Andalusia – 8. Seville on Another Day

The Alcazar is Seville’s fortress and royal palace, established in Moorish times. The fort here dates to the early tenth century. The Moors ruled from the early eight century until 1248 when conquered by Ferdinand III of Castile. Significant reconstruction began and continued through the centuries. Although little of the original palace remains, the original style persists in the many ornate courtyards and the Mudejar architecture. Mudejar means those who remained, referring to Muslims in Spain after the Reconquista. It is a fusion of Christian and Islamic art and architecture, a heady mix of Gothic, early Renaissance and the flowing tracery and distinctive detail of Muslim crafts. After 1492, the Cathlic Monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella renovated the palace as their main residence and it is still a royal residence today.

We queued in the morning for early afternoon tickets. Visits are restricted by number and entrance is on the hour. It costs thirteen euro, seven for over 65s. Entrance is through the Puerta del Leon (Gate of the Lion) which leads on to the Patio de la Monteria, the Courtyard of the Hunters who used to meet here before their hunts. The courtyard is dominated by Pedro’s Palace, which forms the focal point of the complex and includes the mighty Hall of the Ambassadors

Don Pedro’s Palace was built in alliance with the Moorish kingdom of Granada in the 1360s Pedro’s ally, Muhammad V, was the Nasrid ruler of Granada and supplied designers and craft workers who had also worked on the Alhambra. The Patio of the Maidens is a particularly fine example of Mudejar architecture. Formal gardens with fountains and pools were a notable feature of Moorish palaces, with greenery and shining water cooling the sunbaked setting, literally and aeshetically. The Gardens are truly an earthly delight, lying between the palace and the city walls. The Grotto gallery gives a great view over the gardens built above a stretch of the Moorish defensive wall in the 16th century. There’s a Garden of the Dance, and a Garden of the Poets alluding to the various arts that settled amidst the shading landscape. Further gardens have been added up to the twentieth century.

Leaving, we follow the palace walls through a charming ramble of ancient streets in this picturesque part of Santa Cruz. Sunburnt but softly rendered in pastels, there are welcoming intimate bars and cafes with the promise of music later on. The route leads on to the Murillo Gardens, named for the artist whose work is such a ubiquitous feature of Saville’s holy places. Bartolome Esteban Murillo was born in Seville in 1617 and became a leading painter of religious imagery. He is also well known for his informal paintings of contemporary street life, featuring a cast of flower girls, fruit sellers and street urchins. His paintings feature in major museums across the globe including the Prado, the Louvre, the Hermitage and the London National Portrait Gallery. He died in Seville in 1682

His park continues parallel to the Avenue Menendez Pelayo and there’s a monument for Columbus halfway along. Meanwhile the ornate carriages of La Feria’s finely clad aficionados trot past. We head for the Parque Maria Luisa, a huge green wedge of the city’s southside on the banks of the Guadalquivir. This was where the Ibero American Exposition of 1929 was held. The main pavillion at Plaza de Espana showcased Spain’s industry and technology. One of Seville’s signature buildings, it was designed by local architect Anibal Gonzales. Arranged in a semi-circle, it forms a fantastical montage of architectural styles facing onto a scenic moat. Here you can take a pleasure trip in a dinky rowing boat.

The arcades are packed with tourists, foreign and local, and a host of buskers and vendors. There’s a wedding party in full La Feria dress around the central fountain. In fact, the Exposition of 29 helped establish the traje de flamenco as a ‘traditional’ garb for the ladies of Spain. A young Flamenco group of musicians and dancers performs on the ground floor gallery at the main entrance. They are modern in style and substance, clad in uniform black, though this is a stylish mufti in the modern mode. The accousitcs are ideal for the percussive clapping and full bodied rhythm of the guitar

Returning through Arenal, we pass the famous Tobacco Factory. Seville was the first European centre for tobacco, the Spaniards spotting its benefits the moment Columbus stepped ashore in the Americas in 1492. The Royal Tobacco Factory is an 18th century building, bringing the various tobacco manufacturers under one roof, and one ruler. Since the 1950s the building has been the seat of the Rector of the University of Seville. Carmen, titular lead of Bizet’s opera, was a cigarrera here. Women were renowned for their skills as cigar rollers, and they replaced the male workforce in 1813. The fiery Carmen was a Gitano who lead the young soldier Don Jose astray, before dumping him for the dashing toreador Escamillo. The opera was first performed in Paris in 1875. Amongst its best known songs are L’amour est un oiseau rebelle, and the Toreador Song.

For early evening, we have booked a Flamenco show in Calle Cuna which runs parallel to Calle Sierpes close to Plaza Del Salvador. Teatro Flamenco Sevilla is an intimate theatre seating about three hundred people. They run several hour long shows daily. Flamenco grew out of the Gitano Barrio of Triana, on the west bank of the Guadalquivir. The folk form is internationally famous, a definitive Spanish culture. The singing is expressive, the guitar rhythms hypnotic, the interpretation of the dancers seductive, the whole making for a sensually charged and dramatic performance, felt as much as it is seen and heard. Traditionally, Flamenco was more of an ad hoc expression, similar to an impromptu Irish Folk session. The first flamenco cabaret bar was opened in Seville in 1842 and known as the Cafe Sin Nobre, No Name Cafe. These days Flamenco is more usually presented as a tablao, or show. Tablao refers to the stage floorboards. On the Boards, as Rory Gallagher would sing.

Our performance was at 7.30 and featured five dancers, one male, and a male and female vocalist. The guitarist was the natural leader of the troupe, although leading from the rear. The vocals were visceral. I couldn’t believe how their singing seemed to explode from inside my head. All performers contributed to the stacatto percussion, another startling feature of Flamenco. Talent, spectacle and a genuine passion permeated the performace. On the last few numbers, they and the audience got carried away, with plenty of high good humour, particularly the manic and brilliant guitarist. A great gig.

Afterwards we have a decent tapas at Plaza Alfalfa nearby. Around the corner from our hotel is the curiously named Plaza Cristo de Burgos. We decide to take a look, mindful that tomorrow we take a Spanish Train to Cadiz; but that’s another story. The small park has a statue of the great guitarist. The great guitarist being flamenco guitarist Manuel Serrapi Sanchez and known as Nino Ricardo. He was born in this square in 1904 and became a major influence on flamenco guitar technique. Paco de Lucia hailed him as the Godfather of guitar.

We say goodbye to Seville, from a rooftop bar above the Cathedral. The illuminations shimmer in the warm night air and it feels as if we ride above the city on a magic carpet. It all suggests a shot of Colombian espresso, a square of dark chocolate, the air scented with the smoke of a long Havana. Open a bottle of Osborne Sherry and enjoy the company of Compay Segundo and the sound of Guantanamera.

Yo soy un hombre sincero,

De donde crece la palma.

Y antes de morir yo quiero

Cantar mis versos del alma.

Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera,

Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera.

Guantanamera is a Cuban song from the poem by Jose Marti set to the music of Joseito Fernandez (probably). Look up the version by Compay Segundo with video of the noted guitarist enjoying the benefits of tobacco and drink in his native Havana.

