Ireland, You Beauty
Bray, population ~30k, is a faded seaside town about an hour south of Dublin proper. It stirs a Lost Boys-esque pathos that the grey wash of the Irish Sea does nothing to improve. A matte, pebble-stone beach reaches up to a concrete boardwalk stretching the length of the town’s kilometer-long waterfront. Salt spray mixes with a constant light drizzle to dampen the esplanade’s unused carnival rides and shuttered hotels, further contributing to the dour sulk of the place. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and muttered to myself about vampires and the apocalypse…
I flew into Dublin on the hottest day of the summer so far, a roasty twenty-five degrees that seemed to bring the entirety of the country out of doors. The city itself was admittedly a bit of an initial disappointment – I had been hoping for medieval castles book-ended by soaring super-modern glass skyscrapers. Dublin’s thousand-year history, and its pedigree as the once-largest Viking city in the world, had teased my nerdbrain with images of buttressed keeps and imposing spires. Instead, my first impression had been of cozy red-brick bungalows with postage-stamp gardens, loomed over by nothing more imposing than orderly four-storey Georgians that made me think of junior lawyers and real estate agents. I struggled to understand where the Irish could have even stashed Dublin’s million-plus population in a city with no buildings taller than five storeys.
Viking castles, yarrrrr
Now, granted, the city’s topography wasn’t doing it any favours, like a pubescent waif in an overly large sweater. With no hills, and very few tall buildings, Dublin never has a chance to awe visitors with the type of chest-thumping display that most major metropolises are famous for. Rather, as I wandered the winding old streets, Dublin warmed on me slowly, its brightly painted shops, open air markets, bustling patios, and leafy quandrangles evincing an agreeable urban calm. Set in a ‘C’ shape around Dublin Bay, the city’s hub-and-spoke street pattern lends itself to getting pleasantly lost. Despite my initial, underwhelming, impression, I came to appreciate that Dublin’s charm was a polite, unshocking one – it wouldn’t want you to spill your tea.
For accommodations in Ireland, sailing serendipity had once again stepped to the plate, and I was fortunate enough to be invited to stay at the family estate of an Irish sailor I had met in Japan the previous year. Elaine’s family lived in Shankill, a posh suburb south of Dublin along the coast, and they let me have the run of the castle while I was in town. Her amiable father, Michael, took me hiking and nearly killed me – what they call ‘hill walking’ should really be described as incline training for aspiring Olympic athletes. After our climb, he then suggested I take a train to the next town then walk back because “the stroll along the seaside cliff is quite lovely” – I’m still not sure if he was trolling me, but I took his advice and was forced to agree with his understatedment (yes). The following day, the three of us went to nearby Wicklow to climb the Spinc, a lakeside cliff with enough elevation to give a view of the entirety of central Ireland. Clearly, the Irish really, really like walking. Also, I’m really, really out of shape.
Glendalough from the Spinc
“Fucking rain and vampires and grumblegrumblegrumble.”
“Cheer up; there’s a pub up the street and it’s one of my favourites.”
Hunched against the chill sea breeze, I looked up to where Elaine was pointing. The warmth of patio lights and happy chatter cut through Bray’s gloom. We navigated through a busy patio where ruddy-faced locals huddled under umbrellas, obviously determined to squeeze the last bit of joy out of what had started as the summer’s warmest day. In the pub’s darkened, maze-like interior we found ancient, comfortable armchairs to claim; Elaine had tea, I had a pint. The place began to fill up as a shaggy-haired kid tuned an electric guitar on-stage. We looked at each other dubiously; the promise of loud music didn’t suit the cozy escape from the rain that we’d been looking forward to.
“Thanks to the Harbour Bar for having me back,” the youth quietly drawled, his Dublin lilt muddied by some unrecognizable international flair.
A shark-print sweater and grey skinny jeans didn’t promise much, but that boy delivered. Two hours of amazing guitar work overlaid by a melodic crooner’s voice, he sang original songs in mixed English, French and Portuguese. We settled in and soaked it up and no one spilled their tea.
