There are no Irish People Living in Dublin.

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The receptionist at the hotel was from Mauritius. The taxi driver from Hell was from Nigeria. The Grafton Street waiter was from the Far East. The people swarming on the open-decked buses were from the far corners of the Earth but of an Irishman or woman there was not the briefest of glimpses.

They are gone like the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fir Bolg before them. They have likewise become mythical. There has been wave after wave of invasion, and the Irish, who once lured unsuspecting gullible Americans to look at the ‘Fairy Hill’ in Aunt Maisie’s field in return for a few coins; or sold them empty milk bottles featuring the shamrock; or even offered Americans ‘ancient’ Shillelaghs for sale that they’d manufactured the night before, this proud race is gone.

The Irish in Dublin are mythical beings being kept alive in spirit only by the tour guides who point out the doors that once opened for the King of England and which were built for such a purpose by the Irish.

Like the lost Irish crown jewels, the Irish, the real jewels of the land, are likewise lost.

In Kilmainham Jail the legend of the Irish is most fiercely defended. There was a group of them once that their fellow Irish hadn’t much noticed who were shot by firing squad in the jail and who were thought of only after one of their number was tied to a chair to face his executioners.

The monument to those that were involved in the Easter Rising is in the Post Office building on O’Connell Street. Their declaration with its proud words is powerfully moving; as is the statue of the glorious hero Cúchulainn who is betrayed by ravens that are about to peck at his dead body as he hangs from the rock he is tied to.

Nobody stops to look or read the declaration. It is Sunday evening, the night is young and the city is drawing the young towards the sticky web of its centre.

Too traumatised by the fervent description of life in Kilmainham Jail, the many senseless executions that took place there and Cúchulainn’s brave death, I walk back towards my hotel.

At the top of O’Connell Street there is a church. I wonder if this was the church the men of the Easter Rising prayed in. People are going in. I decide to join them. Perhaps here I will meet the Irish.

The church is packed. The two men I’ve just squeezed past look disgruntled. I slide onto a pew. The service is already in progress. A group of men are singing. From time to time a few other late comers arrive. They slip onto their seats and then pray.

I don’t understand the language. With a thrill I wonder if this is Irish Gaelic. This would be a fitting place for the resurgence of the language, right at the top of O’Connell Street. How the men of the Easter Rising would rejoice. I listen more closely to the words hoping to understand a word or two, but they all elude me. I wonder where the priests are: the black gowned priests I learnt about from the Dave Allen sketches. I’m puzzled that I can’t see any.

The speaker calls them to pray and the whole congregation sinks to its knees. I’ve never heard prayers like it. Each individual is praying their own prayer and muttering.

It’s an unholy endless sound.

I look around at the kneeling congregation which is mainly composed of men and imagine brave Irish warriors, an army of men sinking to their knees before a battle. This must have been the sound that men made as they knelt on bog and grass before they went to their deaths the next day.

Somewhere at the back of the hall someone with a more pressing prayer raises his voice in a high falsetto imploring his god for aid. Thus the men of old would have prayed. The next day probably brought no hope but only despair for the men who went into battle, likewise I fear there is no hope for these prayers either.

They chill and unnerve me.

There is a new speaker that follows after a girl has sung a song almost beautifully; and another has read a poem; the latter stretching her hands out as if she is able to summon the dead to rise and follow her.

There is no cameraderie, no warmth, no friendship, no smiles in this church. It is as if each person is sitting in their own invisible stall as they are preached at.

A two handled bag is being passed around for the congregation to drop coins and notes into. It's passed swiftly from person to person as if the handles are too hot to hold for long, or as if no one wants to be seen holding it when the music stops. The men next to me feign dropping their offering into the bag, moving their hands over the mouth of the bag like apprentice magicians.

I'm appalled. Shocked that they did not pass the bag openly if they did not choose to donate that day.

The man at the front of the church is loud. His face is magnified by a camera onto a screen behind him.