Andalusia – 7. Seville

Touchdown at midnight in Seville airport. Step into a warm Spring night as taxis cruise conveniently to the kerb. It’s thirty five euro to the city centre, which is a bit steep; but it’s Feria, and you now how festivals eat money. Our city centre hotel is near six hundred euro for three nights, so we’re prepared. Feria is Seville’s biggest festival, where locals let there hair down, or tie it up, a fortnight after the serious religious and cultural devotion of Semana Santa. 

Our accommodation, La Pila De Pata is in the Old Town, Santa Cruz, within walking distance of the city’s main attractions. The room is attractive, with a timber ceiling, old style shutters, and a gigantic fan. There’s a small wrought iron balcony overlooking the narrow street, Calle Aldohinga. There are noisy neighbours across when we arrive, but hey, it’s Feria, and we’re dog tired and sleep easy.

Seville is the capital and largest city in Andalusia. Almost seven hundred thousand people live here on the banks of the mighty Guadalquivir River. Founded by the Romans and ruled by the Moors for five centuries from 700AD, in 1248 Castile conquered the Moors in the Reconquista. NO8DO is the city’s emblem. It is a rebus for No me ha dejado: she (Seville) has not abandoned me. Pronounced No ma dejado, the symbol 8 represents the trio of syllables madeja; a skein of wool. The legend is that King Alfonso X used the phrase thanking the citizens for standing by him against attempts by his son Sancho to usurp the throne. Alfonso ruled from 1252 till his death in 1284.

Seville lies fifty miles inland from the Atlantic and flourished as a river port in the late middle ages, particularly for imports from the New World. Silting of the river and other factors saw it decline in the eighteenth century and maritime power passed to Cadiz on the Atlantic coast further south. Ancient Seville lies largely within Santa Cruz. a warren of streets and lanes spreading north from the central area around the ancient fortress. Here you’ll find a cluster of magnificent buildings including the Alcazar, and the spectacular Cathedral. 

On our first day, we shimmy down from Aldohinga to Plaza Virgen de los Reyes. The Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See is six hundred years old and the largest gothic church in the world. The bell tower of La Giralda soars above. There’s a short queue for entrance, with a generous discount, almost fifty per cent for aul lads like me. Younger folk, like M, pay the full thirteen euro. The Giraldillo, the bronze statue depicting the victory of the Catholic Faith stands here, a replica of the weathervane at the top of the tower. La Giralda was originally the minaret of the Mosque, with Christian symbols added after the Reconquista. The Renaissance belfry and weathervane were added in 1598. The climb to the top is relatively easy, a ramp zig zags upwards at a moderate incline. The views are truly majestic. Even more exciting, the bells broke into full peal causing some to clutch their ears. The bells. The bells!

The Cathedral interior is mind bogglingly cavernous, on a scale that hints at science fiction besides a supreme exhaltation of faith. The crowds are well dispersed around its many treasures. Amongst these are the tomb of Christopher Columbus. He set sail in 1492, forging the route to the New World and making his first landfall on the island of Guanahani which he named San Salvador. Columbus was thus instrumental in the initiation of the lucrative trans Atlantic trade and more. A new world order grew, and such benefits as tobacco, potatoes and turkeys first came to Euope. Gold and silver too; and coffee, jazz and rock n roll. 

Columbus’s remains were interred in the Cathedral in 1513, seven years after his death. They had an appropriately peripatetic existence, being further interred in Hispaniola and Cuba before making their way back to Seville in 1898. The tomb is a catafalque, depicting a casket borne aloft by the Kings of Leon, Castille, Aragon and Navarre. 

The Vision of Saint Anthony by Bartolome Esteban Murillo from 1656 is in the Saint’s chapel nearby. There are eighty chapels within the Cathedral each host to a story, an ambience to absorb and admire. Outside, the Patio de los Naranjos is the courtyard of the original Mosque centered on a fountain. Here, the Muslim devotees would wash before prayer. It is a restful oasis after the sensory overload of the interior.

Back towards the Old Town, we stop in San Francisco Square for lunch. The Ayuntamiento, City Hall, lines the western side. This was built in 1534 and upgraded in the Neo Classical style in 1891. Over a drink we await our tapas, including Tortilla. But while the guide book refers to it as the ubiquitous Spanish Tortilla, we finish our drinks without it arriving. Moving on to Calle Sierpes, the street of the snakes, we get pizza slices for nourishment. Sierpes is a pedestrianised shopping street and perfect for the Spanish Stroll of early evening.

Hey Rosita! Donde vas con mi carro Rosita?

tu sabes que te quiero

pero ti me quitas todo

ya te robasta mi television y mi radio

y ahora quieres llevarse mi carro

no me haga asi, Rosita

ven aqui

ehi, estese aqui al lado Rosita

Spanish Stroll was a hit single in 1977 for Mink Deville, Willy Deville’s band, from their 1976 debut album Cabretta, a jacket of soft leather. Derived from the Spanish word for goat, it is in fact sheep leather. Bass player Ruben Siguenza did the spoken bit.

By early evening we follow the crowds across the San Telmo bridge over the Guadalquivir to Triana. Triana is said to be the cradle of Flamenco being originally the barrio for the Gitano community. Today it is a lively traditional area with riverfront bars giving great views of the city. To the south is Los Remedios, a more modern area which hosts another exuberant expression of tradition. The Feria de Abril is a week long fair held a fortnight after the Semana Santa. The locals don traditional attire and let their hair down, or tie it up, in a spree of drinking and dancing. The fairground is at the top of long, straight Calle de Asuncion.

The throng is going one way in early evening, and we are pushed along to enter through a huge gateway, bringing us into a garden of earthly delights. It is quite overpowering, a feeling the whole world is here, balanced between chaos and the vast underlying structure of community. There are a thousand tents or casetas for drinking, dining and dancing, welcoming a half million visitors per day. The casetas are mostly restricted access, for various clubs, associations and families but some are open to the general public and visitors. There is a horse and carriage parade making a colourful, traditional spectacle and further on is an amusement park known as La Calle del Infierno, or Hell Road. The week coincides with the start of the bullfighting season across the river at Real Maestranza, the twelve thousand seater bullring and one of the most iconic in Spain.

The evening serenity of Old Seville beckons. and we return across the river where the Torre del Oro guards the far bank. The tower dates from Moorish times when it was part of the city’s defensive walls. Built in 1220  the turret was added in 1760. There was once a twin tower across linked by a mighty chain to thwart enemy shipping. We find space at a restaurant on Calle Almirante Lobo, Admiral Wolf as we might say, and enjoy our meal al fresco as the sun sets behind the Tower of Gold. The sun sinks and illuminations blossom over the city. Later, we find the rooftop bar at the Cathedral Hotel to bask in the moon over magical Seville and raise a glass or two.

