Grand Stretch in the Morning

Something about the canal cheers you. You pass it on weekday mornings and the tow path is busy, the bike lane is busy. Commuters everywhere.

At lunchtime, workers sit on the banks, eat sandwiches and drink coffee. In the evening, couples stretch their legs, walk their dogs.

You like the canal when it’s busy like this, city-chic, sophisticated.  But you like it when it’s country quiet, too.  Sunday morning quiet.

On Sunday mornings, you have the tow path to yourself.  You walk slowly from Grand Canal Street to Baggot Street and Leeson Street. The canal is over a hundred kilometres long, but this is your favourite stretch, a leafy two kilometre loop through Kavanagh territory.

You know that if you continued walking, continued following the canal, you’d reach the River Shannon. You know the Shannon is the real deal, majestic, curving, natural. The canal is puny in comparison.

Still, you like its four-foot depth, its steadfast insistence on travelling in a straight line.  You like the slow impracticality of its locks, the enforced public scrutiny of barge travellers, bobbing on rising water like rubber ducks in a bath.

It pleases you that this canal, which began life as a commercial enterprise, has survived financial failure, neglect and the threat of development. It pleases you that it’s become a valuable wildlife habitat; rural corridor in an urban setting.

Its contradictions and complexities sustain you.

Once, you were driving past on a busy morning and you saw a man cycling along the bike path. He was listening to music, twitching his shoulders and bopping his head. You watched as he lifted his arms first to one side, then the other, and mimed playing the drums in the air. You’d never seen such a mix of control and abandon before, and you smiled all the way home.

                       

The Grand Canal is one of two canals linking Dublin to the River Shannon. Construction began in 1755 and the canal was officially opened in 1804.  (A rival canal, the Royal Canal, was built between 1790 and 1817.)

The heyday of the canals was short-lived, and their popularity declined with the coming of the railways and improved road networks. By the 1960s, the canals had fallen into disrepair and their future seemed uncertain. Attitudes changed, however, and in 1986 the Office of Public Works was charged with developing the canals as a public amenity. Today, the canals are managed by Waterways Ireland.

The main line of the Grand Canal is 131 kilometres long. It has 43 locks, 5 of which are double locks. (The Royal Canal is 145 kilometres.)

Although man-made, the canal is an important wildlife habitat and supports a range of fish, animal, bird and plant life. The water is clean and calcium-rich.

The Sound of Gravel Underfoot

You come here because you like the sound of gravel. Silly, really. A grown woman, moved to happiness by the sound of stones.

Still. You like gravel. Always have. You like how it crunches underfoot; calls attention to itself. You like how it slows you down, discourages speed and carelessness.  You can walk slowly here and not be in anyone’s way.

You remember visiting your aunt when you were young, the crunch of tyres as you turned onto her gravel driveway. You remember the dust that rose behind the car; hung for a moment in low clouds before dissipating into the country air.

When I grow up, you thought, I’ll have a gravel driveway. But you’ve lived in nine houses already. Still, no gravel driveway.

And so you come to this park, choose the path that leads away from Hatch Street, away from offices and restaurants. You walk along the perimeter (crunch, crunch), past the fountains, past the open lawn and the benches that surround it. You know you could sit in the sun, but you prefer to walk in the shade. You turn left. The park is quieter here, less busy.

You stop to look at an oak tree, its leaves dappled in the morning light. Beside the oak, a birch sapling. You stand for a long time in front of the sapling. Its peeling bark makes you ache. You would like to touch it gently, press it back into place.

A man walks across the grass, whistles to his dog.

You turn back towards Hatch Street, glance at the office blocks that loom above the park’s brick wall. Inside the offices, people you don’t know are making phone calls and writing emails. At lunchtime, they’ll bring their coffee and sandwiches into the park, stretch out on the grass or find a seat beside the fountain.

The gravel will crunch under their feet, too.  Leave the same cloud of dust in their wake.

