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...