My first Irish experience wasn't a good one. Stuck next to a loud, brash Irish lady in the Gatwick departure lounge. Her typewriter mouth was non-stop in my ear, putting me off reading Murakami. The irritating noise continued through the flight. Not until getting into a taxi with a charming, softly spoken driver did I manage to relax.
I wanted to be inspired. It was the city of James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, WB Yeats, George Bernard Shaw and Samuel Beckett. The thought of drinking the same bars, walking the same streets and just spending time in the same city that inspired them would, in turn, inspire an aspiring writer like me, right?
Driving through Dublin to Temple Bar (where Iona lives) I notice it looks exactly like a London suburb like Kilburn, sorry guys I know you wanted to shed your Britishness but Dublin is a little London. The architecture is Georgian and Victorian but without any charm. For the first time had I seen such beautiful buildings look so functional. And, I know I should've expected this, but there are rows upon rows of Irish pubs, where's the diversity?
The next day, I took the opportunity to get familiar with the city. Nothing is better than getting lost walking around the place. This is when you find those hidden gems - you can off the beaten track, even in a bustling city. Temple Bar was as stereotypical as banshees and leprechauns, however, parts of it were very Camden. Christchurch was littered with functional, working-class Victorian flats. Only a tiny gallery called Number 1 caught my eye.
I headed to St Patrick's Cathedral. Normally the cathedral is the jewel in a city's crown, I was thinking Wren's St Paul's, Gaudi's Barcelona cathedral and Notre Dame in Paris. St Paddy's, by comparison, looks more like the local church down the road. There was no architectural brilliance to the building, just piled bricks to like a church like structure.
I figured Dublin Castle would be a sight to behold, after all, it is a castle. However, it looked like how children draw castles, so I decided against it. It was then I stopped at Cafe Irie, which was a boho cafe serving the biggest sandwiches using homemade bread. It was aiming for a Caribbean feel but missed the mark a little, which just added to its charm.
St George's Market was what Americans would call quaint. It stayed true to its origins and was packed full of authentic Victorian character. I nearly got my fortune told (when in Ireland...) but given the current state of my life and mental wellbeing didn't think it was a good idea.
It wasn't until walking around Grafton Street that I felt I was in a city that was home to all those literary greats. Trinity Hall played an incredible centrepiece. Beautiful shops oozing with class and individuality. Lovely restaurants like the Trocadero, Cornucopia and a Japanese karaoke restaurant on Exchequer Street whose name escapes me, beautiful boutiques and a comedy club. My love was a restaurant/deli called Fallon and Byrne - it had an incredible selection of meats, cheeses and wine.
Although Dublin was disappointing, I had the most perfect and romantic night. Iona bought a bottle of Trebbiano D'abruzzo and a selection of local cheeses, we stayed in her flat on Exchequer Street, listened to John Coltrane and engaged in sparkling conversation that was deep, intelligent and insightful. It was perfect. If only I fancied her.
I also saw the suburb port town of D'Leary (?), where all of Dublin's well-to-do live. It was lovely despite the residence all looking like Hollyoaks extras. I was also taken up to the top of a mountain to see Dublin by night, it looked bigger and it was a wonderful taster of a more beautiful Ireland.
Dublin is overpriced and overrated. A city whose bitter cold surging up from the Liffey had hardened and weather beaten the faces of a less than sophisticated society. Perfect for a drunken stag do, not so good for culture vultures like me.
First published March 2008.