Athlone By Rail

Athlone lies bang in the centre of Ireland, straddling the mighty River Shannon. It is just a hundred and twenty five kilometres west of Dublin, and about halfway between Dublin and Galway. The railway line opened in the 1850s; the station here dates from 1859. There’s a train every forty minutes from Dublin’s Heuston Station and the trip takes an hour and a half. Galway is just under ninety kilometres further on, a little over an hour by rail. The western expansion of the railway system connects to Galway City and to Westport and Ballina in County Mayo. Athlone station lies north east of the town and it’s a pleasant walk into the centre via the Civic Centre. This is a sleek modernist campus built in 2005, a combination of civic buildings including the town hall and library, retail and housing. Seated at its focal point is a bronze statue of Athlone’s most famous son, Count John McCormack. It was made by Irish artist Rory Breslin in 2014, and very good it is too. 

Born in Athlone in 1884 McCormack became Ireland’s most renowned tenor whose repertoire ranged from Classic Italian Opera to Irish popular folk songs. Moving to Dublin, in his early twenties he nurtured James Joyce’s singing ambitions, persuading him to enter the Feis Ceoil in 1904 where Joyce got a bronze medal. Though Joyce would follow a different muse, McCormack became a hugely successful concert and recording artist. The songs of Thomas Moore feature strongly in his recordings, as well as patriotic airs and sentimental Irish ballads. He starred in the film Song o’ My Heart with Maureen O’Sullivan in 1930 and lived in a large estate in Hollywood.

He retired in 1938, but returned to live performance in support of the British and Allied war effort in WWII. Ill health forced his final retirement from the stage and he died at his home in Booterstown in 1945. 

There’s a bright gleaming light, guiding me home tonight, 

Down the long road of white cobble stone, 

Down the road that leads back, to that tumble down shack, 

To that tumble down shack in Athlone. 

This song was recorded by McCormack in 1919. Penned by Richard Pascoe, Monte Carlo and Alma Sanders it was also recorded by Bridie Gallagher and Bing Crosby

The Town Centre development opens onto Dublin Gate Street, part of the narrow main axis on the East bank leading on to Church Street. Here it contrasts charmingly with St Mary’s Church,(Church of Ireland). The Catholic St Mary’s is farther east heading out of the town. The street winds down to the bridge across the Shannon, the focal point of the town. Lough Ree, the largest lake on the Shannon, lies a few miles upstream to the North. Clonmacnoise, a major monastic site of the Middle Ages, is downriver. Built in the sixth century it flourished until the coming of the Normans, eventually abandoned in the 13th century with the development of Athlone as a defendable settlement. There are boat cruises you can take to visit.

Athlone has a population of twenty three thousand people. The name means Ford of Luan, from it’s founder, a shadowy figure. The Gaelic word Luan translates as Monday and may, perhaps, refer to the Moon. The idea of this fording place, midway along the great river, as the ford of the moon is poetic; but I am being fanciful. County Westmeath stretches along the East bank of the Shannon, however Athlone extends onto the West bank. It’s central location has long made Athlone strategically important 

Brian Boru massed his forces here and accepted the submission of the High King, Malachy II in 1001. This was the start of Brian’s push for power, culminating in his defeat of the Danes and their Leinster allies. He was killed in the battle’s aftermath, and his crown returned to Malachy. The first bridge was built in the twelfth century and the King Turlough O’Connor established a fort to defend it. The stone fort followed in 1200 in the reign of King John. The twelve sided Donjon, or central tower, survives. The rest of the current castle dates from a reconstruction following he Siege of Athlone in 1691. Then, Athlone Castle was a Jacobite stronghold defending Connaught against the Williamites. Besieged twice, it repulsed the first onslaught of ten thousand men following the defeat of James at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690, but fell to William and Mary’s army in July 1691. The invaders were under command of Dutch General Godard Ginkel with Jacobite forces under Patrick Sarsfield and French General St Ruth. One of the defenders, killed in defence of the bridge, Sergeant Custume, is commemorated in the naming of the local army barracks.

The castle is well worth a visit, with a museum covering the area’s rich history, including John McCormack, and interactive exhibits and models in period dress. Fabulous views over the river and town from the top of the tower.

Saints Peter and Paul’s Church is an impressive Athlone landmark on the West bank. Built in the 1930s in the Baroque Revival style by architect Ralph Byrne. The neo classical entrance is framed by twin stepped belltowers and the church is topped with a central copper clad dome. Inside are five stained glass windows from the Harry Clarke studio, made by Richard King after Clarke died in 1931. Adjacent is the Luan Art Gallery, a publicly owned contemporary gallery hugging the western bank of the Shannon below street level.

On the other side of the Castle, Sean’s Bar claims to be the oldest pub in Ireland. A 1970s renovation uncovered a wall of wattle and daub from the tenth century. Artefacts found there including coins have been dated back to 900AD. Apparently Brian Boru used to pop in for the odd pint. Mind, the price of the pint has gone up a bit in the meantime, so if you leave any change lying around it won’t lie around for a millennium. The current building dates back three hundred years. It’s a pleasant, cosy old style bar and a popular music venue. The entrance is in the shadow of the Castle and there’s pavement seating in the summer. The bar steps down a few levels towards the back of the premises, where there’s a beer garden which exits onto the quayside. 

Navigation on the Shannon was facilitated by the building of a canal in the eighteenth century. This was replaced by the current system of a weir and lock gates, south of the bridge in the town centre in the 1840s. The line of the old canal forms the western border of the town, and County Westmeath, but the canal itself is no more. The winding streets of the old town are pleasant to poke around and we came across a fine old house once home to the Count himself. It’s a long way from a tumbledown shack.

Returning to the East bank, the town’s gearing up for evening rush hour, comparatively speaking. We make our way out to the Golden Island Shopping Centre which opened in 1997. Nearby, Burgess Park beckons with woodland, walking trails, a playground and memorial garden. Sloping down to the Shannon, it is the ideal urban oasis. Sitting there in the early evening sunshine as people promenaded and relaxed, I was put in mind of Seurat’s great painting the Isle de la Grande Jatte. It just shows, that through the ages and across longitudes, people maintain a continuity, enjoying the pleasure of harmony amongst trees and flowing rivers, in the company of themselves or others.

Time to get the train back to Heuston. As a three hour round trip, the railway trip gives you time for a full day in Athlone. There are plenty of hotels too, and I must stay over sometime. Later in the year I plan to go all the way to the end of the line: Galway. Wow, I feel a song coming on. 

Maybe somewhere down the road aways (end of the line)

You’ll think of me, wonder where I am these days (end of the line)

Maybe somewhere down the road when somebody plays (end of the line)

Purple Haze

This song radiates sunshine and love, and time. Most of the ingredients you need. End of the Line was written by George Harrison, and included on the Travelling Wilburys’ eponymous debut album in 1988.

