It seems that days of anticipated stress and real frustration are the
order of the week; although that statement on its own could be misconstrued. I
am a person who can work themselves into a tizzy about an event that is not
likely to even happen, such is my nature. On the other hand my husband is a
steady rock who waits until the disaster strikes then works his way calmly
through the crisis; an excellent counter balance making for a good marriage.
I had been anxious about a myriad of possibilities regarding the
transfer to Ireland; the exit through the narrow gateway at Tan-y-Bryn, the
possibility of meeting any traffic on our way out through the steep and narrow
lanes down to Mochdre, being too late or too early at Holyhead Port, or not
finding a suitable place to hang out if we were too early which we surely would
be, being sick on the boat, dealing with border immigration and customs and
agriculture, then finding our way to the camp; you can see that sometimes it is
quite exhausting being me and of course more exhausting for my ever suffering
husband.
Of course everything went swimmingly; our host David guided us through
the narrow gateway, I stood on the road to stop any traffic that might come but
did not, and the rubbish truck was late up into Bryn Pydew. The road
back across the north coast of Wales was seamless, passing under the River
Conwy and through the sheer rugged edges that fall to the sea. We left the A55
soon after crossing the Britannia Bridge, continuing across Anglesea on the A5
and easily able to find a relatively quiet spot to hang out till lunchtime and
read the newspaper.
We arrived at the port at a suitable time, or it would have
been suitable if the ferry had been running on time. I had our documentation
all in hand, however as we approached the check in booth, the woman asked “Mr
& Mrs Clarke?” On the affirmative she ripped off a ticket cum boarding pass
with all our details and indicated we proceed; all so very easy.
When we did eventually sail, we found Stena Line’s Explorer a most comfortable ship with a
full range of lounges, albeit full of rowdy children who became irritable as
the afternoon wore on. Three and a quarter hours later when we disembarked,
there were no custom’s checks at all; so incredibly different to arriving in
New Zealand or Australia or even across one of the latter’s state borders!
We followed the directions on the camping ground’s website,
toward the M50 but should have elected not to take the Toll Tunnel. We had
already ascertained on board that we would be up for a toll fee as we made our
way to the camp, and uploaded the app which facilitates payment but did not realise
that the Dublin Tunnel was a separately tolled facility. This four and a half
kilometre twin tunnelled dual carriageway was opened to all traffic in 2007 for
a final cost of €752 million, which rather explains the toll demanded by
the officers in the manned booths:€10. “What!?” I exclaimed, which the woman ignored; I guess
she gets that all the time from ignorant tourists.
Even with the tunnel shortcut, it still took us the best of
half an hour to reach our camp, and we were not set up until about 8 pm when I
sat down and Whatsapped my father to wish him a happy 89th birthday,
before preparing a rather scant dinner of canned soup, bread and cheese.
It was about that time we discovered two very disturbing
facts about being in Eire: the television would not be tuned and the O2 data on
my hotspot, which I use for my blogging, Facebooking and all our administration
requirements was not working.
When the morning arrived, I spent some time on the phone to
England and learned from the lovely Indian girl in the call centre that my O2
data plan did not include roaming outside the UK, unlike the Vodafone prepay
arrangements both Chris and I have on our cellphones. Moreover, our Vodafone
roaming will not allow our phones to be used as hotspots. The camp does have
free Wi-Fi which might be connectable if one is up by the office but is
certainly not where we are situated. And then a little host Wi-Fi is not really
suitable for the amount of internet I need. Needless to say I was not happy!
And at the point of writing, Chris has not attempted any cunning plan with the
demise of the television; from my perspective this is not all bad. We will get
some reading done, although he will be more aware of the time I sit with my
head in the computer.
Apart from the weak and evasive Wi-Fi, the camp is very
nice, with large sites, each with its U of hedge providing a sense of privacy.
Showers do cost a ridiculous €2 and the daily tariff is
€30, which at near
NZ$60 per day is extremely steep. But here we are a captive market with few
alternatives. The camp is well situated adjacent to major roads, which of
course then has its downside; there is the steady whooshing noise which does
not seem to change regardless of the hour.
