recommended reading

Life's more fun when you own up to having bad taste. Or better yet, glory in it. Indulging in strange or antediluvian books, movies, clothes and décor is one of life's greatest and rarest pleasures. I had a pretty darn good day yesterday, not just because I spent most of it with a special lady, but because I know what I like and am secure enough to partake of it without shame. We went shooting in the morning. We had a Beretta semi-automatic, a .22-caliber Ruger target pistol, a big .45 M1911, and the pièce de résistance, an 1873 Colt single-action Army revolver. It's one of my father's reproduction cowboy firearms, and has served both of us well in many a competition. It's a surreal thing, just to see it and hold it: polished walnut grips, case-hardened frame, barrel and cylinder cold black steel, grit personified. It's a piece of history, this gun. Nothing satisfies the scholarly mind or itchy fingers like loading a few massive .45 slugs into it, spinning the cylinder flippantly, and driving six giant holes through a paper bulls-eye. Some people are too caught up in your modern, plastic firearms like Glocks and M-16s. They don't appreciate the worth of a classic six-shooter. But I do. Then we went to the Old 247 Café and laid waste to the cheeseburger special. Burger, fries, and a medium Coke for $4.60 apiece. Where else in the country can you still find that kind of deal? And it was delicious, let me tell you. Diets and veggie burgers and protein shakes can go hang themselves. There's no denying the decadence of a good old-fashioned hamburger, packed with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles and dripping ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise onto the grease-bound fries. But the spiritual center of the Postman's brand of arcana—the place where I really let my horrible taste and singular cravings run loose—is the used book store. I found a science fiction novel by some guy I've never heard of (James White), called The Escape Orbit. It's about a bunch of human prisoners-of-war who, taken captive by the instectoid race humanity has warred with for 60 years, get dumped on a wild planet filled with carnivorous alien monsters. How cool is that? Yeah, yeah, I know. It's not Twain or Brontë or Dostoevsky. But it's fun, all right? I don't care if people say I have questionable taste in books. I don't care if Dad rolled his eyes when I excitedly explained the book's premise. I think it's neat. I mean, come on: if I liked (the original) Clash of the Titans, where you've got a bunch of guys fighting fantastic monsters with swords and bows...well, shoot! How is this any different? The monsters just happen to be giant green elephants with six legs, two trunks and shark teeth. I've delved into the first chapter already, and I must say that White does an excellent job of not clogging up the beginning with too much description or background. He just gets the story started, introduces some of the characters, and lets the context seep in where it seems logical. I need to work on that. I stand to learn a lot from this novel, especially since there's quite a few monster-fighting scenes in my own series. I could probably use some tutoring on how to do them properly. Just to make sure they keep the tension going and don't drag on endlessly, you know? Now let's see, what else do I have to report? Did I ever render a verdict on The Reivers (William Faulkner)? I don't think I did. I also haven't told you much about Race to the Pole (Sir Ranulph Fiennes). I finished it. And I've started in on my cousin's Western romance novel, Blue Mist Rising. So let me give you the skinny on those three and then we'll be all caught up on our monthly book reviews. THE REIVERS: In 1905 Mississippi, half-breed Indian Boon steals his boss's new car and, in the company of Ned, the family's giggly black retainer, and Lucius, the boss's eleven-year-old grandson, embarks on a long-haul joyride to Memphis, Tennessee, getting into all kinds of messes along the way. I liked the book. Faulkner is one hell of a yarn-spinner, and manages to create an entire world, filled with characters of every stamp, and scrapes and plot-twists of every conceivable caliber. Despite using some admirably long sentences and an incredible amount of parentheticals, he doesn't waste a single word. The scenery is rich, the humor ribald, the voice matter-of-fact, the tone bleak and weary at times, wistful and almost jovial at others. I got the sense that Faulkner, in his declining years, and having witnessed the brutalities and absurdities of human existence and the hypocrisy, grandstanding, bombast and foolishness that accompany them, wrote this book to show all of it up. The author was rueful of men's idiosyncratic idiocy, and yet still able to jibe about it, probably because he realized that no one can honestly expect people not to behave like animals. At times his author's voice suggests a learned species of resigned acceptance. The trials and trammels of humanity in the modern age—greed, bigotry, mendacity, pettiness, fear, corruption, anger, and lust—are lambasted in this novel, often to humorous effect. Lucius, the eleven-year-old protagonist, begins as a naïve chump, and loses quite a bit of innocence over the course of the book. In the end, he comes to understand the basic principles of rape, extortion, whoring, horse-racing, horse-trading, misuse of power, political corruption, theft, dishonesty, and sexual exploitation, and even, to an advanced degree, the reason behind them. (And in only three days to boot!) This is, as you may imagine, a traumatic process. Faulkner demonstrates his brilliance in both analyzing the human condition and translating it into words when he writes that Lucius, "having no receptacle" to put these new and confusing experiences in, and not having the maturity or wisdom to muster up some perspective, nearly breaks down with horror and chagrin as his worldview is assaulted. But with precocious rationality, Lucius refuses to let himself be corrupted completely, even if he willingly abetted the original sin (the theft of his grandfather's car and the start of the trip to Memphis) and many that followed. He takes in the unpleasantness he's witnessed, absorbs it without allowing it to consume him. (Of course, the cup does brim over at times; but whose doesn't?) Lucius's character serves as a sort of everyman, with whom the audience can identify and learn: we may observe depravity, and even partake of it, but we must never fall wholly victim to it. With good reasoning and a little maturity, we may process the information and be on guard against temptation. Failing this, we risk being lampooned as a minor character in a Faulkner novel. RACE TO THE POLE: Renowned polar explorer and O.B.E. recipient Ranulph Fiennes, the first man to transect Antarctica on foot (and who also ran seven marathons on seven continents in seven days) takes pen in hand to debunk the myths and pernicious rumors surrounding Robert F. Scott's second and final expedition to the South Pole in 1912. This was also quite an interesting read. According to Sir Fiennes, Scott has been infamously and unfairly treated by the critics and the history books. Many of the mistakes that were made during the fatal endeavor (Scott and four companions died of starvation and exposure on the way back from the Pole, to which Roald Amundsen had beaten them by over a month) were the result of ignorance and circumstance, Fiennes alleges. For example, 1912 turned out to be the worst year possible for such work. It was the most freakishly cold summer in decades, according to data collected by the expedition itself and latter-day meteorologists. Being the first expeditionary force to push so far into the Antarctic wastes, Scott and his party also suffered from a profound lack of knowledge about conditions, particularly where nutrition was concerned: Fiennes's research reveals that neither Scott nor his men were consuming enough calories to keep them going, leading to a gradual loss of stamina, body fat and muscle mass, which eventually resulted in hypothermia and exhaustion. Sir Fiennes also hoists the English flag above Scott's icy grave, insisting that the only reason Amundsen made the pole first was his inherent sneakiness. He deceived the world, fooling both Norway and England into believing he was making a push for the North Pole, changed plans at the last second, bought up all the best Greenland sled dogs, rushed southward, and mounted his own expedition in opposition to Scott's. Since Scott's work was scientific in nature and Amundsen's was not, the Norwegian was able to make far better time and devote every ounce of energy to movement instead of data-collection. This may seem like fair play in the modern age, but in the old days Amundsen's actions were nothing short of barbaric. The English were hopping mad. Even Norway disowned him in embarrassment. Nonetheless, Amundsen rose to eternal glory as the first man to reach the South Pole. If you want an interesting and well-written treatise on Antarctic exploration, scientific diligence, and the limits of human endurance (plus an engaging account of both of Scott's harrowing polar expeditions), pick up this book. It's got everything: killer whale attacks, breaking ice floes, wooden sailing ships, ferocious storms, hellish blizzards, deadly cliffhangers, and enough seal-blubber soup to choke a sled dog. BLUE MIST RISING: Romance novelist (and my own second cousin) Jacqueline Franklin spins an erotic tale of danger, romance, and intrigue as Grady, a half-Indian gunslinger, returns to his Arizona hometown to save his lady-love Kaylee from the clutches of his mean and ugly arch-nemesis Dade. I haven't read much of this yet, and (if you've read even half of this blog post) you know that I'm not much into romance novels. But Cousin Jax did me a great service by reading my manuscript, which, as a fledgling piece of science and historical fiction, must've been as repulsive to her as erotic romance novels are to me. But I'm going to finish it. And I must say, Jax sets a scene pretty well. Two chapters in and we've already been introduced to all the major players and their wants, desires, and dislikes. I'll let you know more when I've read more. So that's what's on my plate right now, The Escape Orbit and Blue Mist Rising. And what am I going to read when I get through with these? You remember that special girl I mentioned earlier? Well, she has lent me a book. That book is Moby-Dick. Yes, the massive Melville classic. That's right, folks. I'm going into the breach again. Another attempt to scale the mountain will soon be under way. Let's see if I can get through the whole thing this time. I knocked off twenty chapters a few years ago and then completely ran out of steam. Melville is a pretty dry writer, even if the stuff he wrote about would make the average person pee their pants. I'll let you know how it goes. Until then...stay tuned.