Well, it’s alright (alright), riding around on the breeze

Well, it’s alright (alright), if you live the life you please

Well, it’s alright, even if the sun don’t shine

Well, it’s alright (alright), we’re going to the end of the line

Boat Trip to Ireland’s Eye

Myself and my friend Paula booked a trip across to Ireland’s Eye. It’s something I had long wanted to do. In fact, I once harboured (ha ha) the ambition to visit all islands off the Irish coast, but that hasn’t happened and probably won’t. Still, it might make a good series. I’ve been on the Aran Islands (Inis Mor and Inis Oir), the Great Blasket, Garnish Island, Achill and Valentia. Attempts on the Skelligs have been jinxed, though I’ve sailed to within touching distance. 

Howth is served by Dublin Bus and Dart. The train station is adjacent to the harbour. Beneath the station is a pub, the Bloody Stream, serving good food and drink in its traditional interior, or al fresco on patios to front and side. The Bloody Stream plays host to annual birthday celebrations for Phil Lynott. Born on August 20th, 1949, he grew up in Crumlin, Dublin 12. As leader of Thin Lizzy, and sometimes solo, his singing and songwriting made him the top Irish rock star of the seventies. By the early eighties it all began to fade. Thin Lizzy disbanded in 1983. Philip’s solo career didn’t ignite, though the song Old Town, and its Dublin based video became iconic; something of a celebratory epitaph besides. He died in January 1986 and is buried at St Fintan’s Cemetery in nearby Sutton. The next bithday bash will be his seventy fifth.

Ireland’s Eye beckons. The island lies north of the Howth Peninsula, about midway along the coast of County Dublin. The name comes from the Danish for Ireland’s island. Monks built a church there in the eight century and for five hundred years this was the parish church for the inhabitants of Howth. Later a Martello Tower was built in 1803 to protect the coast from Napoleon. These days it’s for the birds, and day trippers.

Ferries to the island, and across the bay to Dun Laoghaire, leave from the West Pier. You can book ahead to secure your seats. The crossing takes ten minutes or so, and sailings are every hour. There are a number of options with different operators, averaging about twenty five euro, but if the weather’s fine plump for landing on and exploring the island.

The sun is shining, the wind is blowing, and Ireland’s Eye is truly an emerald isle sparkling in the choppy waters of the Sound. My friend Paula is waiting, and a busker is playing So Long Marianne as we get on board. Paula is a photographer and it’s amazing how a professional can organise the arbitrary molecules of life into coherent and somehow meaningful visual tableaux. So, I emerge from the pixels looking somewhat mercantile and derring do. There’s no hint of that inner fear in being suspended above a watery chasm while the descendants of predatory dinosaurs circle and dive from the skies. There’s Scandinavian blood in me for sure. Well, Scottish in truth.

I wish I was a fisherman 

Tumblin’ on the seas 

Far away from dry land 

And it’s bitter memories

We transfer to a smaller craft for landing. It’s surprising how much larger the island seems when you set foot on it. Although several disembarked, we were quickly alone. We made for higher ground. It’s a good climb to the top and, once elevated, you get that giddy feeling of being marooned on a small island. We attempted to scale the heights but this old goat wasn’t as sure-footed as of yore. I nearly took the fast route down to the beach. The weather was good for our visit, though not exactly desert island disc good. There are beaches and coves, wonderful views, cliffs and plenty of birds. The enthusiast can search for guillemots, razorbills, kittiwakes, cormorants, puffins, gannets and gulls. Remember, this is their territory, and they know it.

We make it back to the jetty in time to catch the return boat. We’re in an envelope of peaceful blue and sunshine; it feels like floating on forever. There’s grey seals in the sound and the harbour doing just that. Back on dry land, or land anyway, there are plenty opportunities for your drinking and dining pleasure along the West Pier. You can go for the basic, yet always beguiling, fish n chips with a bottle of suds, or perhaps go for more exotic seashell confections. There’s Beshoff’s, Crabby Jo’s, the Brass Monkey, Octopussy’s, the Helm, Baily Bites and Aqua. Howth can be your oyster, quite literally.

Castin’ out my sweet line 

With abandonment and love 

No ceiling bearin’ down on me 

Save the starry sky above

With light in my head 

With you in my arms

Fisherman’s Blues was written by Mike Scott and Steve Wickham in early 1986. A busker’s favourite, and one of my own, it was the title track of the Waterboys’ 1988 album.

Andalusia – 6. Twisting by the Pool

With five episodes so far in our tour of Andalusia, a couple of destinations remain. In April I will be going to Seville and Cadiz and I look forward to giving my account of those two fascinating cities. Seville is the capital and largest city in the region and dates back over two thousand years. Cadiz is more ancient still; one of the oldest towns in Europe. I will be travelling by plane, bus and train. Meanwhile, we will be taking a break in our hideaway in Elviria, Marbella. A break, for me, means doing nothing much at all. 

We’re going on a holiday now

Gonna take a villa, a small chalet

Costa del Magnifico

Yeah, the cost of living is so low

Scribbling is allowed, in whatever form I decide to record worthwhile memories. Some painting or prose, or both, will emerge. This acrylic is a moment captured last Spring in Elviria, just a few kilometres east of Marbella. That rippling blue rectangle is a familiar motif in Hockney’s Californian paintings and sum up that mood of ecstatic indolence at the heart of swimming pool culture. To be sure. There are a couple of musical equivalents; though less than one might suppose. Kate and Anna McGarrigle’s rendition of Loudon Wainwright’s The Singing Song is one and Nightswimming by REM another, if not quite the right time of day. Closest is Dire Straits, with Mark Knopfler’s Twisting by the Pool. A rare fun rocker from the bluesy Geordies, it is a retro take on the Spanish holiday boom for sun starved Britons in the early sixties. The song doesn’t appear on any of the band’s studio albums, and first surfaced as a single 1983. It was a firm favourite as an encore, as I witnessed at  Stadium gig in Dublin the early eighties.

Yeah (yeah), gonna be so neat

Dance (dance) to the Euro beat

Yeah (yeah), gonna be so cool

Twisting by the (twisting by the)

Twisting by the (twisting by the)

By the pool (twisting by the pool)

So, while I hope to be pumping ink with my biro, or painting my next masterpiece for over the mantelpiece; more than anything else I will be

Twisting by the pool (twisting by the pool) twisting by the pool (twisting by the pool)

We’re twisting, twisting by the pool, twisting by the pool, twisting by the pool

Twisting by the pool (twisting by the pool) twisting by the pool (twisting by the pool)

We’re twisting, twisting by the pool, twisting by the pool, twisting by the pool

Cork Revisited – 2

As a medieval settlement, Cork was a walled town west of Grand Parade, centred on what is now known, somewhat misleadingly, as Main Street. The official, and actual, main street, Patrick Street, is wide, but spectacularly curved. This actually follows the line of an old river channel in medieval times, the modern street being built on vaults over the water. 

Just off the west end of the street, you’ll find the English Market. With its butchers and bakers and candlestick makers this is a perfectly preserved urban market in the Victorian style. It actually dates back to 1610 when first established by the Protestant city council. The name evolved to distinguish it from the old Irish Market on Cornmarket Street nearby, now the Bodega. The present building complex dates from 1786, though it has had further significant alterations since. The main entrances at Patrick Street and Grand Parade were part of a Victorian makeover. The Grand Parade ornamental entrance was designed by John Benson in 1862. Within the covered market, the arcades converge at a central cast iron fountain ringed by a raised mezzanine with restaurants and cafes.

