Even a short stay in Dublin is like walking into literary history, accompanied by music
Two things I resolved before arriving in Dublin: I would never eat blood sausage, and I would not leave town without having my first pint o’ Guinness stout in its city of origin.
One half of the pledge came true on our first night: Here I was at the Cobblestone, a self-described “drinking pub with a music problem,” listening to live traditional music with my first pint in front of me on the bar.
But I failed to hide my horror after my first sip of the foamy, room-temperature stout. The female bartender asked whether I’d like to try it again with a shot of black currant syrup. “It makes it easier for the ladies,” she said sotto voce as she “spiked” my forbidding dark brown drink.
Although I appreciated the sisterly gesture, the syrup didn’t make Guinness any easier for this lady. It was still nasty, just sweeter. I began to wonder if I had been too hasty in writing off the blood sausage.
Guinness was the only bad taste in my mouth after our three-night, two-day speed tour of Ireland’s capital city. My husband, Alan, and I learned that you can fall in love with Dublin even if you don’t have much time.
We were on the way home from five glorious days in Italy’s Umbrian countryside when we decided on a whim to extend the trip with two days in Dublin. I consulted my favorite free travel agent — that is, Facebook. Anybody been to Dublin, and how should we make the most of a short stay? Posting an appealing image of the Lucky Charms leprechaun was way more fun than any cat video.
The post led us to our virtual tour guide: Paul Gregg, an American artist working in Dublin. Family demands (that is, his 1-year-old son Paolo) prevented us from meeting during our stay. Still, thanks to email he was kind enough to steer us away from tourist traps while making sure we didn’t miss important highlights.
We sought Gregg’s advice on two other important matters: music pubs and fish and chips. He recommended the Cobblestone’s authentic free music sessions over the more touristy O’Donoghue’s or Temple Bar pubs and steered us from fish and chips haunt Leo Burdock (“too greasy”) to the “more civilized” Beshoff Bros., where we enjoyed fluffy fried haddock in a casual diner atmosphere.
We knew we wouldn’t have time for everything, but Dublin’s hop-on, hop-off buses made it easy to cover a lot of ground quickly and inexpensively.
Our hotel, the O’Callaghan Davenport, is conveniently close to the Merrion Square tour bus stop. Although more functional than elegant, the hotel is ideally located, and the price includes a full Irish breakfast buffet (crazy-good scones and oatmeal; still not brave enough for blood sausage).
By chance, we landed during the annual Dublin Theatre Festival, so our only real planning was to buy tickets online to Conor McPherson’s “The Night Alive” at the historic Gaiety Theatre as soon as we arrived at our hotel. Beyond that, we left our fate in the hands of Gregg, the hop-on, hop-off buses and the serendipity that brought us to Dublin during an almost-unheard-of run of rain-free late September days.
We bought two-day Gray Line sightseeing bus tickets from the hotel concierge and were off. We could walk to Trinity College and the Book of Kells, and the bus got us to a tour of the Old Jameson Distillery (we figured everyone else would choose the Guinness Storehouse), Beshoff’s and the bustling Temple Bar and Grafton Street shopping areas.
But we agreed that the highlight of our visit was a literary walking tour by one Gerry McDonald. Various walking tours are included in the price of the bus ticket, and as an English major with a particular fondness for James Joyce, W.B. Yeats and Oscar Wilde, I chose this one over pubs.
Because no one else showed up, we had McDonald to ourselves. This seemingly tireless and knowledgeable guide gave us the social history of Trinity College, dropped in on Davy Byrnes pub (a Joyce hangout) and pointed out Yeats’ birthplace in a row of swank town houses.
He told us that although outsiders call the land’s traditional language Irish Gaelic, most locals call it “speaking Irish.”
Even in stone, Wilde continues to lead two separate lives.
McDonald ended our tour at Sweny’s pharmacy, which figures in Joyce’s “Ulysses” and now is a Joyce bookstore and memorabilia shrine. I got to talking books with a volunteer at Sweny’s — like a character out of “Mary Poppins,” with a bright red flower in her bonnet — and she invited me to leave a copy of my 2014 novel “Dark Lady of Hollywood” to put on a top shelf alongside those of other visiting authors.
Imagine being invited to put my L.A.-centric paperback in proximity to rare early editions of Joyce classics. And I just happened to have a copy in my hotel room right across the street.
Call it the luck of the Angeleno.
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