The loud speakers send his voice reverberating around the hall. There is a harsh quality to his words. Every sentence is loud and condemnatory. He goes on and on. I wonder why the congregation don’t walk out on him. I don’t understand a word but whatever he’s saying it’s ugly and tiresome.

I yearn for silence, for the holy peace of carpeted quietness. I decide I will walk out and reclaim my freedom: the birthright of the atheist.

It is a relief to have escaped.

In the vestibule are two ushers.

‘Did you understand any of it?’ one of the men asks.

‘Not one word,’ I reply.

‘Our translator is on holiday,’ he says apologetically.

What's the speaker saying now?’ I ask

Oh, it’s something from the Bible,’ the man says. ‘You know, the Bible.’ He emphasises the last word as if it’s likely I’ve never heard of it, almost spelling it out.

‘And what language is he speaking?’ I ask.

‘Rumanian,’ the man says.

‘Rumanian!’ I say.

No wonder I couldn’t understand a word. The headscarves worn by the girls make more sense now too.

And I walk out lighter than air with laughter! Rumanian!

I am right. There’s not a single Irish man any left anywhere in Dublin.

Dublin has been captured and taken over by Rumania.

Dave Allen must be chuckling in his heaven with his gods.

...
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Enchantment

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I meet an Irishwoman on the train from Crewe to Holyhead she is thin and fearsome.

It’s her son who finds the seats for them. He seems to be the one who is taking care of the family: looking ahead, predicting. It is he who generously and protectively settles his little sister next to the window, an action that leaves him sitting opposite his mum and vulnerable.

The boy is sensitive and aware of people watching; he fears judgement and criticism. He fleetingly casts his eyes at his mum; he is calculating her mood. Inside the bag that rests on the table are cakes but he does not dare to ask for one; instead he waits with the patience of an obedient dog until she tells them to take one each and eat. He does so and helps his sister to hers.

His mother reads a cheap magazine and ignores them.

Their hands are sticky by the time they’ve finished. The boy wipes his hands on his trousers the little girl wipes hers on the fabric of the seats. The girl is beautiful. Her wavy blonde hair has one plait down the back. She’s about three years old and wriggly. She has yet to learn the deference of her brother. She is bold, demanding and pushy, though she too is starting to be watchful. She is braver than her brother; though he mistakes her courage for foolhardiness. When their mother snaps harshly at them she stares back defiantly and there is the twist of a smile on her face as she extends her protest.

The boy clever but cowed is thinking ahead and calculating; working out a plan to protect them both.

‘Let’s sleep he suggests,’ he feigns sleep tucking his head onto a seat rest.

I wonder how many times he’s used this tactic to protect them both.

His sister imitates him trying to rest her head onto the cold glass window that offers no comfort. Their mother ignores them, offers no soft cardigan to help, no advice. It’s the boy who shows his sister how to fold down the arm rest. She does so and then returns it to its place. I’m fearful for her fingers, but her mother shows no interest.

The children safe in this realm of feigned sleep from their mother’s sharp tongue, slip into the safer realm of real sleep; as the train travels through the enchanted land of Wales, past sandy beaches, castles and mountains.


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The Knowledge

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I was awake at four unable to sleep.

I was leaving Dublin. I was going to catch the 8:45 am Irish Ferry. There was nothing else to do except to pack my small back pack.

The early alarm call that I’d booked to make sure that I didn’t oversleep trilled hours later. I laughed with the receptionist who was surprised to find the recipient of his call already wide awake and so chatty.

I even had time to explore the hotel’s labyrinth of downstairs rooms that opened up like secret chambers, one after the other, as I pushed open fire doors.

In one of the distant rooms, I had been told, I’d find the newspapers. I did.

Then there I was, happily reading and eating my early morning breakfast at leisure. Wide awake and chipper.

I was cool and relaxed.

At 7:30 I was outside the hotel waiting for my taxi ride down to the quays: a journey that would only take a few minutes.