Patrick Street loops to an end at Grand Parade which is broad and straight. Like Patrick Street, it was once a water channel, the ancient settlement of Cork growing up on its west bank. Evening rush hour was approaching so we stopped for coffee and a snack at a place nearby, the Bean and Leaf, with a pleasant terrace from which to watch the world go by. On the far bank is Bishop Lucy Park, with remnants of the medieval citywall visible inside the entrance. It’s one of few parks in the city centre and dates only to 1985, when it was built to celebrate eight hundred years of city status. Around that time, myself and M holed up in Cork again at the end of a significant adventure.

It was our honeymoon, many moons ago. We stayed some days in Adare, County Limerick. Having left that frostbitten fantasy, we headed south on the midwinter roads. By Cork all had thawed and rain fell constantly on the rising waters of Cork city. We hadn’t a place to stay and booked into, and quickly out of, a dump on the outskirts of the city. Driving on into the rain and the city centre, we parked the car in Grand Parade and sought out a hotel there. They said they were full, as places tend to be in midwinter when two drenched hippies materialise in the foyer. We explained the situation and they clicked into gear. We got a nice room to the rear of the hotel. From the window, the illuminated cathedral of Saint Fin Barre sailed like a galleon across the night horizon. We would look at it occasionally through the rainsoaked pane. The hotel is now, I think, the Library.

But every time it rains

You’re here in my head

Like the sun coming out

Ooh, I just know that something good is gonna happen

I don’t know when

But just saying it could even make it happen

Cloudbusting by Kate Bush is from her 1985 album The Hounds of Love. It concerns a son’s love for his father, inspired by Peter Reich’s biographical Book of Dreams. But expressions of love can be appropiated to one’s own desire. 

Saint Fin Barre’s lies just across the south branch of the Lee. It is the Church of Ireland Cathedral for Cork. Begun in 1863 and designed by English architect William Burges. It is a Gothic Revival masterpiece. Twin spires frame the entrance and the massive central spire towers above the nave. The exterior creates an impression of grand scale despite a relatively small interior. It replaced the eighteenth century building, long derided as ‘a shabby excuse for a cathedral.’ Finbarr is the patron saint of Cork city, born in the mid sixth century, he was based at Gougane Barra, some miles to the west at the source of the River Lee.

North of the junction with Patrick Street leads into Cornmarket Street. This is sometimes referred to as Coal Quay, as it was once a quayside on a short canal leading out to the River Lee. The grand old Victorian building along the western side housed the original Cornmarket. This was converted to a corporation bazaar in 1843. Known as St Peter’s Market it occupied a half acre site with hundreds of market stalls. It now houses a food and drink complex, the Bodega, including the Old Town Whiskey Bar and several craft and retail outlets. There’s a vibrant street market on Saturday mornings

Cornmarket Street leads us back to the north branch of the river where we can cross to Shandon, its packed slopes crowned by Shandon Church with its famed belfry. This is a Cork icon, its distinctive stepped spire rising above the north banks of the Lee. A steep climb up Widderling’s Lane brings us to Dominic Street. The area maintains its ancient atmosphere, almost Mediterranean, with the packed housing streets set atop each other.

The Firkin Crane Arts Centre occupies its own little island. The distinctive rotunda was designed by John Benson in 1835 for the Cork Butter Exchange and now operates as a centre for theatre and dance. The Butter Museum is across the road. In the early evening, the empty urban space was oddly rememiscent of De Chirico’s haunted paintings. At one end of square there was an attractive Syrian restaurant, a few haphazard tables strewn outside, awaited the evening’s custom.

The Church of St Anne (CofI) nearby was built between 1722 – 26. The Church’s carillion is famous, and visitors can contribute from a choice of melodies. The eight bells were cast in Gloucester and have been ringing out over the city since 1752. As with kissing the Blarney Stone, ringing the Bells of Shandon is something of a rite of passage for any visitor to Cork. We did so on a visit in the nineties. Myself and M, and the boys, camped in Blarney and took the opportunity for a quick trip to Cork which is just 8km away. The road to Bantry connects directly to Shandon.

The Church is set village style on its own grounds and built in red and white sandstone, the Cork colours. The tower rises to 120 feet, surmounted by a further fifty foot with its pepper canister topping. Climbing through the rafters we emerged atop the bell tower to sway above the dizzying streetscape. I still get vertigo just thinking of it. The main object, of course, is to ring the Bells of Shandon. The ringing apparatus is located below on the first floor, and a nice man called Alex introduced us to our simple task. A varied popular repertoire is supplied, and, if my memory serves me well, my contribution was the Beatles, All You Need is Love (Lennon/McCartney, 1967)

All you need is love

All you need is love

All you need is love, love

Love is all you need

Cork Revisited

Cork was built on an island between two branches of the River Lee. It means marshy place and is very prone to flooding. There were monastic and Viking settlements here, but is first noted as a city in the reign of King John, Lord of Ireland, in the late twelfth century. I regularly passed through on the way to family holidays on the south coast, and later with friends in those halcyon days; heading for Kinsale, or other vague destinations, by Hook or by Crooke. We once camped near Shandon, but more salubrious accommodation would come. 

I stayed here in 1980 for the Jazz Festival and the Labour Party Conference. We stayed up late at the Metropole which had formed into one of those festival club montages, wandering from room to room as different jazz performances floated from doorways – solo piano, bebop combos and goodtime trumpet playing band. The Jazz Festival was born in 1978 when Jim Mountjoy, marketing manager of the Metropole, was looking for something to coincide with the new October  bank holiday introduced by Labour minister Michael O’Leary the previous year. This often coincides with Hallowe’en, the ancient Celtic festival of the dead. Wild and windy, and wonderfully spooky, what better time for a festival of the devil’s music in a southern delta. The sponsors then were John Player whose cigarettes provided an excellent companion to all forms of music, though perhaps forever associated with Procol Harum’s A Salty Dog.

We sailed for parts unknown to man

where ships come home to die

no lofty peak nor fortress bold

could match our captain’s eye

Ella Fitzgerald headlined at the Cork Opera House that year, and for forty five years the festival has featured the cream of local and international jazz, and its children too.

Our accommodation then was more modest than the Met. When the last note sounded in the wee small hours, we got our car and headed south of the river. Darkness still reigned though the rain had ceased. However, that most Corkonian of downpowers must have burst the dykes and the streets turned to waterways. Back in Venice again, at the wheel of my own motor launch, a Renault 4 to be precise, I drove milk float slow with water halfway up the hub caps.

This time we take the train. There’s a train every two hours from Dublin Heuston, and the journey takes about two and a half hours. The frequency ensures it’s not too crowded. I avail of my free travel pass, with M being my designated minder. We arrive in Cork Kent and make for McCurtain Street. The Isaacs Hotel is opposite the larger Metropole hotel. McCurtain Street itself is north of and parallel to the River Lee. 