welcome back, Beethoven

The last couple of days have been warm and muggy. The moisture in the air and the warmth of the sun have combined to produce some extreme cumulus and cumulonimbus clouds. Thunderstorms have been building up in the morning and unloading at night. It's miserable on the ground, but the view is fantastic: great white towers loom high above the desert like the hives of gigantic insects, or the airborne edifices of some futuristic civilization.

It may be hot and humid by day, but at night it (usually) cools down, and a sweet breeze blows through the house as lightning crackles over the dark mountains in the distance.

And here I sit, pajama-clad, a big glass of water by my side, fans on, listening to Beethoven's 5th Symphony, 4th movement. I actually prefer the fourth movement to the first. The first movement of Beethoven's 5th is the one everybody knows, allegro con brio—you know, duh-duh-duh-DUHHHHHH, duh-duh-duh-DUHHHHHH. It took me ages to find the fourth movement on YouTube because it's simply allegro, and search engines always assume you must be looking for the allegro con brio first movement.

The fourth movement isn't as dark or weighty as the first. It's quick, cheery, larger-than-life, full of pomp and bombast and triumph, reminiscent of Beethoven's 6th or Pastoral Symphony. I'd always been familiar with the first movement of Symphony No. 5, but I first heard the fourth movement when I was a kid, on a Beethoven tape (yes, an actual eight-track tape) that my folks had.

I was intoxicated. I saw visions, listening to it. I'd watched the original Star Wars trilogy not long before, and I saw, as I listened, Bespin and Cloud City and the sky-towers of far-flung planets. Clouds, light, air, and sun, the gleaming spires of fantastic cities...pure beauty put to music. Even at that young age I thought, "This couldn't have been written by the same man who wrote that gloomy Fifth Symphony" (this was before I knew the two works were from the same piece of music).

For years, the only place I could hear this beautiful composition was on that tape. I never forgot it. Even if it slipped my mind while I was away at school or overseas, I'd hear it again on occasion, thundering faintly at the edge of memory as I gazed over the wondrous sights of distant lands.

As the clouds built and climbed and towered and rolled over the Mojave yesterday evening, I remembered the fourth movement. I dug that old Beethoven tape out of the dresser drawer where it had lain for months, popped it into an aging tape player, and let it flow again. And man, wasn't it lovely. All those times I'd listened to it as a kid came flooding back. Just as I had all those years ago, I stared out of my window and let my mind fly. I watched the titanic cloud-castles, which hung in the skies above the desert exactly as they did above Cloud City in The Empire Strikes Back. I soared over their sun-drenched expanse, orange and pink and purple and red and gold, leaping from powder puff to powder puff, kicking up a spray of vaporous foam, dodging the skyscrapers, the lighthouses, the lofty crags, the conning towers of ethereal battleships. The sky was a landscape in itself, a glorious chaos of color and shape and endless wonder, through which I hurtled to my heart's content, buoyed on waves of sound sprung from the mind of a long-dead genius.

To this day I cannot believe that Beethoven was deaf. Nobody could weave harmonies like that and not hear them played afterward. It would be the most monstrous injustice, like erasing the very clouds themselves from the evening sky.

Thanks for the trip down Memory Lane, Ludwig.

And the leap through the clouds, too.

ADDENDUM: Thanks to Rebel, I was informed of a rather neat blogfest taking place over at Dawn Embers, the Word Paint Blogfest, where the bloggers' job is to paint a scene with words. I guess that might be what I've done here. It's worth a shot, so I've entered. Thanks a million for the encouragement, Rebel. Eat your heart out, people. 

bog bodies

Breakfast on the morning of June 17 was a somewhat muted affair. It occurred rather late in the morning, and only after large amounts of water had been drunk and hot showers had been taken.

Jeff and I, despite our fuzzy heads, still weren't finished with Dublin. There were some things we figured we had to see before we left, and had no excuse not to, since our flight out didn't leave until the afternoon.

