Trip of a Lifetime: Dublin!
While we stayed in Dublin, I didn’t write the most exciting journal entries. I’ve tried to spiff them up while transferring them to Medium.
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Greyhound Races
On the 9th, Amy and I walked to Shelbourne Park. Shelbourne Park is a small stadium tucked away on the west side of Dublin. Inside, there is a myriad of betting booths and colored pamphlets outlining the night’s events. Amy and I probably missed out because we didn’t bet at all, but the night was fun anyway.
We arrived at the stadium around 6:30p, when it opened. We knew the first race wouldn’t start until 7:45p, but we wanted to get there early for good seats. It turned out that wasn’t necessary, since there were hardly any people there. We walked across the ancient carpet (decorated with greyhounds in mid-stride) and outside, where the track sat. It was illuminated by many flood lights, and some dogs were out on walks around the green, trying to get rid of every ounce of excrement, to keep them light on their feet.
The track itself is made of sand, brushed clean by a tractor with a broom attached to the back. The dogs get loaded into a cage, each gate number plastered prominently above the grates keeping them from bolting out too early. A little black windsock-like object, connected by a wire, zooms along the outside of the track. It puffs up with air as it runs, and looks quite a bit like a rabbit. This passes the gates where the dogs are held and causes all of the cage doors to snap open at once. Now acting like a lure, the racing dogs chase after it at a blistering pace, the muted slaps of their feet against the sand sounding like a rainstorm.
After the first half of the track has been put behind the hounds, they appear to be much slower, only running about 75% of their original speed. Usually the races ended up with one dog far in the lead, the rest in a little pack behind it.
I didn’t pick any winners unfortunately, but I thought most of the names were hilarious. I bet on Group Tiger, Young Boss, Jimmy Junior, Brewers Concerto, and Dog Marley while Amy liked the ones like Ashford Flyer, Glenbrien Trump, Blenheim Beta, Usain, and Skywalker Leaf.
Opinions on Irish People and Food
The fish and chips here are great. We ate them only a couple of times from someplace similar to Ivar’s (called Beshoff Bros), but they stood out to me for some reason. Amy and I ate down by the water a couple of times, and fed our leftover fries to the swarms of seagulls.
The confusing bit about Irish people was the barrier between stranger, acquaintance, and friend. Strangers did not look us in the eye. When I smiled at somebody walking by, or said ‘good morning’, they would look down and grimace. However, people serving us, like taxi drivers or waiters, would be incredibly honest and friendly. When we sat down at a pub and didn’t order any drinks, the bartender let us know his opinion by saying “Oh ye feckers…” while walking away. Both of the taxi drivers from the airport and back were talkative and friendly (also both Irish, it’s odd for a native to be driving a taxi in Seattle). Our hosts and roommates were nice people, asking us if we wanted to go out and have a drink with them or eat dinner together. They were all very welcoming and hospitable, and I know Amy and I appreciated that immensely.
Tour of Northern Ireland
On Friday the 11th, we took a Paddywagon tour to the Dark Hedges, the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, and the Giant’s Causeway. The places we saw were fantastic, the tour itself the opposite.
Our bus driver (named Gavin) seemed to know the facts about these areas very well. I mean, how should I know? There’s no easy way to fact check him on the road. He yammered on about random buildings and history while in the city, only leaving us alone during the long trips North and South.
Tours ruin the magic of a landscape. Quietly recognizing beautiful structures and landmarks in the distance is internal (for me, at least). I think to myself: What is that? Where did it come from? It looks old! What is it for?
Sitting on a tour bus and getting hammered with facts every second is like knowing the way a magician does their tricks.
“It was built in that year by those people.”
Cool. Those dates and those names mean nothing to me, and now that spectacular sight means nothing too.
The Giant’s Causeway
I think that the Giant’s Causeway was undoubtedly the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. Huge sweeping cliffs rounded the coast. Massive boulders splayed on the shore, spilling into the murky water. Murky from far away, but smooth and clear like glass once you’re close enough to touch it. Rails of thick hexagonal rock shooting out of ancient Earth, products of lava and time. Equally powerful. Destructive. Complex.
Walking along that giant’s pathway, with steps taken on rocks created by hell’s honeybees, I was launched into a mood similar to a child seeing a fossil of a T-Rex. I wanted to dig, I wanted to know how these are here, I wanted to see the ground shift and position itself into these neat rows of polygons.
Alas! A double standard. I don’t want some bald Irishman blabbing about the construction of City Hall, but my soul craves an explanation to a geological marvel such as this. But, life is full of double standards.
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