At the foot of McCurtain Street, St. Patrick’s Hill takes us down to the river. This is the north branch of the River Lee, embracing Cork city centre on its low lying island. Patrick Street, across the bridge, is the wide and winding principal street. It has the most ugly street lighting you are likely to see, a deranged bundle of oblique scaffolding and spotlights which clash with the elegant streetscape. 

Cork is Ireland’s second city. Recent boundary changes have seen its population surge towards the quarter million mark. Back in the day, in the seventies and eighties, it held barely a hundred thousand souls. Walking the city streets in late summer, that increase is palpable. There’s a buzz abroad.

Narrow lanes lead off Patrick Street, boasting such colourful names as Drawbridge Street, Bowling Green Street and Half Moon Street. The names evoke an olden atmosphere and this pervades much of the streetscape too. There are plenty of cafes and bars with outdoor seating, bohemians, students and tourists mingling with the ever growing throngs of modern shoppers.

The Crawford Municipal Gallery is within this warren. The Crawford is always a port of call for myself and M when in Cork. William Horatio Crawford, brewer and philanthropist (a good mix) funded the art college here. Beamish and Crawford produce the famous Beamish stout, a black ale with creamy head just like Guinness. Originally the building was the Custom House for Cork, built in 1724, it later was home to the Royal Cork Institution. The Art School was rechristened for its benefactor in 1885 and became the Crawford Municipal Gallery in 1979 with the relocation of the art college to new premises.

We are returned to our own college days inside the door where there’s a permanent display of casts of classical Greek and Roman statues by Italian Antonio Canova. Donated by George IV (as Regent) these came originally from the Vatican. Most spectacular is Laocoon and His Sons, which was also an emblem of our own college. It dominated the entrance to NCAD, then in Kildare Street alongside that other parcel of rogues, the Dail or Parliament. The Crawford also includes work by leading Irish artists: the stained glass of Harry Clarke and Evie Hone and paintings by William Orpen, Jack B Yeats and Nano Reid. Crawford College painters, James Brennan, Henry Jones Thaddeus, and William Barry also feature. The Zurich Prize Portrait exhibition was the main visiting attraction. We had seen it in Dublin but it was well worth seeing again.

From the Crawford on Emmet Place, we head along Paul Street to a small plaza ooutside the shopping centre: Rory Gallagher Place. There’s a sculpture by Geraldine Creedon which depicts a swirling guitar emitting streams of Gallagher songs. Gallagher is the much loved blues guitarist who founded Taste in the sixties. For my generation, seeing Gallagher play was an early rite of passage. Always on the road, his annual stadium gig, and the odd festival appearance were a must for the young rock fan. Gallagher was actually born in Donegal, in the later forties, but his family moved to Cork when he was five. As a teenager he played with the Fontana showband, but was ever moving towards the Blues-rock scene. With the power trio Taste, he enjoyed live success in Belfast clubs, and achieved chart success with their first two albums, Taste and On the Boards. His solo career brought him guitar hero status, but his fame waned in the eighties. He died in 1995, aged forty seven and is buried at St Oliver’s Cemetary in Ballincollig on the city outskirts.

On the Boards is Gallagher at his best. There’s a jazz sensibility in his playing and arrangements. Saxaphone, played by Rory, adds a particularly moody dimension. Released in 1970, it was their last album as Gallagher went solo after the Isle of Wight festival. What’s Going On was a hit single. Gallagher’s disregard for such fame didn’t  help his career, or indeed musical development. Railway and Gun is another number that showcases his range as a guitarist and composer.

Keep your railway and your gun

Just leave any time you choose

Tell me what you hope to find

I’ll tell you what you’ve got to lose.

Porto, Oporto

I visited Porto last September, my arrival coinciding with that of a rainfront which accompanied me for the duration. My accommodation, Sunny Balcony, Trindade, had an extensive, recessed balcony along the front wall giving me a good, sheltered panorama of the city in the rain from the fourth floor. Below my window was an overpass, taking the ring road below across a junction connecting to the city’s main street. It was busy, but cosy, there’s something soothing about the hiss of urban traffic in the rain. Visually too; the traffic forming into a sinuous illuminated snake. At ground level, the overpass provided shelter, and car parking. I passed under regularly between my accommodation and the restaurant across the road, and on to the city centre nearby.. The scene reminded me of an artwork I’d found many years ago in a calendar. The artwork, from the seventies perhaps, showed a similar underpass in an unnamed city, probably French or Belgian, the noirish nocturne suspended in a monochrome blast of chromium urban lighting. Porto was a calling for me to echo that painting.

In this acrylic I am using a different palette, with a more structured, geometric composition. I used a red ground, as the night is mild despite the rain, and the street lighting had a pinkish tinge. This is balanced against a cool grey for the city fabric with a dash of blue on the rainsoaked cobblestones. Of course, being me, it’s raining.

Why does it always rain on me?

Is it because I lied when I was seventeen?

Why does it always rain on me?

even when the sun is shining, I can’t avoid the lightning.

That song, by Scottish band,Travis, is taken from their 1999 album The Man Who. Lead singer, Fran Healy wrote it after a failed sun holiday in southern Israeli . Tell me about it. I have sometimes wondered if I could rent myself out to drought stricken regions as a rain god. Then again, there have been sunny days. Too many of them and you start missing the rain. So, let it fall, it washes the world and softens the sharpness of city life. And is often beautiful.

Howth Head Trip

North Dublin’s Sandy Shore – 11

Howth Head frames the Northern extremes of Dublin Bay, rising to 170 metres. Howth is from the Danish, Hoved, meaning headland. So, Howth Head is something of a tautology. In Finnegans Wake, James Joyce imagined it as the head of the giant Finnegan, with his feet in Chapelizod, and the Wellington monument in Phoenix Park indicating some happiness in between.

Howth has a population of over eight thousand, though is still colloquially referred to as a village. The commercial centre nestles on the north facing hillside near the end of the peninsula, fronting a large harbour with a fishing fleet, small cruise boats, and a marina. There’s a startling view across the harbour and the narrow, choppy sound to the deserted island of Ireland’s Eye.

At the eastern end of the waterfront, the road rises towards the town centre by way of Abbey Street. St Mary’s Abbey and its graveyard commands the height above the Harbour. It was first established by Sitric Silkenbreard, King of Dublin, in 1042. In 1235 the parish church moved to St. Mary’s from the island, saving the locals from yet more boat trips on their day of rest. The present church dates back to late fourteenth century. 

The Abbey Tavern is adjacent. This was a popular haunt of mine in the seventies. We translated that to the Happy Tavern, which with the drink flowing, the smoke blowing, and smiling friends all around, it certainly was. A decade earlier, it was one of the cradles of the Irish Folk boom of the sixties. As a singing pub, it required singers, and so Abbey Tavern Singers were formed in 1962 by publican Minnie Scott-Lennon. The group expanded to include a host of musicians playing fiddle, guitar, uileann oipes and spoons and an album was released on Pye records in 1965.

