pay for anything more and then find a pub for the first pint of the night. And the last as it turns out. Half past ten, and you can tell that we are both sat there hoping the other will yawn, so that we can say 'Oh dear, are you feeling tired? Well, although I was hoping to stay out longer, I really don't mind if you need to go to bed'...
Eventually I give in and admit that I really could do with going back to the hotel. He agrees, and we start walking back, having conversations that start with 'In all fairness, we have been up since 5am', or 'Travelling really does take it out of you'...
Photo credit to http://www.flickr.com/photos/dogfael/
Pen shops that masquerade as pubs
The bus deposits us in O’Connell Street – a huge road that goes straight through the city centre. ‘Which direction shall we head in?’ he asks, and I proudly pull out the home-made map that I spent an hour printing out, chopping up, lining up and sellotaping together yesterday. Which would be perfect if the internet map company hadn’t decided to move various features of Dublin to different places, making our journey to Temple Bar a lot more confusing. He immediately goes into ‘aah, bless you’ mode – implying that the map company couldn’t possibly be wrong, and that I’ve obviously tried very hard, but messed up with my cutting and sticking. My teeth wear down to stumps as I painstakingly point out that the series of references around the sides of the map are all aligned correctly – therefore the fact that Trinity College appears to now sit snugly on the banks of the Liffey is not my fault. He reads my narrow-eyed, lips-pursed expression well, and decides not to offer any further reasoning. He’s learning.
Our bags are feeling heavier now, our legs more tired. Hallucinations involving pints of beer beckoning me begin dancing in front of my eyes, so the relief of a friendly-looking pub straight ahead brings welcome relief. We walk in. It is a shop selling pens. We walk out and try the next one. A bag shop. Hmmm. Why do all their shop fronts look like pubs? It can’t be in the hope of accidentally enticing people in…‘Well I really wanted a beer, but actually, while I am here I could do with a packet of biros and a fountain pen…’ Three more tries later (a gentleman’s outfitters, a stationers and another pen shop) and we go through a door to find a bar, pumps, optics and a barman. We’ve arrived.
Our order is placed, the Guinness is poured. We wait. It takes time to pour the perfect pint, but it is worth it. Clichés aside, it truly does taste better here than at home. It is a different colour, a different texture, a different flavour. Our travel troubles forgotten, we sit down by the window, watch the people outside, and drink; smiling.
Photo credit to cutebutstupid on Flickr.
City Centre or bus(t)...
Having only hand luggage increases the smugness factor that is already sky-high after another flight survived. No waiting for an age at the baggage reclaim (watching my suitcase crash on to the carousel while I wince at the thought of all the breakable objects inside) – nope, we just swan right through Customs, and hit the fresh Eire air.
That feeling fades pretty quickly outside the airport however, as we realise that to get a bus to the city centre requires you having the exact money for the fare. Having just arrived in a different country, we only have notes, which the bus driver (with more than a hint of jobs-worthyness, I note) refuses to accept. This is the first time I have ever been refused payment of something for having too much money…!
Another 19 minutes of frustration; shops that won’t change money and mental arithmetic as we try to work out what to buy to give us the requisite change – finally a sweet Irish shop assistant tells us that we could actually buy tickets from her that will entitle us to a whole hour and a half of trouble free Irish bus fun.
1440 seconds later, he is complaining that he doesn’t want to get off and see the sights of this amazing European capital city, he wants to fully exploit the remaining 66 minutes that he could be having bouncing around on the back seat of a public transport vehicle… My teeth grit for the second time today, and I point out the alternative: leaving the bus on a mission to locate a cold, proper Irish Guinness in a cosy pub. I win.
0 - 470 mph in 20 seconds
An hour and a half later we are sat in the departure lounge, having read every English newspaper published that day (trying to ignore the seemingly endless articles about planes falling apart around the world), eaten our weight in crisps, and exhausted the fun to be had with electrocuting each other using the 'charging up your feet on the nylon airport carpet' technique.
Finally we board, and once I have been securely strapped into my seat in the vain attempt to prevent myself running down the aisle and begging the tired-faced stewardess to let me off again, (as I always want to do) the plane revs its engines and we move. About 30 feet. It takes 55 minutes to do this. We watch 13 other aircraft nudge their way in front of ours and take off. The tail fin on each one begins to look more and more like a middle finger stuck up at us sneeringly as we sit impotently on the tarmac, and all the while I start to convince myself that the walls of the plane are gradually closing in on us. He looks at me curiously as I start the inevitable ‘eyes-welling-up’ routine.
A Dubliner had told me that pilots to Ireland like to make good time once they get going, and as we finally get clearance for take off this becomes apparent. In the style of a boy-racer waiting at a red light, the engine revs once more until it sounds like it’s going to explode, and we take off from an almost standstill. It normally takes me at least 30 minutes into a flight before I can relax enough to pretend I’m not several thousand feet above the ground – 20 minutes on this plane (as I am undigging my nails from the back of his hand) and the pilot is announcing over the intercom that we are starting the descent. Blimey.
The path to Dublin
Up at 5am, in the car at 6 and on our way as dawn breaks over the New Forest. On schedule as we accelerate onto the M4, enjoying the sunshine and the excitement of our latest adventure. Traffic gets heavier as we approach our junction – and my eyes constantly watch the seemingly increasing speed that the minutes are passing on the dashboard clock.
Eventually we crawl off the motorway. I’m trying to watch the cars in front, as well as following the directions, as he gets car sick when he tries to read in motion. Or apparently, at any time that I am driving. Get to the roundabout, see the name of the road we want and zoom off. Only the road we want goes in two directions on either side of the roundabout, and guess what? Sod’s Law dictates that we actually need to go the other way. He notices that I have chosen the wrong signpost to follow, but in his state of nausea has decided to let me work that out for myself. Wisely he also chooses to wait to tell me that until I am sat in a bar that evening with a drink in my hand….
After a mile and a half of Indian supermarkets and cut-price car dealerships when it should be airport parking I realise we are heading into central London. Pull up sharpish, 8-point turn (very small road) and foot down again. Back to the roundabout, try another direction (he is still keeping quiet about the road sign that is now waving at me to indicate the right way, but that my fog of panic about missing the plane is obscuring) – huge dual carriageway that obviously (now that I am on it) doesn’t go where we want it to. Thank goodness for mobiles…screech to a halt down a side road – looking green, he gets out to escape the car (and, I suspect my gritted teeth swearing) for a moment whilst I ring the parking company. I smack the steering wheel rhythmically with my forehead when I’m put on hold for 3 minutes whilst they attempt to figure out where the stupid cow that can’t read a simple map is.
20 minutes later we have negotiated the return journey on the dual carriageway, (only 2 red lights jumped, my personal best) gone the right way off the roundabout that I am now pledging I will never drive over again, and are handing over the car keys to the false smile of an overmade up receptionist. The minibus drops us outside Terminal 1, and the driver wishes us a good trip. We both snort sarcastically.
Not the greatest start to my ‘I’m treating you to a weekend away darling’ surprise, but we are here now. We check in, race to find out what gate we are departing from – and then try to laugh ironically when we realised the flight has been delayed for 2 hours…