That pretty much left the National Museum. It actually wasn't too far away from us, over on Kildare Street. We didn't know it going in, but the Museum actually has four branches, all in different places. We were walking into the archaeology branch.

...which happened to be right next to the houses of Irish Parliament. There was a big ol' protest going on outside its gates as we approached. Camera crews were busy filming it, policemen were busy guarding it and spectators were busy gawking at it. A bunch of elderly folks were walking up and down the sidewalk, hoisting signs that said PRESERVE THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE and SAME-SEX MARRIAGE IS A SIN.

Some things apparently don't change too much between continents.

We entered the museum through a metal gate and walked up the steps into the domed lobby. Outside there were a bunch of school kids (crisply uniformed) all hanging about, either waiting to start a tour or just having finished.

Nothing makes your day like hearing a little Irish girl singing a Taylor Swift song, let me tell you.

So, we walked in. Admission was free. The museum was rather small (at least this particular branch). Nonetheless we saw some cool stuff. There was a whole Viking longboat found somewhere over near Galway or something that had been almost perfectly preserved. Or maybe it wasn't even Viking, maybe it was just a big effing wooden canoe that the early Irishmen had built. I don't remember, I was hung over.

They had a nice little section on ancient Egypt on the upstairs floor with a bunch of articles, artifacts, artistry, artisanship, and all those other words that start with "arti."

(I wish I could give you more details, but as has previously been mentioned, I was hung over. And it's Wednesday afternoon as I'm writing this and I just woke up from a three-hour nap and there's a thunder cloud hanging over my house that's making a whole lotta noise and I'm trying to finish this entry before it starts crackling and pouring and frying my motherboard.)

The pinnacle of the museum's collection was its exhibit on "bog bodies." These were the mummified, mutilated remains of Irish kings, slaughtered by their political foes and dumped into bogs. The peaty composition of the Irish bogs meant that the decomposition process was slowed or even halted, resulting in some of the best-preserved bodies you'll find anywhere in the world. Indeed, some of these guys (except for the fact that their skins looked exactly like leather, and they were, as has previously been mentioned, mutilated) looked almost...well, alive.

It was creepy, dude.

I highly recommend the exhibit if you happen to be in Dublin. It's not going anywhere. It's by far the most exciting thing ever to have come out of an Irish bog (except when they pulled Old Patty Flynn stone-drunk out of the Ardee bog last year; that was a hoot).

So we left the museum about eleven and headed back to the hostel. We made a brief stop in Waterstone's (a bookstore chain found all over the Isles) to check the price of a copy of Ulysses...

...saw this thing maneuvering around streetcars...

 ...zipped back to that souvenir shop on O'Connell Street so I could finally get my Ireland T-shirt...

(Feel privileged, this is the most recent photo of me. Like, ever. I just took it five minutes ago.)

Then we our hostel a fond farewell, had one last tributary pint of Guinness in Doyle's (as Argentina slaughtered South Korea up on the TV), and headed for the airport.

And so we departed Dublin the same way we'd come in: tired and hung over.

We were sitting behind some little Geordie kids on the way back. I tell you what, I like hearing English, Scottish and Irish accents in general, but hearing them from kids...well, that's an extra kick. Makes the little tykes seem extra cute, you know. It was two little boys and a girl, and they were all talking about what makes airplanes stay up. They were pointing out the window and watching the Boeing's flaps go up and down. It kind of took the hangover away for a while.

Ryanair, being one of those cheapo airlines, doesn't give out free drinks and snacks. You have to buy them. And they cost a lot of euro. If you're a smoker, though, and you don't think you can go the 45 minutes between Dublin and Newcastle without a puff, they sell smokeless cigarettes. Yes, on an airplane. They were sellin' cigs. Wow. Neat.

We got back to Newcastle, hopped at cab back to Tynemouth, and were home and dry in Adam's mum's house before the sun set.

But as you already know, that ain't sayin' much up there in the northern latitudes.

Next up: I try to host an American barbecue for my gracious hosts...with British charcoal and a British grill. Witness the disaster next time on British barbecue blues. Don't miss it.

dancing with the Australians

[pant, wheeze]

Welcome to the sixth consecutive day of posts regarding my recent trip to the U.K. and Ireland. For those of you who are just joining the party, here's a recap:

My Canadian friend Jeff and I, who were visiting some English friends in Newcastle, England, slid west into Dublin for a day or three. We'd survived the first night, and were now onto the second: a pub crawl chaperoned by the city tour guides. It was due to start at 7:00 at the Purty Kitchen, in Temple Bar (the touristy-party district of southern Dublin).

Jeff and I washed, waxed and dried (figuratively speaking) at the hostel, then sauntered out into the slowly darkening day. I say "slowly darkening" because, as has been mentioned previously, night comes extremely slowly to the northern regions in summer. It takes the sun about three hours to set, and even then it doesn't get completely dark. Evening goes on forever. (You can get a good idea of what I mean by watching the movie Gregory's Girl, which takes place in Scotland.) It's probably the most charming temporal thing I've ever experienced.

It also meant that Jeff and I had plenty of time (and light) to get to the Purty Kitchen. We almost ran out of the former, if not the latter. We couldn't quite remember where the danged place was. Cillian (our tour guide) had only shown it to us once, and Temple Bar, though composed of only two or three streets running east-west (south of the River Liffey), was a nightmare of byways, alleys, and cobblestone cross-streets. We didn't remember whether the Kitchen was over to the west, closer to the cathedral; or east, towards Westmoreland Street.

After a few disagreements about cardinal directions and a lot of guessing, Jeff and I managed to muster up a whole brain between us. We located the rendezvous point with minutes to spare. It was blatantly obvious. The Purty Kitchen was just on the other side of the New Theater (where U2 was first discovered, remember?). Plus there was a whole line of people outside, waiting for happy hour to hit. Most of them had been on the tour with us, including a couple of the Americans (Oklahomans, fresh out of college and having a fling before settling down).

So we queued up. When seven o'clock struck an erratic sort of relay race began. We'd snatch a ticket for a free beer (eight-ounce cups of Foster's, a severe gyp to the palate, but better than nothing). We'd dash inside, get served up, chug the brew as soon as possible, dash back outside and repeat the process. The beers were only free until eight. The chaperones doled out the beer stubs like they were candy, and the rest of us nabbed what bits of conversation we could between slugs of beer and increasingly haphazard runs for the door. Jeff surrounded himself with several Canucks of various sexes; a boy and girl from Montreal, another man from Toronto. I stood at a high table with a couple of Australians: a man from Queensland and a girl from New South Wales. (To make things even more ironic, she was from Newcastle, New South Wales.) Her name was Angela. She had been around with us on the tour. She was, if I may say (platonically), rather cute. About 5'5", petite figure, short dirty-blond hair, fair skin. Positively charming eyes, and her accent wasn't bad either. She was a student at the University of Newcastle and was taking a summer break abroad.