This morning we were able to catch a shuttle bus into the
centre of Dublin; one of the Hop On & Hop Off services offer this free for
those who buy a ticket to the tour or for €2.50 for a one way fare in.
Already the cost of public transport is proving high, and while we were initially
very loose about the amount of time we might wander on through the country, we
are now considering a more abbreviated tour; it would be a shame to run out of
money!
In the city we spent the better part of the morning, or what
was left of it chasing down information from the tourist information centre,
sourcing a decent road map and checking out why we couldn’t use our cellphones
as hotspots.
Rain set in almost immediately after our chores were
complete, so our walk across the River Liffey and up to the Art Gallery was a
hurried one, more intent on seeking shelter than enjoying the ambiance. We did
detour to see the Molly Malone statue, a special request by Chris; he has
warbled the ballad about this Dublin soul to the two oldest grandchildren over
their more junior years and it was only right that we should pay homage. To his
credit, when asked by a tourist from Luxembourg if he knew who Molly Malone had
been, he recited a verse, rather than sing it, although I have to confess, he
does have quite a good voice. 
The National Art Gallery was popular today; rain drives
allsorts into such places and this one was worthy of a visit. I think we saw
most of the galleries and enjoyed most of what we saw. Early European art can
be a bit dreary but there was much to counter the negative.
I enjoyed the very small gallery of Irish Stained Glass,
this associated with the Celtic Revival of the early twentieth century. All of
it had religious overtones, all of it very pleasing to the eye and some
absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.
Another galley and collection of work that interested me
greatly was that by the Yeats family; the relationships and familial talent
reminded me of the Australian Boyd family although those DownUnder were all a
bit doolally-tap and their work was often totally off the wall.
Painter John Butler Yeats (1839 – 1922) married an Irish
woman from Sligo in 1863, and they had four creative children, each at the
forefront of their respective fields. Son William Butler Yeats (1865 – 1939),
the eldest became a celebrated poet, winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in
1923. Susan Mary Yeats (1866 – 1949) and Elizabeth Corbet Yeats (1868 – 1940),
with Evelyn Gleeson, founded an arts and crafts cooperative, the Dun Emer
Guild, in Dublin in 1902. In 1908 they went on to found the celebrated Cuala
Press. Jack B Yeats (1871 – 1957) made his name as an illustrator. And there is
quite a collection of his later work in oils in one of the galleries, this
later work not really to my taste.
Anne Yeats (1919 – 2001), daughter of William Butler Yeats,
trained at the Royal Hibernian Academy, worked as a stage designer, eventually
becoming chief designer at the Abbey Theatre. During the 1940s she returned to
painting and participated in the first Irish Exhibition of Living Art in 1943.
Yes a very talented family indeed.
As I was making my way around the gallery, reading all the
blurbs beside each piece of work, it occurred to me that I was peering through
windows of history, especially when exploring the Portrait galleries. All very
tantalising; my interest in Dublin and Irish history is keen, as it always is
when I arrive at a new place, and I was eager to find out more in the museums.
We have been reading a little over the past few days, and history gathered as
one travels about Great Britain inevitably touches on Ireland, as have films
and novels over the years.
We both felt quite worn out on leaving the art gallery and
made our way to the bus stop for the No 69 we had been told about at the camp
office. Alas exact coinage is required and having just arrived in the country
with fresh notes, sundry change is not easily had. We searched hopelessly for a
bank and in the end walked into a couple of convenience stores where the
obliging shopkeepers helped out.
After a three quarter of an hour journey up through the
suburbs we arrived home, immediately jumping into the car and heading back down
to the local Aldi about a mile away to buy milk and a few other bits. I put a
load of laundry on and managed to peg it out before another rain front crossed
over. It may be sitting out in the rain on our hedged site for some days.
Discussion after dinner tonight has led us to realise that
we are only going to touch on some of Ireland’s attractions. There is not
enough time for us to travel as we have in England, however I am anxious that
we do not rush about as an Irish traveller might in New Zealand if he only
allows himself a few weeks. (There I go again being anxious!)
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