At 7:35 I was beginning to feel tense.

At 7:40 I was worried. There was no sign of my taxi.

‘I’ll be there at 7:30 outside your hotel,’ the taxi driver Thomas had promised.

He never turned up.

At 7:45 I decided to walk down to the taxi rank on O'Connell Street to get another one.

At 7:50 I’m in a taxi driven by Samuel, who is from Nigeria.

All goes well at first, although Samuel’s driving is frightening and includes techniques such as not giving way, or giving an inch of space to other road users.

One of my feet is already pressing an imaginary brake hard to the ground.

At 7:55 the calm voice of the SAT NAV relaxes me a little. She seems to have everything under control. Traffic lights hold us up close to the bus station and Samuel drums his fingers impatiently.

They change and we’re off again.

At 8:00 we’re travelling down a very long straight road. Ahead of us I can see a car has stopped and is about to try to reverse into a parking spot. It’s all in full clear view. Samuel drives at speed as if the road is clear, as if there isn’t a small blue car suspended in time awkwardly positioned on the road ahead of us blocking our road. Both my feet are now pressing hard on the imaginary brakes. My fingers are gripping my knees. The blind SAT NAV lady says not a word.

‘I think he’s reversing,’ I suggest.

Samuel speeds up.

I close my eyes ready for the impact.

Somehow, we miss the car.

I am now wide-eyed and silent with fear my hands are clutching my knees.
At the next junction there is a sign for Irish Ferries pointing to the right.
Samuel turns left.

‘I think the ferry is the other way,’ I suggest helpfully.

Samuel is in the outer lane and seems unable to drift across the lanes onto a slip road that could help us to turn around. The thought doesn’t even seem to occur to him. I wonder if he knows of another alternative quicker route known only to taxi drivers.

At 8:05 there is something like a motorway ahead of us. There is a toll booth. Samuel curses under his breath and throws a couple of brassy looking coins into the dish. Nothing happens, the barrier remains down. Grumbling he throws in more. The barrier lifts and we speed along again into a carbon-monoxide underworld tomb of fumes. There are lorry wheels whirring close to me and I can feel the sweat on my palms. The light is yellow and sickly. The road seems to go on for ever.

At 8:10 I’m resigned. I know that there is no way we can make the check in time. I’m fearful for my life. Perhaps Samuel who has only just arrived in Ireland from Nigeria and is actually kidnapping me mistaking me for an albino whose bones he could grind up for ritualistic magic.

At 8:15 ‘Perhaps we should take that exit I suggest.’

He does so, and turns the car around. I expect him to go back through the tunnel but instead he takes a different exit on seeing the toll booths again and we are now in the greyer edges of Dublin travelling with the rush hour Monday morning traffic. Cars are netted like shimmering fish at every set of traffic lights.

Samuel drives fast and stops with such suddenness, I seriously think of opening the door and running.

At 8:20 the Sat Nav lady talks again and calms me down. Samuel calculates her lefts and rights with his fingers.

The lights are red.

I’m holding my breath.

At 8:25 I attempt to explain to Samuel that I will have missed the check-in time, but he has only limited understanding of English and does not understand. We are snarled in traffic next to dingy grey buildings.

At 8:30 we are nearing the ferry terminal again. I point out the sign and we follow the long road again.

The place is quiet, deserted. There is nobody around. It’s as if all living things have been sucked from that place.

It is grey place as were my hopes.

At 8:33 I’m dropped off many yards from the terminal building.

The fare is 36 Euros. I pay him only 10 and walk away on trembling legs into the cool terminal.

It is as I feared, as I enter the silence of the hall, both the check out desks for Irish Ferries are closed, the signs proclaim as much.

There is nobody about.

The place is silent.

I see one man hidden against the wall.

‘You’ve missed the ferry,’ he says.

I nod.

‘What’s the time?’ I ask.