I was rather enthused. This was precisely what I'd been hoping for all along: to meet some young, good-looking, free-spirited foreign girl while overseas. Just to talk with her, honest. If anything else happened...well, that would be an added bonus.

Don't bother tuning up. Nothing happened. Neither of us went to each other's hostel room and engaged in a wild romantic encounter. (Good thing, too...she was staying at a rather shifty hostel. Wouldn't have wanted to leave my pants lying around there.) I'm simply mentioning Angela here, now, because she will be an important player later in the drama—when we all began to dance.

In the meantime, I was in a rather special place, chugging beer with an attractive Australian. I must admit, her male companion was rather good company as well, funny as hell and just as opinionated as me. The World Cup, my constant companion wherever I went, was on the TV. South Africa was losing tragically to Uruguay. Jeff was scintillating and chafing beautifully with his companions over at the bar. I was working up a good buzz and feeling fine.

Eight o'clock struck. Duly fraternized (and moistened), we moved en masse from the Purty Kitchen to the next venue, Peadar Kearney's. The place was claustrophobic up top and spacious down below, the bar barely having room to swing a cat in, but the downstairs (with plentiful pool tables) darkly lit and cavernous.

Angela, Jeff and I ordered up some drinks. How we managed to push and shove our way through the wall-to-wall crowd remains a mystery. Word of a beer pong tournament swept the room shortly thereafter, and Jeff and I dove down the narrow staircase and into the basement to take on the Oklahomans. We lost, miserably. Those Okies know their business. It was my first time ever playing, but still, I would have though a Canuck and a Californian would have been able to hold up their end better.

I was just about lit by this time. I wandered back upstairs to refill my glass and join the Australians in a rousing chorus of "Waltzing Matilda." The Irish guitarist on the tiny stage crammed in the corner strummed and hummed, and the rest of us filled in the words. At the bar was a blond, bearded fellow from Manchester, England. What his name was I've long since forgotten. Solid bloke, though. The two of us sat and discussed the broader issues of life and world travel until it was time to switch pubs. Like a horde of thirsty locusts, we tourists swarmed the door and hung a left up Dame Street to Sweeney's.

This last was just a long, low room with several levels, each decked out with tables and chairs. Tequila shots were one euro apiece. The Montrealese and the Torontan had joined us, as had Angela. We'd lost Angela at Kearney's, but I (despite weaving a good deal) ran back down the sidewalk, rounded up all the stragglers, and herded them back to Sweeney's. Thought it was a gallant sort of thing to do, go back for the damsel left behind. Jeff and I sipped beer, shot tequila and talked with the other three until...well, until none of us were in any shape to talk anymore. I remember the Montreal-man just sort of keeling over slowly, like a ship foundering, until he was prostrate on the bench. I don't remember where the Toronto fellow disappeared to. I wasn't sure what kind of shape Jeff was in. Angela was taking things quite easy; she was still in good shape. I was feeling no pain. I was about to go ask the owner if he could stop the bar and let me get off.

But we weren't quite finished yet. There was one thing we had to do before calling it a night: clubbing. As it happened, our starting point, the Purty Kitchen, was in possession of an upstairs club. So back (and up) we went.

The remainder of the night passed in a blaze of strobes, pop music, and gut-shaking rhythms. The Canadians, the Mancunian, Angela and I all formed a sort of hectic six-square on one side of the dance floor and cut loose. I haven't gone that crazy in a while. All of us were soaked through in a matter of minutes. We kept imbibing, too: Smirnoff Ices were going like hotcakes at the downstairs bar. Jeff wound up jaw-to-jaw with a pretty girl from Wisconsin as the Mancunian and I hosted a dance-off in the corner.

I'd love to be able to show you pictures of some of this, but I left my camera in my room at the hostel. I knew I'd be getting soused, and didn't trust myself to hang onto valuables. I'd like to give you a more coherent rundown of the night's events, but as has previously been mentioned, I was soused. You should see the notes I took while out on this pub crawl. My writing, as it moves down the page, gets progressively more illegible until it fades finally to gibberish. Much the same is true of my memory. Angela disappeared sometime shortly after my memory fades away. I believe she, the Mancunian and I exchanged Facebook info, but I was never able to locate them. Such is life. Ships that pass in the night. Freak-dances in Dublin. Se la vi.
I vaguely recall stumbling away from the Kitchen with Jeff in the black of night, which had finally arrived; stopping off in some convenience store for a (large) bottle of water; traipsing back into the hostel, doffing my shoes and collapsing onto the upper bunk. It was as well that our flight out of Dublin back to Newcastle left in the early afternoon; we were going to need a serious lie-in.

But that's a story for next time. Next up on the Sententious Vaunter, bog bodies: the final day in Dublin.

the law firm of Strongbow and Jameson

Quick recap:

Me. Jeff. Dublin. Ireland. June 16. Twenty-ten A.D. Just finished the walking tour. It's about, oh, two o'clock in the afternoon or something. Cillian (our tour guide) has released us at St. Stephen's Green. We've been told to come to the tour-sponsored pub crawl at 7:00, starting at the Purty Kitchen in Temple Bar. ("If you don't have plans, come out," he said. "If you do have plans, cancel them.") We've toured St. Stephen's Green and Grafton Street with Harry, our Australian roomie. We've split from Harry and are now on our way west, through Temple Bar, to explore all the stuff we saw on the tour that we want to see more of. Plus we're trying to make up our minds whether we want to pregame with Guinness or Jameson before going to the pub crawl (meaning we're trying to decide whether to tour the Guinness brewery or the Old Jameson Distillery). That yellow-hued DUKW with all the screaming Viking tots is still driving around, yelling at pedestrians.

Got all that?

Okay, on with the show.

I wanted to see the inside of Christ Church Cathedral. I'm ain't the religious type, but I've got a thing for churches. The bigger and older they are, the more I like 'em. Nothing beats standing 'midst the pews in an ancient cathedral, the holy light of ages beaming down from the stained-glass windows above the worn pulpit...even if the pews, windows and pulpit are just replicas. There's a quiet sort of grandeur about a place of worship, one which I like to sample even if I don't buy into it.