We’re off to Dublin in the Green, was their best known song. It was a renowned rebel-rouser, particularly at the time of the fiftieth anniversary celebrations of the 1916 Rising. But it was as a theme song for an advertising campaign by Canadian brewers Carling that brought it to wider notice. The song became a huge hit in Canada and also a US top 100 hit.

As for the Rising, Howth contributed to that event in the famous arms smuggling enterprise. On the 26th July 1914 Erskine and Molly Childers sailed their private yacht the Asgard, loaded with German rifles for the Irish Volunteers, into Howth Harbour. The Harbour Master reported the landing to the authorities and the Volunteers ran into a detachment of police and British soldiers, the Scottish Borderers, at Clontarf. The forces of law and order managed to seize twenty rifles, but had to return them after a court case established that police and army were acting illegally. And, after all, the Volunteers were supporting the writ of Parliament, unlike the British army, whose loyalties were ambiguous, to put it mildly. In total 1,500 rifles for the Irish volunteers were put ashore, 900 at Howth and the rest at Kilcoole in County Wicklow. Later a confrontation between a crowd of civilians and the Scottish Borderers on Bachelor’s Walk in Dublin, resulted in the death of four people when the soldiers opened fire. Three people were shot, one Sylvester Pidgeon, died of bayonet wounds.

The restored Asgard is on display in Collins Barracks, Dublin. The name lingered on here in Howth for a while. It was the name of a bar and hotel overlooking the tip of the peninsula on nearby Balscadden Bay. The Asgard was for a time run by Philomena Lynott, mother of Philo himself, main man of Thin Lizzy. There were regular gigs here in the summers of the seventies, though none, that I saw, with Lizzy. To one of these, sometime in the mid seventies, I brought M for our first date. It’s not the music I remember, but I’m sure it must have been heavenly. While the fire there kindled is still burning, the Asgard Hotel itself burned down in 1982 and was replaced by apartments. Lynott died in London in 1986, and there was a funeral mass in Howth. He is buried nearby at St Fintan’s Cemetery, Sutton.

Balscadden Road hugs the rocky coast as it winds up towards the Summit. WB Yeats lived at Balscadden House for three years from 1880. He would later write of local ghost stories and a poem, Beautiful Lofty Things, mentions his own paramour: Maud Gonne at Howth Station waiting a train. The blue plaque on the house quotes from He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, 

I have spread my dreams under your feet, tread softly because you tread on my dreams

Today, I meander through the town and on uphill to gain the summit. The town itself is much faded from how I remember it. The central hotel, once called the Royal and later the Baily Court, is long closed and gives Main Street a distinct feeling of desertion. However, the pretty Carnegie Library next door endures. The Church of the Assumption dominates the top of Main Street. This is the Roman Catholic parish church. It was designed by William H Byrne and built in 1899. It’s high square tower,  topped by pinnacles and gothic gargoyles give it a sense of drama.

I fork right at the church; though left up Thormamby Road is more direct. Zigzagging upward through the steep and prosperous suburbia I am glad of the occasional bench to catch my breath, and absorb the wonderful vista that opens below. I manage to get lost halfway up, but am soon set right by a young man smoking an aromatic cigarette. He directs me towards the summit, which emerges from the fog in glorious sunshine.

And if you go chasing rabbits

And you know you’re going to fall

Tell ’em a hookah-smoking caterpillar

Has given you the call

Call Alice

When she was just small

The Summit Inn is a good oasis for food and refreshment. Dating back to the nineteenth century. It boasts a traditional bar and turf fire, and there’s a good menu with main plates under twenty euro, and a pleasant outdoor terrace. The summit itself is accessible by bus and car, and offers one of those to-die-for views. Dublin city and the Wicklow Mountains are arranged across the blue waters of the bay, stilled with height and distance, too gorgeous to merely describe in word or pixel. 

Amongst the many walks on the headland, the most well trodden heads down a steep and rugged path towards the Bailey Lighthouse below. The Bailey was first built in 1665, back in the days of the Restoration, by Sir Robert Reading. It had a square tower supporting a coal fired beacon. In 1810 this was replaced with a new structure on lower ground designed by George Halpin. He was Inspector of Lighthouses and considered the father of irish lighthouses; the Bull Wall, the Skelligs and Wicklow Head being amongst his work. In fact he increased the number of lighthouses fivefold to seventy two by the end of his career. He died in 1854 while inspecting a lighthouse. The Bailey tower is forty metres above sea level and the lightkeepers house is adjacent. It was the last Irish lighthouse to go automatic in 1997, though an attendant still lives there. The optic is on display in the National Maritime Museum of Ireland in Dun Laoghaire.

As I said, there are plenty of walks on the headland where you can free up your head with the unique balm of the great outdoors. A walk along the cliffs will take you back by Balscadden Road to the Harbour though I am taking a more direct path back to the station. First of all, a stop at the Summit Inn is in order. Food is available, but I am more inclined to feed my head, in honour of ancient days, and take my frothy pint into the sunshine.

One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small

And the ones that mother gives you

Don’t do anything at all

Go ask Alice

When she’s ten feet tall

White Rabbit was written by Grace Slick and features on Jefferson Airplane’s 1967 second album Surrealistic Pillow. It predates Lennon’s Lucy in the Sky with diamonds but is similarly of its time. Like that song it is heavily influenced by Lewis Caroll’s Alice, though Slick specifically uses Alice in Wonderland references as a metaphor for mind expanding drugs. It also, most potently, extols the formative value of reading, most especially when young. What a mind altering experience that is. Feed your head!

The walkway back down to sea level follows the old tramway, which ceased in 1959, to the head of Main Street. This is an easy, slow descent, well maintained. Occasionally, it gives elevated views of Ireland’s Eye, but by and large, the view is restricted by the hedging to each side. At a lower level, you can connect with the town, or continue on the marked path which skirts a housing estate before becoming a short forest trail along a rugged descent to the Station and the Bloody Stream.

Howth by Boat

North Dublin’s Sandy Shore – 10

My usual mode of transport to Howth is the excellent Dart service, which travels all around the Bay from my home in Bray, via Dublin to the two northern outposts of Howth and Malahide. You can have also take a trip to Howth from Dun Laoghaire by boat. The journey can be booked in advance, costing twenty five euro, and leaves from Dun Laoghaire’s East Pier. Myself and M picked a pet day with sunshine and serene sea.

The St Bridget holds about a hundred passengers. Dublin Bay Cruises operate the service and other cruises around the bay. It is run by the Garrihy family, who also operate the Doolin to Aran ferry off the west coast of Clare. The open deck was well taken when we boarded with the passengers in high spirits. A friendly crewman directed us to a handy seat near the prow. A group of ladies on a day out toasted me as I took photos on the open deck. It’s an hour long cruise with an occasional commentary on the sights of interest.