‘8:35,’ he says. ‘You have to check in half an hour earlier to catch the ferry,’ he explains.

I nod. ‘I know,’ I say.

I’m too shaky to argue. I’m resigned for a four hour wait for the next ferry. ‘My taxi driver got lost,’ I explain calmly.’ He took me through a tunnel.’

As if this is some sort of secret password, the man begins to chat on his walkie-talkie. It’s arranged. With a quick look at my ticket, he writes my name on the list, prints a boarding pass and I’m whisked away through ‘Arrivals’ onto a coach, and then onto the ferry.

I am astonished as I find that I have a seat, and I can see Dublin already slipping away. Beneath my feet are chugging vibrations of the boat.

The sun shines and I feel blessed.

I discover later that the taxi drivers on O'Connell Street are famous for getting lost. It seems they most have come recently from abroad and they don’t as yet have ‘The Knowledge’ of Dublin.

Travellers beware!

Irish Ferries, for not being ‘jobsworths’, absolutely brilliant. I sing your praises!

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The Long Walk

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We were sat in the middle of a busy open plan working office. Around us busy people stared at their monitors.

It was the ultimate insult to sit people who were going to be made redundant in the midst of busy office. It reminded me of that terrible room in the nearby hospital where mothers whose babies had been stillborn spent the night in anguish listening to the mewling cries of other mothers’ living newborns.

One by one we were being called to walk ignominiously down a long corridor, then through the double doors and into the small meeting room. Here we were informed in our 1:1 meeting of our fate.

It was my turn next when Man Boobs raced down the corridor into the hum of the office.

‘Ah,’ he said seeing me waiting.

He didn’t stop moving.

His great bulk had gained so much momentum from his ‘dash’ down the corridor that it was probably impossible for him to do so.

I had met him once before. That had been the day he’d informed us that the funding for our work had been cut, and that we were all going to be made redundant. He’d worn a pink shirt that day with bursting buttons.

Later, he’d sat next to me at lunch. He had eaten with his head bowed; his mouth wide open just a few inches above his plate into which he rapidly shovelled food.
‘Can’t stop,’ he said seeing me, as I sat awkwardly on a chair surrounded by the hum of busy working people whose pay packets and pensions were secure.

I stared at him.

‘I have to go,’ he called from a great distance as he rounded the corner. ‘Janet’s in there. She knows what to say. She’s got the script.’

And he was gone.

He left me feeling bitter and disgusted in an island of resentment. I was shocked to be treated so shabbily with the few off hand remarks he’d just thrown in my direction.

He was making us redundant and thought it was more important to be somewhere else despite the special journeys we had made to meet with him that day.

And there was a script!

I was astonished that he couldn't even be bothered to walk up to me to apologise, or even to explain the reason for his sudden departure.

I was left there waiting an hour for my turn to hear the script being read out with no offer of tea or biscuits. No one had spoken to me in the way that no one knows how to speak to the recently bereaved.

I was the living dead and it was best to keep your eyes averted.

And nobody looked up from their screens as I began my long walk down that corridor.

Belas Knapp

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The stories of this place, that once lay rich like pebbles on the shore, have long since been washed away by four times a thousand years of rain.
The silence is wrong.

A long deep note held for aeons can be sensed as it reaches the limits of its span: it is faded and thin, interwoven with the quavers of bird song and lulled by the waving stalks of long grass.

It’s a waiting place, humped on the hill, beyond the sight of those living in the town in the valley below that was once the ancient capital of Mercia.

It’s also a watching place; in the distance are the shadowy Welsh Hills from where enemies made their raids, from here their fires at night could be seen, and from here warning could be given.



It’s a place where you can stand beneath the swirl of the heavens in the night sky and be open to the whole universe and eternity; and it’s a place where you can crawl like a worm into its innards - if you dare - and feel the claustrophobic pressure of the mound weighing down upon your head, smell the cold damp earth and stones and feel atomised into particles of clay.
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