29 November to 1 December 2019
This weekend we are gathering in Dublin’s fair city for the annual reunion of our Frankfurt gang. If anyone thinks this sounds odd, the first rule of such reunions is that we have lots of fun. The second rule is that we congregate in a place that’s not called Frankfurt. To be clear, that’s not because we think Frankfurt isn’t fun or otherwise THE top tourist destination in Europe, but because some of our group still live there and it wouldn’t be a weekend away. That’s our excuse anyway and we’re sticking to it.
The trip starts badly when we find we have been misled by British Airways. Although we have booked our flight on the BA app and it has a BA flight number, we find ourselves unable to select our seats, check in or do anything further via BA as it is apparently a flight “operated by Aer Lingus on behalf of British Airways”. We don’t even have a choice of seats when we use the Aer Lingus website, so more or less find ourselves allocated the loos at the back. Not that I’m bitter. Once at Gatwick, I still feel confident of flashing my Silver card to access the BA lounge, but no - apparently, a Gold card is required if the flight is operated by a code share partner. What a con.
In search of solace (or failing that, sliced avocado and poached eggs on toast), we head for Wonder Tree - actually my favourite eaterie at Gatwick South Terminal, as the service is always friendly and lightning fast. It is again today, so I stop ranting about BA’s shortcomings for a few glorious seconds. And so it is that I shall remember Wonder Tree for ever more as “where I was when I heard that Roland Duchâtelet had sold Charlton Athletic”. Finally! At this moment everything else pales into insignificance, time stands still, my eggs go cold, tears of relief and joy are shed. Jayne also enjoys her breakfast (I think).
The flight is pleasant enough and we’re soon in an Uber to Dublin city centre, having teamed up with Jamie and Nicky. (Apparently they were also in Wonder Tree, but decided to give anyone blubbing into their coffee a wide berth). Our driver is a lovely guy, as old as the hills, and regales us with some fine anecdotes about his city and Irish history. This bodes well for our weekend here, as does the striking view of a rainbow over the cathedral opposite our window at Jurys Inn Christchurch.
We agree to meet for an afternoon stroll, but - predictably - don’t actually make it outside before Jamie spots a first Guinness opportunity nestling in the hotel bar. When in Rome and all that. Duly fortified, we head out for the first cultural visit of the trip - a “self-guided” tour of Dublin Castle. Originally built in the 13th century beside the “Dubh Linn” (dark pool) that gave the city its name, the castle became the seat of the British government’s administration of Ireland before being handed over to the new Irish government in 1922. Although the modern government is based at Leinster House, every President of Ireland is still invested here (we learn that the President is head of the upper house, as opposed to the unpronounceable Taoiseach, who is the executive head of the lower house).
A helpful information board tells us of famous visitors to the castle, including Queen Victoria (four times) and the omnipresent Charles Dickens. Surprisingly, Queen Elizabeth II has only visited once, in 2011, putting her level with Nelson Mandela, John F. Kennedy and Charles de Gaulle. As the latter three are unlikely to add to their total, I reckon Brenda has her sights set on a stoppage time winner, possibly VAR-assisted. Otherwise, the rooms and exhibits shed light on the lives of various aristocratic families that lived here over the years, in particular Thomas and Lady Betty Cobbe, who seemed to like porcelain and accountancy in equal measure (whatever floats your boat). All in all, I would say Dublin Castle is well worth taking an hour out of the day to visit.
We stroll into nearby Temple Bar in search of further refreshment, which turns out to be plentiful in this busy area of town bordering the River Liffey. Another couple of Guinness slip down nicely in Paddy Mac’s, where there’s also a band playing live music at 4.30pm on a Friday - an excellent idea. When we return to the hotel, we have only a short turnaround before reuniting with the whole of our group in the hotel bar - yet another Guinness to add to the tally, but who’s counting?