Dun Laoghaire harbour was opened in 1820 by King George IV. The growing town became Kingstown, changed from Dun Leary, Leary’s Fort. When completed in 1842, it was the largest manmade harbour in Europe. In 1824 it acquired the Mail Boat service which had previously used Howth. The ferry to Liverpool continued to operate until 2014. Large cruise ships do visit, often mooring in deeper water outside the harbour. Though it once had an extensive fishing fleet, this was overtaken by Howth as the designated fishing port. 

We head out through the portal of its twin lighthouses into the open sea. The Great South Wall stretches four kilometres into the bay, connecting with the city quays, Dublin city rising from the waters beyond. The land is marked by the giant twin chimneys of the Poolbeg Generating Station, or the Pigeon House as it’s known. This refers to the old generating station, from 1900, which itself was named for the caretaker’s lodge from 1761. The caretaker was John Pigeon, who later opened a restauant and hotel. Across the Liffey estuary, the North Bull Wall, hanging down from Clontarf, frames the harbour. The Bull Island, formed by the Wall, is fronted by the spectacular five kilometre long Dollymount strand, with a nature reserve, bird sanctuary and two golf courses.

Through three hundred and sixty degrees, the panorama on deck is rich in spectacle and story. How fine it is to take a trip around the bay by that most traditional of transport modes, with my heart’s desire and a song in my head.

Timothy Leary’s dead

no n,n, no he’s outside, looking in

he’ll fly his astral plane

take you trips around the bay

bring you back the same day, Timothy Leary.

Legend of a Mind was written by Ray Thomas of the Moody Blues. It appeared on their third album, In Search of the Lost Chord in 1968. This was, incidentally,  the first studio album I owned, a Christmas present from my folks when I was thirteen. The perfect age to fill your head with rock, and all forms of strange new things.

Leary’s trips around the. Bay referred to the bay area of San Francisco where he lived in the late sixties. His trips didn’t involve boats, nor indeed any form of transport. Leary, the most dangerous man in America, according to Richard Nixon, promoted the use of LSD and psilosybin, to discover a higher level of consciousness.

Along the coast you’ll hear them boast

about a light they say that shines so clear

so raise your glass we’ll drink a toast

to the little man who sells you thrills along the pier

About seven miles out to sea is the distinctive Kish Lighthouse, a concrete tower with a helicopeter landing pad on top. It is sunk into the Kish Bank, a sand bank long a notorious trap for shipping. It was signalled by a lightship from 1811 to 1965 when the modern lighthouse was installed. We’re lost for a moment in the unique embrace of Dublin Bay. Bray Head, the Sugarloaf Mountians, and Dublin Range form the backdrop to Dublin’s Southside. North of the city we look into the mouth of the low lying central Plain, only Howth Head to the north as an outstanding feature. A fuller profile of the  east coast waxes into view. There’s the beginnings of that lonely feeling of setting sail from Ireland, while simultaneously, the consolation of the embrace awaiting the wanderer’s return.

A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past eve and adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodious vicus of circulation back to Howth Castle and Environs

is the implied closing, and opening line of Finnegans Wake. James Joyce’s baffling third novel was published in Paris in 1939. It was seventeen years in the writing, following the 1922 publication of Ulysses. The last line completes the circular trajectory of the narrative, with Howth looming large. The dreamlike narration continues with an account of Amory Tristram’s seizure of Howth, and later mentions the visit of Grace O’Malley, or O’Malice as Joyce styles her.

Howth looms larger still and we can pick out the houses and other features. The impressive sentinel of the Bailey Lighthouse signals our arrival. We skirt the rocky extremes of the peninsula and sail into the calmer waters of the sound. Howth Harbour awaits, looking out at the startling offshore presence of Ireland’s Eye.

The Harbour was begun in 1807, but ran into difficulties. John Rennie, the Scottish engineer, later responsible for Kingstown Harbour, was called in, and completed the harbour in 1813. The lighthouse project, also by Rennie, was completed in 1818 allowing Howth to become the port for the mailboat service before the construction of Kingstown. There was a major redevelopment of the harbour from the 1980s, with marina and fishing areas delineated and the provision of a State Fisheries Centre and the RNLI lifeboat service.

Ireland’s Eye is an intriguing name. It implies an allusion to the human eye, as if it is the physical organ from which Ireland espies the world at large. Simply, it is from the Danish for island, being from the ninth century Viking perspective the only island off Ireland’s east coast. There are a few others, but very few, and this is the most physically spectacular. It forms a large green hump, barren and rugged, its most pronounced feature being a jagged rocky sea stack on its eastern extreme. 

Its inhabitants these days consist of guillemots, razorbills, kittiwakes, cormorants, puffins, gannets and gulls, but humans have lived, and died, there too. Over time it has accrued a Martello Tower and the ruins of a church. The church was the parish church of Howth, founded in the seventh century. The Garland of Howth, an illustrated manuscript of the four gospels, was produced by scribes in the church between the 8th and10th century. It is now kept at Trinity College, Dublin. It is said that the custodian monk, beset by the determined devil, took the weighty tome and threw it at his tormentor. The Devil took off and the volume split the main island from the distinctive rocky stack to the east. My father, on a family holiday here in the early sixties, told me the feature was called the Devil’s Bit, being an actual bite out of the rock taken by Old Nick himself, on his flight from Ireland having been banished by all those saints and scholars. The only reference I’ve found to a Devil’s Bit is a prominent feature in County Tipperary, which, as you know, is a long way. But why dilute myth with fact?.

Tour boats depart hourly from the Harbour to the island. There are a half dozen or so operators off the West Pier, some going back generations. It has long been a popular jaunt for those seeking to get away from it all, nature lovers, or simply lovers seeking the tranquility of solitude. Murderers too, perhaps. William Burke Kirwan had one or the other on his mind when he planned a trip out there with his wife Sarah Maria Loisa in September 1852. He was an artist, born in 1814. Sarah was ten years younger. The couple lived on Merrion Street. There were no children of the marriage. Kirwan had long lived seperately in a house in Sandymount with his mistress, Maria Kenny and their eight children. An ominous background for a jaunt to so secluded a spot. Left alone on the island, Kirwan sketched, he insisted, while his wife went swimming. When the boatman returned, Kirwan claimed he was unable to find his wife. A search located her body, covered in blood, in a rocky cove. The courtcase was a sensation and Kirwan, defended by Isaac Butt, was sentenced to death. This was commuted after appeals by prominent society figures, and he was transported to a prison labour camp in Bermuda. Apparently he was treated leniently, being notoriously workshy, like any good artist. He was released in 1789 and, most likely, went to America.

Myself and M decide, however, we have had enough maritime adventures for the day and stroll around the harbour. The West Pier is the busiest promenade. Along with the crowds onshore, Grey Seals throng the waters. They often appear at lunchtime, waiting expectantly for treats from passersby. The harbour area has blossomed in recent years with several food joints to savour the fruits of the sea alfresco, and fight with the seagulls over them. We stop for fish and chips and then a coffee before taking the Dart home.