Jeff wasn't in the mood to stump up the requisite €6 to get inside, however, so I went in by myself. The ticket agent took my money, politely ordered me to take my cap off, and handed me my pass.

And then I was in.

It was something else in there, folks.

The cathedral has some pretty intriguing history. It was originally built by a Catholic Viking king, about a thousand years ago. It was made of wood. A couple hundred years later, the Normans showed up, led by a fellow named Strongbow (there's a cider named after him; we drank heavily of it in Newcastle). Strongbow and his buddies oversaw a complete rebuild of the cathedral, including the construction of a choir, transepts (whatever the heck those are), the crypt, and chapels to several saints. Strongbow himself has a tomb now in the upper chambers of the cathedral.

No, I wasn't whistlin' Dixie: I said "crypt." This cathedral has a crypt. How cool is that?

After I got done touring the main complex, I went down into it.

Besides having some breathtaking tombstones (speaking of "quiet grandeur")...

...the crypt also houses a golden tabernacle and candlesticks used by King James II; the oldest-known secular carvings in Ireland; and "the Cat and the Rat," the mummified bodies of a cat and a rat which a janitor found stuck down an organ pipe.

I wish I could show you pictures of these goodies, but they didn't allow photography in that bit of the crypt.

I don't know about you, but I think that was well worth the six euros. Damn skippy.

I emerged into the bright Dublin sun (man, did Jeff and I get lucky or what? It was sunny the whole time we were in Ireland, gorgeous weather), rendezvoused with Jeff, and together the two of us struck out again. We decided that we'd had enough Guinness for the nonce; me being a hardcore whiskey fan, we elected to check out the Jameson distillery.

For the record, I think Jameson is tasty stuff. And their commercials are hilarious.

So, following the map (Jeff's Lonely Planet guide, no two-bit tourist map this time) we marched over to that part of town. We stopped off for a bottle of water at a nearby supermarket (it was actually quite warm outside). While I waited for Jeff, I perused a nearby fence, which had this mysterious missive attached to it:

And thence we strolled boldly into the distillery.

The tour was costly...I think it was twenty euros each or something. The next tour didn't start for about twenty minutes, so Jeff and I killed the time by browsing around the gift shop. Such treasures you've never seen: Jameson hats, Jameson overcoats, Jameson hip flasks, Jameson golf balls, Jameson pens, even a charming collection of tweed driving caps. But the worst was the booze. They had every single Jameson variety in that gift shop. Signature reserve, twelve-year-old special reserve, gold reserve, eighteen-year-old limited reserve...even the coveted rarest vintage reserve, one bottle of which costs more money than Donald Trump makes in a day and comes with its own serial number. The buyers put their names down in a master registry, along with the number of the bottle they bought. Seriously, a bottle of Jameson RVR is more like a pedigreed dog than a measure of booze. I was just sorry I didn't get to taste it, and judge for myself. It was sheer torture being in that room.

The tour fortunately started before I went totally stir-crazy. Our guide, a handsome girl named Georgina, plunked us down in a small theater and has us watch an introductory video. It explained (a little) about the history of the Jameson family (their family motto is Sine Metu, "Without Fear," because the early Jamesons made a name for themselves fighting pirates) and the uniqueness of John Jameson's whiskey. It didn't go into too much detail, but it sure got the juices flowing.

Then we went on the tour. Each exemplary piece of equipment used in the distillation process had been preserved. Some (like the wash back) were still in operation, eternally sloshing some display wort around a big wooden tub so we could see how it worked. We learned some surprising things about the creation of the spirit. As the whiskey matures, a surprisingly large amount (thousands of bottles' worth) is lost through the casks to evaporation. This has been nicknamed the "angel's share." (There's only one way it goes, after all: up.) I'll bet St. Peter's job satisfaction went through the roof once John Jameson started up his stills. We were able to sample this effect ourselves. There was an upended cask with a hole cut in the top for us to sniff. We took a whiff and BOY, a hefty punch of whiskey goodness wafted out of the barrel and into our nostrils. That was cool.

I won't say too much more (a) because I don't want to spoil the tour for you, and (b) Jameson representatives, clothed in black, will probably come banging on my door, and (c) I'm lazy. So I'll just say that it was an interesting tour. The creation of Irish whiskey is a much more intricate process than I'd imagined. The big thing that Georgina tried to impress upon us was that Jameson's (and other Irish whiskies) differs from Scotch whisky in that it's lighter and smoother, and better-tasting, due to the grains being merely baked in the kiln instead of having the devil roasted out of them.

And just to prove to us that she meant what she said, Georgina gave us a taste-test. She asked for eight volunteers at the start of the tour, and (well, you know me, don't you? I'm a booze-hound) my hand was one of the first in the air.

Georgina took us upstairs to the tasting-room (which looked like a rather classy restaurant, except instead of kitchens, there was just a bar and a whole lot of tables and chairs). She sat the eight of us down at a table and brought us each three plastic shot glasses. One was American whiskey, one was Scotch, and the third was Jameson's. We weren't blindfolded, and we were told which was which. Then we were invited to taste each whiskey in turn. First we took a sip of the American; then a sip of Jameson's to compare it with. Then we had a swig of Scotch, and a swig of Jameson's to chase it. Then were asked to slug that last bit of Jameson's back and make a final decision: which was best?

The vote was 7-1 in favor of Jameson. We all got signed certificates with our names printed on them that said we were now qualified, bona fide tasters of Irish whiskey. (That old gentleman next to me in the picture said he liked the American and Scotch whiskies better, just to be contrary. Georgina gave him a certificate anyway, telling him that there was "plenty of room for improvement.")

Now, before you accuse me of being a suck-up, I answered the survey honestly. I said before that Jameson is good stuff. It is rather smooth and easy and flavorful, I'll give it that. But the American whiskey used in the test happened to be Jack Daniels. I HATE Jack Daniels. I have no earthly idea why Jack & Coke is the most popular cocktail in America right now. I honestly don't know why it gained prominence over all other American whiskies. Over bourbons, for Pete's sake. I think bourbon is a lot better than Tennessee whiskey. (Old Crow and Wild Turkey 101 are my two picks.) The Jack Daniels company has a few good brands, like Double Barrel, Single Barrel and (to some extent) Gentleman Jack, but their Old No. 7 is barely passable. I wouldn't drink it straight.