Tonight’s dinner venue is The Brazen Head, which prides itself on being the oldest pub in Ireland, dating from 1198. The joint is certainly jumping as we enter on ground level, but we find that the restaurant is located in a more sedate room upstairs. Already guinnessed out (no spell-check on this verb, so it must exist), we move onto wine - and later a fine Irish whiskey - to accompany an array of traditional Irish fare, all tasty enough. The one downer is that our Polish waitress doesn’t crack her face once the whole evening, only acceding reluctantly to our request for a group photo while simultaneously chewing on a passing wasp. We leave with the distinct impression that The Brazen Head is leaning too much on its “oldest pub” label - any atmosphere (or cheery Irish welcome) in the main downstairs bar certainly doesn’t make it up one floor to us.
The next stop is also deemed unsuitable - a very odd pub on the way back downtown that smells like a deep fat fryer. We walk out en masse. Approaching Temple Bar again, we pile into The Oak which not only offers excellent live music (a contemporary mix, not the touristy folksong stuff) but its air is pleasingly fat-free. A fun end to the night. It’s only the next morning that we notice that The Oak is located right next to another pub - which is also called The Oak (no Irish jokes please, that would be racist).
Saturday morning dawns crisp and dry - perfect conditions to walk the city. Our starter for ten (geddit?) is Trinity College, Dublin’s famous university and also the home of the Book of Kells, described - albeit by its own guidebook - as “one of the great treasures of medieval Europe”. Created by Christian monks around 800AD, its pages were made from vellum taken from “the skin of 150 calves” and filled with the most amazing calligraphy and illustrations. Impressive stuff, but - sadly - we titter like schoolboys as we read of “monks dipping their massive quills in the communal ink-pot” (or something like that). Smutty innuendo aside, the Long Room of the library is an awe-inspiring sight, containing over 200,000 books on two floors and looking as old as time itself (the foundation stone was laid in 1712). The silence is regularly broken by stern warnings not to use flash photography, as this has been proven to damage the ancient books. The library is an absolute “must see” when visiting Dublin - a beautiful and historic place.
Trinity College was originally founded by Queen Elizabeth I in 1592 - a half-decent riposte to the Pythonesque question “what have the British ever done for us?” Its spacious grounds include a statue of George Salmon, Provost of Trinity College from 1888 till his death in 1904. Fearsomely conservative, he was the guy who allegedly decreed that women would be admitted to the college “over my dead body”. Ironically, his wish later came true as, after being overruled by the college board, he conveniently snuffed it just before the first female student arrived. As if to celebrate his enduring commitment to women’s rights, it’s now the custom to adorn his statue with assorted lingerie.
Moving from the sublime to the ridiculous, we head off in search of some coloured umbrellas suspended over a side street between two buildings. Jamie declares himself “whelmed” by this sight but still prostrates himself in the road for the greater good (in this case, a group photo with multi-coloured umbrellas). “Why?” seems a reasonable question.
Onwards we trek for a more forensic examination of Temple Bar after yesterday’s reconnaissance missions. We chance across some marvellous street art dedicated to Ireland’s writers, poets and other notables such as Molly Malone (who, the wall art informs us, is also known as the “Tart with the Cart” - affectionately, we assume). It could have been worse - the great author James Joyce is, alternatively, the “Prick with the Stick”. Only Samuel Beckett escapes without an amusing Dublin sobriquet - possibly because he was a miserable sod who preferred to live in Paris. Having once suffered a performance of his definitive Waiting for Godot, we are amused that he once re-read his own script many years later and opined “this thing needs a good edit”. You’re not wrong, Sam!
After lunch (and the odd Guinness) at Quays Bar, where the friendly and prompt service contrasts favourably with that of Ireland’s oldest pub, we set off for the Guinness Storehouse. My experimental navigation via some “historical Dublin backstreets” (with slum characteristics) fails to find favour with Jamie, who lowers his satisfaction rating to “underwhelmed”. But all appears forgiven when the welcoming portals of St. James’s Gate loom up ahead. It’s busy though - a 40 minute queue for those who haven’t pre-booked online (i.e. us) - and certainly not cheap at €25 a head. We’re learning that nothing in Dublin comes particularly cheap.
