Where the Grass is Greener: Day 5

Galway and Newgrange

The morning woke me up to the blankness of the room. I forgot a moment where we were had to blink a few times at the ceiling before remembering that this was the strange Ikea-furnished hostel house. We packed up and headed across the street to make some breakfast in the common room. We hung around the common areas a bit. No one talked to us. I guess no one ever wants to talk to a boring old couple. M devised a plan where I should sit alone somewhere and before long, a guy would approach and I’d chat him up until he came back to befriend him too.

Abandoning attempts of making friends (are we just really bad at it?), we headed into the heart of the city for a quick tour. There were thousands of tourists out and enough souvenir stores to match. I bought a tote bag for my sister with colorful sheep depicting the spectrum of human moods, happy, sad, excited, anxious and so on. I still regret not buying a Cladagh ring but I know it’s supposed to be a gift and the only reason I want one is because of Buffy the Vampire Slayer when Angel gives Buffy the ring and she points the heart towards the inside of her hand which means she is taken… but I digress. There wasn’t too much to see: a very ornate medieval building that housed AIB Bank and the Spanish Arch. A pair of swans swam near the archway. Swans really are such a graceful creatures – why are ducks and geese incapable of such serenity? Rilke’s poem “The Swan” so accurately describes the swan’s awkwardness on land, only to “condescend to glide” once in its natural and empowering environment of the water.

We were rather glad to leave the city behind and find the open road again. The highway to Dublin was an efficient and modern one. We only ran into trouble once we neared the city’s environs and started looking for Newgrange. The few tourist signs that popped up were confusing and imprecise. We passed through small towns, turned, doubled back. When we finally found the surprisingly intact circular tomb that was Newgrange, we rushed to the entrance only to be rejected. Apparently we needed to park at the visitor centre which was several miles away and could only visit by guided tours. The reason the visitor center was so far away was that the surrounding farmland was still privately owned. So back towards the town and over before we found the shiny, glass gateway to the tours. Luckily, we were able to sign up for one of the last tours. It was late in the afternoon and we still hadn’t eaten any lunch, so we rushed to the car and slapped together some sandwiches. On the tour bus, a bag of pretzels that M stole from Google saved us from passing out from hunger.

The sky was drizzling and threatening to worsen when we got to Newgrange. Our tour guide had a giant umbrella and was wonderfully authoritative. She told us of how it was constructed during the Neolitic Age, was overgrown with fields before it was rediscovered, possibly looted and definitely graffitied. She told us of the controversial way the tomb was reconstructed with the white quartz stones surrounding its base. The architect at the time reverse engineered the wall based on where those stones fell but others argued that these stones were in reality a pathway and did not belong to the tomb’s walls at all. No wonder it looked so bright and new for being built 5,000 years ago! Without any written history, it’s impossible to know anything for certain. The spiral patterns, the boulders circling the tomb: all are open to interpretation. In the surrounding farms, we could detect the grassy heads of other mounds. One farm grew its crops all around this mound. I can’t understand why it wasn’t excavated as well. I suppose to the farmer, prehistoric tombs have no value compared to food on the table.

The tomb’s entrance was very low and  narrow. We made our way to the core chamber where archeologists had discovered several skeletons. Our tour guide gave a very detailed overview of how the tomb was constructed to align with the rising sun on the winter solstice: a few short days that flooded this room with sunlight. Original carvings of spirals and diamond patterns were mixed in with graffiti from when the tomb was rediscovered; no doubt some 18^th century teenagers. An impressive demonstration of a winter solstice sun hushed the tour group as we all felt the awe of this sacred place. As the guide herded us away, I looked back on the massive tomb: it looked like a slice of stubbly white with grass for hair against ever-graying, storming clouds.

We were able to find the bustle and noise of Dublin by evening. Cassidy’s Hotel was on the Northern side of the city, across the River Liffey. The Joyce book I was reading had many hand-traced maps to show the way of the artist as a young man. We happened on many of Joyce’s streets. The hotel was small, wedged between some historical houses and across the street from a very loud plaza. We had to arrange for parking and I didn’t appreciate the hotel clerk judging us (or just M) for wanting to save a night’s garage fee by leaving our car on the street and opting to wake up early the next morning to move it. The room was very small but full of charm, clean and the bed was like a pile of down it was so sweet to sink into it. A little rest and we were off to explore.

The very first thing we saw was a cheeky James Joyce statue. He had a cane, a jaunty hat and of course a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He looked out of place though in the middle of a very modern, shopping avenue. I was still excited in my literary nerd way of course. We then saw the millennium spire: a huge, pointy white needle in the middle of the street. Rick Steves called it the Stiffy on the Liffey which of course sparked countless penis jokes. They never get old.

We went to a cute, modern restaurant. The waiter was definitely gay and I realized that he was the first outwardly gay man I had seen all week. I imagine that Dublin of all places would be the most accepting place in Ireland for deviations from tradition. Encouraged, I ordered a glass of wine with dinner. My rabbit was delicious but a few times I crunched on a thin rib and felt a little sick thinking of the fluffy animal my meal came from. That night we decided to have our daily Guinness at the Church. It was literally what its name suggests: a church. Some atheists, I’m sure, had converted an 18^th-century church into a full-out club/lounge, complete with pumping music. The high-vaulted ceilings were impressive and the bar owners had exaggerated the religious features. Large, golden symbols streamed the ceiling and behind our plushy leather couch were tapestries of the ten commandments. As someone who barely believes in God, even I felt sacrilegious sipping my beer. On our way out, we caught sight of a bronze bust. It was Arthur Guinness, sweeping hair and all, who had gotten married in this church. I guess this connection to the founder of Guinness justified the whole spectacle.