Winter Light

I love the light hitting these buildings. I love the reflection of the opposite windows on the red brick. I love the simple architecture. I love the pattern made by the tram lines overhead. Pure happiness in a chance moment on a winter’s afternoon.

Working From Home

Things that only happen when you work from home #1: answering the door to Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Inner City Food Shopping

Two hints to food shoppers in Dublin. The first is the Dublin Food Co-op in Newmarket Square (between Cornmarket and the Coombe). We got some excellent fennel (and I made fennel and chicken gratin with it last night … not bad, but recipe needs work), a handsome squash, some huge eggs and lots of other organic yummies.

There are also stalls selling prepared food, bread, cakes and clothes.

Then we went in search of the Stoneybatter cheese shop, as mentioned in yesterday’s post. And lo, it came to pass that we visited Lilliput Stores, on Arbour Hill, across and down a bit from the prison.

The proprietors of the shop are the people behind the Real Olive Company in Meetinghouse Square Market. I don’t think either Mammy or I was convinced that it was a true cheese afficionado’s shop, but we did get some nice Gubbeen. And if I lived in Stoneybatter, I think I would enjoy having this shop in my ‘hood.

It is coincidence, but interesting, that the areas where these two food emporia are (the Liberties and Stoneybatter) are two that I have long thought I would like to live in if ever I moved back to Dublin (moved back with a salary, that is).

PS this photo is a little bit random, but en route from Newmarket Square to Arbour Hill we passed the Coombe maternity hospital and my mother felt strongly that I should take a picture of it, since it was where she and I first met.

Arbour Hill

On Saturday, my mama and I made a Republican pilgrimage to Arbour Hill. Ok, what really happened is we went looking for a cheese shop in Stoneybatter and happened to pass Arbour Hill. My mama asked me if I’d ever been to see the graves of the 1916 leaders.

Eithne: No.

Mama: Really? Your father, Midland Potato Farmer, never took you?*

Eithne: No.

And so it was we ended up in the graveyard. Arbour Hill, I should add, is a prison – and has been for over 150 years, first as a military prison, now as a medium-security prison. Following the 1916 Rising, its leaders were taken to Kilmainham Gaol and executed. They were then buried in the yard of Arbour Hill. Much later, the old military graveyard was opened to the public and a monument erected to the leaders and to the other fighters who died. Oh, and lest you be put off visiting, there is a big maximum-security style wall between the graveyard (and of course the Hallowed Revolutionary Dead) and the present-day inmates of Arbour Hill.

The monument consists of a big (not at all maximum-security style) wall bearing the text of the Proclamation of the Republic in Irish and English and a grassy mound edged in granite etched with the names of the leaders – who are buried underneath.

Reading the Proclamation, the cynic in me wonders what they were all smoking. The language is very of its time (and Mr Pearse and I would never, I’m pretty sure, have seen eye to eye.)

But it’s throat-tightening for all that in its idealism. And, of course, because we know that the men who signed it – along with many of their followers – were executed soon afterwards.

All in all, the simple monument is a vastly better idea than naming tower blocks in Ballymun after them.

*Some dialogue may be approximate.

John and Neillí, Albert and Eileen

Needing to get some fresh air on Friday, I walked to Collins Barracks, where the decorative arts and history collections of the National Museum are displayed. My intention was to go straight to the new Albert Bender gallery, but I was diverted along the way. First distraction was the sound of singing when I got to the first floor landing. I followed the sound to a small gallery dedicated to Count John McCormack. (I remember as a child being very confused that there was an Irishman who was also a count. In my mind, counts were strictly confined to fairy tales and foreign parts – they certainly didn’t come from Athlone.)

The gallery is small and the interpretation straight-forward: text describes McCormack’s life, from Athlone to the opera houses of Europe, most notably Covent Garden where he was the youngest principal tenor in its history. (Oh, and if you’re still wondering, he was made a Papal Count by Pope Pius XI for services to charity). But there were some nice touches, like the velvet curtain at the back of the display case and the upholstered bench in the centre of the room.

And best of all, recordings of McCormack singing, reminding me that often the best interpretation is the simplest. Especially for Luiseach, here’s the Count himself singing The Star of the County Down.