The Storehouse (also known as the Guinness Museum) is very much on the tourist trail - and deservedly so. Housed in a spectacular building reminiscent of the Centre Pompidou in Paris, the tour takes us up six floors of circular walkways which somehow lessen any feeling of over-crowding. We learn all about the vital ingredients - especially barley, which reminds me of Gareth Malone and his amateur choir singing about fields of the damn stuff. Really irritating but I can’t get it out of my head. We also learn that the perfect roasting temperature for the barley is 232 degrees Celsius, as it’s only at this heat when it transforms into the black colour and taste of Guinness we know and love. At least now I have a different annoying song in my head (“232 is a magic number”). Everyone then stands cross-legged as we learn that Mrs Arthur Guinness bore 21 children - sadly the high infant mortality of the time meant that only 10 survived into adulthood, a shocking statistic.
The history of the iconic brand’s advertising is fascinating too - I’m not sure what that toucan was all about but it was certainly memorable at the time, while the “fish on a bicycle” gag is just odd (even if arguably true). What sticks most in my mind is the older and very simple slogan “Guinness is good for you”, a nailed-on medicinal fact I have been keen to test at every opportunity this weekend. And the next one quickly presents itself at the tour’s finale - a free (yeah, right) pint of Guinness for every Storehouse visitor at the rooftop Gravity Bar, which provides a spectacular 360 degree view across Dublin (if you can see past the crowds). Our visit is rounded off by a very entertaining horse and cart ride back to the hotel - at least until the young horse slips on some cobbles and almost turns the cart over. The driver explains that it’s only the horse's second day in service, as “he’s only t’ree, y’know”, but still fleeces us, or more exactly Denise, €45 for the privilege of this near-death experience.
Saturday evening is epic from start to finish. We start with an hour’s “Escape Boat” experience - exactly like an “Escape Room”, the new team-building craze, but on a boat - who knew? Located east of the city centre at Grand Canal Dock, it’s moored next to a floating Thai massage parlour, an auspicious start. It’s great fun until Jayne’s team wins and mine doesn’t. To add insult to injury, the winning team enjoy a view of our incompetence on the captain’s TV monitor and are encouraged to hurl abuse over the intercom, but Nicky's not standing for any of that nonsense. Standing closest to the camera, I'm later told my facial expression is - at best - “unsportsmanlike”. The losers’ mood only improves when we leave the scene of our miserable defeat and head the few hundred yards down the road to Osteria Lucio. Their Christmas dinner menu (€49 a head, gulp) offers a table selection of tasty hors d’oeuvres followed by a choice of five sumptuous mains - my saltimbocca of monkfish is divine - and the desserts are equally special. The restaurant is full to bursting - and no wonder, it’s superb. The people are lovely too. My wallet feels much lighter.
The evening ends either with a taxi ride back to the hotel bar, or - for six of us - a walk to clear the head, which conveniently takes us via Molly Malone’s statue into a very lively part of town on the south side of Dame Street. By now it’s 11pm on Saturday night and all the pubs are bulging at the seams. We enjoy a nightcap outside the Dame Tavern, assuming we are safely in a pedestrian zone until a tiny car rounds the corner and tries to inch its way through the crowds, one of the revellers helpfully opening one of its rear doors as it passes. The atmosphere is amazing - ebullient and super-friendly - everyone is out for the craic.
Sadly we need to say our goodbyes straight after breakfast on Sunday, foregoing the final treat of a "Viking Splash Tour" - it looks fun though, basically a duck tour wearing silly hats with horns on. The trip home is uneventful, as I’ve long since priced in the lack of lounge access or choice of seating (we get the tail fin this time). I celebrate our return to Blighty by immediately turning the wrong way at Gatwick and doing a lap of honour through the same car park we just left. Jayne’s whelm index turns negative, as apparently I did this last time as well.
Aside from my team's devastating defeat on the Escape Boat, it’s been a trip packed with fun and laughter in the company of some of our oldest and best friends. Dublin has been just about the perfect venue for a reunion weekend and even the weather was kind to us. Looking forward to Madrid sometime in 2020!
Acknowledgements: The decent photographs were taken by Jayne Burton and Jamie Russon (thanks!), the naff ones by me.
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