And the Scotch whisky they used in the test was Johnnie Walker Black Label. Now, Black Label's the first Scotch I ever had. It's one of my dad's favorites, and my dad is a picky, picky man when it comes to booze. He won't drink any gin but Broker's (maybe Bombay Sapphire will do, if there's nothing else). He's a martini-man, and never touches rum or vodka. Hardly ever trucks with tequila, even, unless Jimmy Buffett's on the stereo and it's margarita time. I'm rather ambivalent about Johnnie Walker. Doesn't taste bad. But the fact remains that it's blended whisky. Blended whiskies just aren't on the same level as single malts. I think it was kind of a cop-out by the Jameson company that they didn't pick a good all-'round Scotch single malt to test side-by-side with their product. Johnnie Walker really isn't up to the challenge.

Mmmmmmm...challenge...

So I answered honestly. Of those three whiskies, I liked Jameson the best. Scout's honor.

And I got a little certificate for my trouble, which says that I, the Postman (real name withheld) is now a qualified whiskey-taster. I'm going to frame it, but it's printed on metric paper, so I'll have to get a custom frame. Bugger it all...

And that was that! Jeff, who hadn't signed up for the free taste-test but was sipping his free cocktail at another table, managed to snag some pictures of me in hog-heaven.



Before I hear any smart remarks, I'd like to assure you that my face was that red BEFORE I started drinking. 

Then we got up and headed out. It was time to regroup at the hostel, get cleaned up and step out to Temple Bar for a pub crawl en masse.

What happened next is a bit blurry, but I remember it as being rather fun at the time. Don't miss dancing with the Australians, coming up next.

the grand tour of Dublin

Jeff and I had a long talk with Harry over breakfast on the morning of the 16th. We found out where he was from (I think it was one of those Australian towns that sounds like baby-burbles, Wollogong or Toowoomba or something). He also told us what he was doing in Dublin (backpacking, remember?), and we explained to him a little about ourselves. Everyone we talked to on this trip seemed rather touched that an American and a Canadian were traveling together so amicably. I think they expected us to be at each other's throats.

Indeed, Jeff and I made the most sanguine travel buddies imaginable. We had our disagreements over cardinal directions sometimes, and our sightseeing priorities varied widely, but all in all we got on swimmingly. I give Jeff most of the credit for that. He's a veeeeery easygoing guy, besides possessing an unusual amount of inborn Canadian politeness.

Jeff, Harry and I had the same itinerary this morning: the walking tour of Dublin, beginning at 10:30. We donned our best walkin' duds (Harry dolled up in a short-sleeved button-down and a tweed vest) and followed the guide out of our hostel, down College Green and along Dame Street to a small square. We sat around for a bit until the other saps from the other hostels showed up, and then were introduced to our tour guide, Cillian.

That's pronounced "KILL-ee-uhn." Like Killian's Irish Red. You know, the beer. Only Cillian's name had the proper Irish spelling. The name means "little church" in Irish, in fact. How do I know? Cillian told us. Ladies, you'd have loved him. The guy's accent was off the charts. If I was a chick, I'd have married him on the spot. Had sort of the rugged look about him: stubble on his cheeks, square jaw, twinkle in his eye. He led us further up the road, hung a left, and halted right outside Dublin Castle.

"Right," he said. "My name is Cillian. That means 'little church' in the Irish language. I'll be your tour guide today. What nationalities do we have represented in the crowd?"

There were about twenty of us. Cillian pointed to each in turn, and everyone named their home turf. We had a good smattering of Americans and Australians, a few Canadians, and a couple of French girls.

Jeff and I were standing together and when we rattled off our nationalities, Cillian said "No fighting between the Americans and Canadians, okay fellows?"

That brought an appreciate chuckle from everybody.

"No English people here today?" Cillian confirmed when we'd finished the rounds. "Excellent, is it all right if I really stick the knife in?"

Jeff and I grinned at each other in anticipation.

Cillian proceeded to give us the complete history of Ireland, starting from the Neolithic Age and concluding with the formation of the two distinct Irish political entities (the free Irish Republic and Northern Ireland). He did it in about ten minutes, as he promised at the outset. He didn't pull any punches when it came to the role the British played in Irish history, either [cough]. He gave a loud cheer when he got to the bit about ousting the British and becoming an independent republic. He gave some of the crowd a bit of lip service, too. In discussing the Irish Revolution, he briefly mentioned the French and American Revolutions.
"In 1776, the Americans revolted against the English and won their independence," he said. "Nice job, guys, well done."

Man oh man. I knew Ireland had had a troubled history, and I knew (vaguely) of the major events in it (though not necessarily in chronological order). The most I ever knew about the IRA, in fact, was from its brief mention in The Quiet Man (which, by the way, is one of my favorite movies ever) and a few short stories I'd read in high school.

But, seriously. Jeez Louise. After Cillian had finished up I felt like I was walking out of the saddest movie ever made. Ireland has had it rough. As if the Norman and British invasions weren't bad enough, and having home rule denied them so many years, there were the Troubles, too. Irishman against Irishman. Civil war is hell, I can vouch for that. I won't say I came any closer to understanding Ireland, its culture, or its people, but after Cillian's speech I think I sympathized a little more with the bad stuff that's happened to them (and what's still happening).

We started the tour at the most logical place: Dublin Castle, right behind us.

Now, before you get all excited, Dublin Castle...er...doesn't exactly look like a castle, you know. It actually looks kind of like a house. Like a mansion, sort of. The only castle-ish thing about it is the Records Tower...

...which as you can see is tall, round, made of stone, and topped with battlements. The rest of the castle looks like this: 

(photo courtesy of Wikipedia)

Why does it look like that? Well, 'cause the Brits moved in and took over management of the country. They built the complex originally under the rule of King John as a fortified base to house England's treasure from the Normans. The place eventually became the seat of British rule of Ireland. Cillian told us all sorts of stories about how the statues which overlook the castle's courtyard symbolize English tyranny.

Take Lady Justice, for example. She's standing on top of the arch there in the above picture. She (like the other statues) is facing in, toward the castle, not out, indicative of England's selfish colonial ways; she's not wearing a blindfold, indicating that justice was not blind in English Ireland; and furthermore, she's carrying a sword. (Do I really need to explain that?)

Interesting stuff. Cillian also told us a rather sad story about an Irish prince who was enticed onto an English ship (with booze) and imprisoned in the dungeon of the records tower for some years. He remained there until the young lords of the two most influential Irish clans mounted a rescue operation. One died in the attempt, but the prince was rescued.

What comes next is so secret and so jealously guarded that I can't show you any pictures, nor even tell you precisely where it is. Cillian asked us to keep it under our hats. It's one of his favorite places to go for a little peace and quiet, and he can't have any of you noisy tourists barging in and mucking it up.