                      

The Iveagh Gardens are located behind the National Concert Hall,  just a few minutes’ walk from St Stephen’s Green. These small, formal gardens are among the city’s loveliest. 

Designed in 1865 by landscape architect Ninian Niven, the gardens incorporate a wide variety of landscape features including fountains, rustic grottos and archery grounds. They  were donated to UCD by the Guinness family in 1908, and placed under the care of the OPW in 1991. 

The gardens play host to a variety of concerts and events throughout the year, but are still unknown to many Dubliners. Enclosed by high walls and trees, they offer a welcome respite from city life — a moment of quiet seclusion in the midst of everday busyness.

I’m Glad You’re Taking Photos

Last night, you fell asleep to wind and rain; this morning, a cornflower-blue sky, still as stone.

You knew the beach would be beautiful today; light glancing off channels and pools, a mile of space between you and the sea.

(You didn’t know it would be this beautiful.)

You begin to walk the promenade, starting at the Mexican statue.  It will take twelve hundred steps to reach the end of the promenade, five hundred steps to reach the Martello Tower.

You like the Martello Tower, the strength of its construction. Oak beams support nine-foot wide granite walls. You like the Tower’s vigilance; its steadfast insistence on watching, waiting.  Two hundred years and counting.

You pass the remains of the Victorian Baths. You’ve seen old photographs of the pier that once connected the baths to the shore; sepia-toned images of elegant iron and timber. The pier’s heyday was short-lived: opened in 1884, demolished in 1920.

You turn at the end of the promenade. Two winters ago, you stood here and watched a flock of knot shape-shift in the evening sun. The birds rose and fell in unison, flashed black and silver as they swooped and turned.

You walk back towards the Tower, take your camera from your bag. A woman stops to say hello. “I’m glad you’re taking photos,” she says. You step onto the beach, puzzled by her comment.

You walk towards the sea, each step taking you farther from people, houses, cars.

You think about the oystercatchers and terns that make their home on the beach; the cockles and lugworms that lie within its sand. You think about the people who walk here, the children who play here; the buildings that have survived and the buildings that have disappeared.

You think about the woman who wants a stranger to make a record of it all.

You walk towards the cornflower-blue horizon and wonder what to do with all the space that’s opening up in front of you, all the time that’s closing in behind you.

    

                 

Sandymount Strand stretches for 5 kilometres from Ringsend to Booterstown. It’s internationally important for the large number of birds it supports, including waders, terns and geese. 

At low tide, the beach extends 1.5 kilometres from the shoreline, offering city dwellers space, solitude, and wonderful views across Dublin Bay.

The promenade was added in the 1970s and is  a popular spot for walkers and joggers. On Christmas morning, it’s full of kids trying out their  new bikes.The Mexican Statue is called An Cailín Bán. It was denoted to Ireland in 2002 by the Mexican government and is the work of sculptor Sebastian. The Martello Tower was built in 1804 to protect against a Napoleanic invasion. It’s unusual in its construction – resting on oak beams rather than rock. All that remains of the Victorian Baths is the concrete substructure. 

Sandymount Strand is famous as a setting for two of the episodes in James Joyce’s Ulysses. 

But you knew that, didn’t you?

Late Bloomer

You come here every summer. The gardens are beautiful then.

Flowers bloom in casual abundance. Trees are in leaf; the great 19th century glasshouses infused with scent.

The gardens are busy, too. Visitors mill about, pause to take photos or jot down the names of plants. Couples stroll along the riverbank, keep pace with mallards and moorhens. (The lucky ones will catch the low, blue flash of a kingfisher.)

Yes. You come here in the summer; enjoy the busy beauty of it all. But you come when summer is over too, when the air stings the skin and the dark comes early.

You come on days like today; days when the gardens will be empty (more or less). You meet a man with his collar turned up, and a woman wearing a red hat, but they pass by in silence. Their presence does not disturb you.