I left John McCormack and my attention was caught by a sign reading ‘Irish Haute Couture of the ‘50s and ‘60s.’ But what could this be? It turned out to be a special exhibition about Neillí Mulcahy, an Irish couturier best known for designing uniforms for Aer Lingus. The exhibition was charming – helped by the beautiful things on display, yes. But I also liked, very much, the additions to the displays of fabric, dress making paraphernalia, sketches and order books. There were also films of shows and insights into the working life of a model in Ireland in the 1960s (top wage was six guineas an hour.)

The hostess outfits amused me: this one at least looks wearable,

Unlike this full length jumper….

But this two-piece evening ensemble was my favourite.

With two very pleasant encounters behind me, I bounded up the stairs and into the Albert Bender exhibition. Subtitled ‘A Dubliner’s Collection of Asian Art’, the exhibition features some of the objets d’art donated to the National Museum by Bender, a Dublin-born, San-Francisco based collector. Sad to say, I was left feeling underwhelmed by the exhibition. The graphics in the introductory space felt flat, with too much text and – horror of horrors – multiple timelines.

The main gallery was better – the Chinese lacquer red is an excellent choice for the walls.

But while design should never overwhelm the objects on display, this was just a bit ... blah. Maybe it was the over-reliance on text (small) and graphics for interpretation. The rare and beautiful Tibetan Thangkas (Buddhist paintings on cotton) at the centre of the exhibition needed a better frame.

Prompted by the trip to Le Corbusier’s Cite Radieuse last October, I finished off my visit with a look into the Eileen Gray gallery. Gray was a contemporary and sometime collaborator of Le Corbusier’s. I love her lacquered furniture and attention to detail. I also appreciated the attention to detail in the design of the exhibition, from the French phrases on the floor,

To the nods to the modernist preoccupation with geometry.

So there you are – four encounters, three good, one ho-hum. In the past I’ve been frustrated by the National Museum’s presentation and thought that they could use infinitely more flair. But if I were a teacher, this is where I would write on the Museum’s report card: keep up the good work.

Hints to Water Sliders

I was kept highly entertained in Harare by Molly and Rory, Robbie’s four (and a half) year old niece and two (and a half) year old nephew (the halves are very important). There was also the super-cute eight month old Jessica, but she doesn’t come into this story.

Anyway, I spent lots of time hanging out with Molly and Rory who referred to me as ‘Eithena’, ‘you’ or ‘that other adult’. All very affectionally, I should add – we became great friends.

Molly and Rory are pros on the water slide. Here they are demonstrating the correct procedure.

1. Put your hands out in front of you.

2. Launch yourself, belly first, down the slide. (Little brothers dance in place while awaiting turn.)

3. The geronimo approach.

4. Big splash.

5. Dismount.

6. Rinse and repeat.

Some days I'd like very much to be four and a half again.

Le Bon Crubeen

In the interests of research, my mamma and I and Máire Áine and her mamma went for dinner at Le Bon Crubeen yesterday. Le Bon Crubeen is on – whisper it – the Northside, and as all of us who went are proud Northsiders we felt it important to support such a brave venture north of the river.

[To my non-Irish readers, I offer the following explanation: traditionally Dublin’s Southside is the more affluent (a bit like London in reverse) and the Northsiders and Southsiders have long been in a state of war. Southsiders think Northsiders inhabit a desolate wasteland. Northsiders think Southsiders are weak and lacking in character. Whoever you support, one thing you cannot deny – the Southside has better restaurants.]

Le Bon Crubeen bills itself as a French bistro and the review I had read said it did the best steak in chips in Dublin for €12.50. (A bit open to interpretation, no? Is that the best steak and chips in Dublin or just for €12.50?) We were there early, but the room filled up quickly. Service was friendly and prompt. (Although our poor waiter was thwarted every time he tried to take our drinks order because we took so long to make up our minds.)

The menu isn’t exactly thrilling, but full of the kinds of classic things that are always a pleasure if done well: steak, duck, salmon fillet, coq au vin. Eventually, Máire Áine and I ordered the steak, Bernadette the lamb shank and Máire the salmon. And the steak, when it came, was excellent. Cooked exactly medium rare, as requested. Good chips – and the waitress offered ketchup and mayo without anyone having to ask. And the lambshank and salmon were good too.

We left without trying any of the desserts (though my attention was caught by the spiced rice pudding) because we were going to the cinema. But the bill for four mains and a bottle of wine was – mon Dieu! – an extremely reasonable €76. So there you have it: an honest-to-goodness French bistro on Talbot St that serves good food for feck all – as advertised:

Northside 1, Southside 0.