It's the Dublin Castle Garden. It's just a circular courtyard of green, green grass ringed with scenic walks and park benches. The Royal Stables border the garden to the south, its façade massive to the point of absurdity; it was built by an unsympathetic English lord to obscure the unsightly Dublin slums behind it. To the west lies a library, bequeathed to the city by a U.S. copper magnate (Alfred Chester Beatty) who collected an insane amount of Egyptian papyri and Oriental texts. He became a naturalized British citizen in 1933. He moved his vast anthropological collection to Dublin in 1950, and was made an honorary citizen of Ireland in 1957. He was given a state funeral in Ireland upon his death, pretty rare for a private citizen.

But I didn't come here to tell you that. I came to talk about this garden. It's...wonderful. Easy on the eyes and quiet as a tomb. You're surrounded by the edifices of modern architecture, but they seem somehow distant, remote, as if you were standing in an uncharted clearing  in the midst of the urban jungle. You can hear the traffic warbling by on either side of the Liffey, but it's a dull roar. People stroll up and down the paved walkways or sit on the park benches and meditate. You can sprawl full-length on the soft grass, gaze up at the sky, and let your mind wander where it will.

Not bad for a city park.

If you actually do manage to find this place, keep it a secret, okay? And you didn't hear it from me.

We also learned where the name "Dublin" comes from. Dublin used to be two small villages at the intersection of the Rivers Liffey and Poodle (pronounced "Poddle"). These villages were Átha Cliath (Irish for "Ford of Hurdles"; there was once a wooden bridge there) and Dubh Linn (meaning "Black Pool," there used to be a blackish sort of pool nearby, I guess). Then the Vikings came in and rezoned the entire area. The two villages were united and blossomed into a city.

And so we wandered on through Dublin and Temple Bar. We saw Jonathan Swift's birthplace, the New Theatre (where U2 was discovered)....

...the Clarence Hotel (which U2 got kicked out of for being too scruffy; they own the place now, and Cillian said he often sees the Edge in there having a quiet drink)...

...and Trinity College, which still has some odd rules on its books. Apparently, if any student is occupying a room which faces the school's courtyard, and he sees a Catholic enter said courtyard, that student is obligated to shoot the Catholic with a bow and arrow.

Also, if a student enters the school on a horse, wearing a robe and carrying a sword, he has the right to demand a free meal and a glass of mead or port. Only one person has tried this in the school's recorded history, and he got the free meal and the drink...and a suspension. Some technicality about having livestock on campus, or something.

Trinity College is also home to the Book of Kells, a Gospel book written in Latin which surpasses all others in the intricacy and artistry in its illustrations; and the harp of Brian Boru, the Irish king who defeated the Vikings. The harp is now the emblem of the college. (And if you've ever wondered where that harp on the glass of Guinness comes from...that one's Brian's, too. It just faces the other way.)


Jeff and I also learned the story behind the Spire of Dublin. Apparently the city fathers decided that Dublin needed a monument. So they came up with the spire idea. Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your aunt, they got themselves a monument. Most Dubliners think it's ridiculous. Some of the local nicknames for it include "The Spike," "The Stiffy by the Liffey," "The Erection by the Intersection," "The Stiletto in the Ghetto," "The Cock by the Dock," and others far more rude. It's not that bad. I actually rather like it. Gleams beautifully in the sun. Enormously tall, epic in stature. Lights up at night too. Sort of comforting. You can navigate by it almost anywhere in Dublin. Real handy when you're out on a bender (sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself; I'll tell you about that later).

We finally wound up at St. Stephen's Green (yowzer, speaking of gorgeous city parks) where the tour concluded. As our send-off, we stood in front of the statue of Theobald Wolfe Tone (or just "Wolfe Tone" for short). Interesting guy, Tone. Commonly called the father of Irish republicanism. His story is rather long and convoluted, and like those of most Irish revolutionaries, not without tragedy. Tone originally wanted to found a military colony in Hawaii, but couldn't get support. So he turned to politics. He co-founded the Society of the United Irishmen. Originally this group's purpose was to merely to obtain a modicum of political reform in Ireland; say, equal political representation among Catholics and Protestants. However, frustrated by the unfairness of British government, and inspired by the French Revolution, the United Irishmen soon became a revolutionary republican advocacy group.

After various attempts to thwart British rule, including a secret alliance with France (abetted by France's war on Britain, which began in 1793), the United Irishmen got hit with a crackdown. Martial law was declared and Tone was given a court-martial. Sentenced to death, he slit his throat; the English doctors tried to sew him up, but they were too late. Tone died in November 1798, at the age of 35.

Awfully cheery thought. Fortunately, right behind Tone's statue was St. Stephen's Green. It's rather difficult to feel gloomy about anything in a place like this:

We strolled out through the Fusilier's Arch and up Grafton Street. Performers of all descriptions were out in force, populating the street with guitar and fiddle music, giant bubbles, and James Joyce quotes.

Yes, by some happy miracle, we had alighted in Dublin on the 16th of June, otherwise known as Bloomsday. On this auspicious date, fans of Joyce's novel Ulysses take to the streets in full costume and reenact their favorite scenes (at least, the scenes they can legally enact in public).

Some of these guys were pretty darn good, I must say.

We split up with Harry at Grafton Street, and Jeff and I struck out on our own.

And later I shall tell about what we saw and did (and ate). This post has already gone on WAY longer than I planned. I'd better not let my posts run too long anymore or Talli Roland might get on my case. Next up, Strongbow and Jameson: inside Christ Church Cathedral and a tour through the Old Jameson Distillery. After that (I promise) dancing with the Australians: a pub crawl through Temple Bar.

Don't miss it...

where've all the Irish gone?

TIME: late afternoon, June 15, 2010

PLACE: Dublin, Ireland (O'Connell Street and the River Liffey)

MAJOR PLAYERS: my Canuck friend Jeff and I

OCCASION: our side-trip from northeast England into Ireland

PROBLEM: where the hell are all the feckin' Irish?

I forgot to mention a few things in that last post. First of all, right after we got to our hostel, I leaped out the door and ran down the road to an Internet café, where I stumped up a ridiculously large amount of euros to use a computer for two hours. I sent off my latest article to The Expeditioner, and then I went back, rendezvoused with Jeff, and met Harry, our Australian roomie.

We all clear now? My apologies. This is what happens when I blog without having my notes in front of me. I tend to complain a lot and not say anything edgy or worthwhile. All the poetry of the moment has been scribbled in the notebook.