The flowers, too, are discreet. No heady excesses now. Pansies and violas lie low to the ground. Geraniums cluster in the greenhouse.

You step into the small walled garden.  You like this garden within a garden; its view of the graveyard next door. You like the poplars that rise into the sharp sky, dangling clumps of mistletoe like crows’ nests.

You run your fingers along the greenhouse wall; warm your hands on bricks worn smooth by seasons.

You take a moment to peer into the greenhouse and admire its assortment of gardening tools. (You know the name of only the most common tools: rake, spade, hoe.) Someone has taken care to hang the tools neatly on the wall.

The walled garden looks bare, unloved; its beds empty and dull. But the tools in the greenhouse tell a different story.

Be patient, they say.

The blossoms will come.

          

The National Botanic Gardens are situated in Glasnevin, less than 4km from Dublin city centre. Founded in 1795, the Gardens were originally designed to promote the study of agriculture. However, the focus soon shifted to botany and the collection of plant species from around the world. Today, the gardens contain some 20000 different species and cultivars, including 300 rare and endangered species.

The gardens’ twenty hectares encompass a sensory garden, a rock garden, herbaceous borders and an arboretum. An avenue of yew trees dates from the 1740s.

The curvilinear glasshouses were designed by Dubliner Richard Turner and built between 1843 and 1869. Turner was also responsible for the Great Palm Houses at Kew Gardens and the Botanic Gardens in Belfast, but these glasshouses have since been repaired and restored with steel. The Glasnevin glasshouses, monuments to light and elegance, are the only ones to retain their original wrought iron.

The gardens were placed in government care in 1877 and are currently managed by the OPW. Admission is free.

Red Lighthouse Morning

Some mornings are red lighthouse mornings. You wake to unexpected sunshine and the thought of the lighthouse tugs at you, like seaweed wrapped around an ankle.

Best to accede gracefully on mornings such as these, for no work will be done, no focus maintained, until you walk to the lighthouse, place your palm against its stout red walls.

So go ahead. Make your way to the car park at the start of the Great South Wall. But take a moment before you step onto its granite flags. (The lighthouse will wait. It’s been waiting a long time.)

Breathe.

This morning, you will be the only person walking to the lighthouse. The sea will murmur its accompaniment; the heron swoop to say hello.

Behind you, the port will be busy. Its blue cranes will load and unload, but you will be too focused on the red lighthouse to notice. Your eyes will sweep across the sea, settle for a moment on the grey spires of Dun Laoghaire, before returning, inevitably, gratefully, to the red lighthouse.

And when, at last, you reach the lighthouse, you will run your hand along its weathered base, marvel at its cool solidity.

You will stand with your back to the lighthouse, surrounded on three sides by water. In front of you, the open sea stretches, silver and shining. To your right, Sandymount and Blackrock are visible. To your left, Bull Island, Howth.

You are now enclosed by the Bay, held at the still point of its centre.

Behind you, the city crouches. The people you love most in the world are contained within it, working, studying. You are tethered to them by a two hundred year-old wall, eight metres wide and three kilometres long.

It is the strongest and most fragile thing you know.

Breathe.

   

         

 The red lighthouse, more properly known as the Poolbeg Lighthouse, stands at the end of the Great South Wall, once the longest sea wall in the world. The wall was completed in 1761 and took thirty years to build. It was designed to prevent Dublin’s shipping channels from filling up with sand, but the problem of silting continued until a companion wall, the North Bull Wall, was completed in 1825.

The lighthouse in its current form dates from 1820.

Not all mornings are red lighthouse mornings. Some mornings you wake tired and dispirited. You remember that to get to the lighthouse, you have to drive through the city’s industrial underbelly, past the sewage works and the tailings pond, the abandoned buildings and the concrete yards.

The lighthouse will wait, offering renewal or redemption, a chance to watch a man cast his line into the sea beneath.