Jeff hadn't been idle while I was out writing an article. He had explored the western regions of College Street, and ventured a little way east, into Temple Bar, the gleaming party district of southern Dublin. It's touted as the "cultural quarter," preserving the medieval street layout and cobbled streets. But it's also the drunken touristy bit as well. No matter. It was scenic, had a sort of charm about it rarely found in an urban area, and was awash with pretty girls, as I'd mentioned previously. And don't forget the red-haired street performers and amphibious trucks filled with screaming children in Viking hats.

And there was another thing I'd noticed about Dublin while I was out walking around by myself, and even more so when I hooked up with Jeff again and went exploring up O'Connell Street, north of the Liffey.

There were hardly any Irish people anywhere.

There very well may have been, but if they were, they were few, and quite silent. I saw almost nothing but foreigners. I certainly heard nothing else. As we walked up the broad avenue towards the enormous spire in the distance, Jeff and I were barraged with American accents, English accents, Australian accents...but hardly a whiff of Irish in the whole bunch.

We couldn't accept it. This was Dublin, for Pete's sake. The same city Joyce wrote about in a book called, unsurprisingly, Dubliners. It's the capital of the country. The largest city in Ireland. It should have been a friggin' nexus of Irish folk. (I wanted to see some Irish lasses, dammit.)

 

So I decided to try an experiment. Neither Jeff nor I understood what the hell the Spire of Dublin was supposed to be. It was just this shiny steel rod, standing up straight in the middle of O'Connell Street, north of the Liffey. Looked impressive, sure, but it was hardly the most imaginative monument we'd ever seen. (And before you say anything disparaging about the Washington Monument, at least that is an obelisk, and a damned tall one, too, countering anything the Egyptians ever put up.)


So we decided to ask somebody about it. A local, preferably. This would be a great way to assay the extent of the un-Irishness of Dublin. If the random person we picked turned out to be Irish, my faith would be restored. If not, I'd give up all pretense and guess that there were probably fewer Irish people in Dublin than there were foreigners...however good or bad that may be.

I picked the prettiest and most bored-looking girl I could find in a 50-foot radius from the base of the spire.

"Excuse me," I said, pointing up at it, and putting just a hint of Texas into my inflection, "my friend and I are both new around here. What the heck is that?"
"I don't know," she said, in an American accent.
"You don't know either?" I asked. "What's it called?"
"The Millennium Spire," she said. She wasn't offended by our questions. She had an amused sort of smile on her face, in fact. She was a curly blond wearing a flowery skirt, flip-flops, and Paris Hilton sunglasses. She wouldn't have looked out of place in Orange County.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"Minnesota," she replied. "My family's here on vacation, I'm just waiting for them now."


Well, that was that. I guess there's some kind of reverse diaspora going on in Dublin. All the Irish left and all the foreigners moved in and took up the slack.

I had more pressing matters to attend to than demographics. Jeff indulgently followed me as we ducked down Henry Street and into a supermarket where I grabbed some postcards for the folks back home. Then we went back across the river and into Carroll's Irish Gifts. I was a man on a mission. One of my dear friends, the lovely Miss B (whom I was rather close to in college), had given me a special request. She had stated categorically that I was to buy her a souvenir whilst abroad in the British Isles, on pain of death.


Never one to incur Miss B's wrath, and wanting to surprise her with something beautiful and lovely and marvelous and reminiscent of our time together, I stepped into the shop and cast a discerning eye over the goods. After much deliberation, I selected a necklace, a teardrop-shaped bit of amethyst with spiral silver trim. (Purple is Miss B's favorite color.)

Then it was time for more selfish ends. I dithered a while over a T-shirt for myself. The selection ranged from the basic—IRISH REPUBLIC, EST. 1916—to the jocular—IRISH I WERE DRUNK—to the ribald—I SURVIVED A NIGHT IN DUBLIN, with images of a glass of beer, a couple humping in bed, and an aspirin pill.

I decided to sleep on the decision.

Jeff and I returned to the hostel (stopping off by the Ha'penny bridge on the way, which struck a chord with Jeff, because his ancestral name is something quite close to Ha'penny; so we had to get pictures) and had a lovely nap. We partook of some delicious pasta salad in the kitchen on the second floor, courtesy of the staff, and then went out to explore Temple Bar.

We passed the Christ Church Cathedral and the Four Courts...

...and located the Brazen Head, supposedly the "oldest pub in Ireland", established 1198. Here we sipped Guinness (and I learned how to pour it; the stuff's so foamy that you have to fill the glass three-quarters of the way and then let it sit for a bit before finishing) and watched Brazil beat hell out of North Korea.

And we laid plans for the morrow. We figured we'd take the walking tour just to familiarize ourselves with Dublin's layout and historical significance. Couldn't hurt, and it was free, too. We were on a budget, after all. We'd definitely want to hit either the Guinness brewery or the old Jameson distillery. Those were two Dublin tours we couldn't miss, and they both offered the chance of a free taste.

And suddenly Jeff and I realized the inherent stupidity of coming to Ireland to detoxify.

We slowly worked our way back east to the hostel, stopping in at any likely pub that caught our eyes. First there was Thomas Read for some Paulaner Hefeweizen (apparently it's a faux pas to order Kilkenny in Dublin; the barman stiffly informed me that he was fresh out); and then Doyle's, right next door to our resting-place. We had another pint of Guinness. We had become addicted to it. Guinness, surprisingly, actually tastes good in Ireland. Everywhere else it's been bitter, flat, and thoroughly unimpressive stuff. But in Ireland it was rich, foamy, dark, aromatic, full-bodied and smooth, far and away the best stout we'd ever had. We were astounded, flabbergasted, gobsmacked. We couldn't get enough of the stuff. One drink was like the most delicious meal and the most satisfying draft all wrapped up in one.

While we were sitting there in Doyle's (which was the most pub-like of all the pubs we'd visited...almost pitch-black, loaded to the brim with dark wood, and filled with all manner of working-class folks, their faces half-hidden in shadow) a sharply-dressed gentleman with a name tag that read "Martyn" walked up to our table and asked us if we wanted to read his poetry. I had a few beers in me (and, subsequently, a pervading sense of general equanimity), so I said I would. With names like "The Black Rose" his poems were charged with feeling and besotted with visual and sensual imagery, manifested in florid verse. I was a bit buzzed to tell Martyn that, though. Nonetheless, I read a few of his poems, nodded appreciatively, handed his book back, and told him thanks, but I was saving all my money for beer.

Don't miss the next chapter of our stalwart heroes' fearless journey through Dublin, dancing with the Australians, coming soon to a blog near you!