Grace Gifford's Ring and Rugby: Dublin, Part Three of Four

On Sunday, we caught the bus to the Kilmainham Gaol, the famous Dublin jail. (For those who find this stuff interesting--coughDavidcough--bus fare here depends on how long you're riding, instead of being a flat fee.) The jail was another of those deceptively pretty-on-the-outside buildings with a tragic story for every square inch of the inside. When it was originally built in the 1790s, it was meant to reform its inmates--as opposed to other jails of the time, which were like garbage dumps for people; anyone who was bothersome just got dumped in and forgotten, as space filled up and the smell got worse. Anyway, Kilmainham in its early years wasn't really much better (still overcrowded, still unsanitary, with the bonus of being freeeeezing in the winter because there were more windows to let in "fresh air") but eventually new wings were added and conditions improved somewhat--just in time for a bunch of famine victims to deliberately commit crimes so they'd be thrown in jail and get fed. But the most compelling stories came from the 1916-23 period. I could go on for hours about the people and events of that era, but I'll settle for just one anecdote--which, thanks to Maren, I was familiar with before my visit.


So this guy named Joseph Plunkett was heavily involved in planning the 1916 Easter Rising, which was supposed to be a widespread rebellion against the English and ended up being kind of like that group project where you're the only one who shows up to work on it because everyone else just decided to sleep in. E.g., it didn't go so well. The folks in Dublin briefly took over the post office (and to me, this didn't seem that impressive until I saw the post office--it's actually an enormous, very imposing building) but had to surrender a few days later. So all the leaders were arrested, including Joe Plunkett, who was engaged to an artist/political cartoonist/fellow revolutionary named Grace Gifford. (Their wedding date had been set for Easter, but obviously Joe had had a schedule conflict.) Anyway, at the jail, we saw the cell where he was held, as well as the chapel where he and Grace were married a few hours before Joe's execution, and the cell where Grace herself was held a few years later during the Civil War. (She was arrested without charge or trial because she spoke against the treaty with Britain that split Ireland into its current north/south condition.) In the museum attached to the jail, Grace's wedding ring (which she went out and bought after she learned that Joe had been sentenced to death) was supposedly on display somewhere, but we weren't able to find it. I could've wandered around that museum for a week at least, but we couldn't stay that long because Emilie had her heart set on seeing the Ireland/France rugby game that afternoon, and we still had to tour the Guinness Storehouse between now and then.


The Guinness Storehouse is one of those places you have to have a really good excuse not to visit if you go to Dublin, sort of like the Eiffel Tower if you go to Paris. The prospect didn't set my heart on fire, but I was really hoping that, against all expectations, I would find myself enthralled by the history and process of beer-making. Not so much. Still, it was entertaining to see the passion (or over-the-top marketing) behind the exhibits (seven stories of them!)...lots of "Here at Guinness, we really believe in what we do. This is a calling. Every pint we brew contains a little bit of our souls...OH MY GOD, ISN'T THIS THE MOST AMAZING BARLEY YOU'VE EVER TASTED? TRY SOME!" Yes, there were samples of barley. Along with samples of Guinness Draught, which turned out to be the only alcohol I consumed there; by the time we reached the top level, where we could redeem our tickets for free pints, it was almost time for the much-anticipated rugby game and we didn't have time to drink a whole Guinness. So we got soft drinks instead and admired the panoramic view of the city (along with the epic five-minute-long Guinness commercials playing on the TV screens...I swear, one was an only slightly condensed version of the Odyssey, but with Guinness as the hero). The thing that really struck me as I looked out at Dublin was that, after a point, it just stops. And beyond that, you can see untouched hills, instead of a gradual anticlimax of suburbs. It's the biggest city in Ireland, and yet it still hasn't completely taken over the landscape. The horizon is still green.


And we interrupt this philosophical musing to bring you a rugby match. We'd figured that the pub scene that afternoon was going to be crazy, what with all the French people crowding in with the Irish people to watch the game. Emilie aspired to be one of those French people risking the wrath of Irish rugby fans, so we rushed out of the storehouse and ducked into the first pub we saw. Which turned out to be dead silent and occupied by about seven people, all of them Irish and over 50. The match was on the TVs, but the rowdiness we'd counted on was nowhere to be found. It was too late to back out gracefully, so we ordered tea and sat through the first half of the match. (The owner was nice enough to bring us some biscuits to go with our drinks, so that made it a worthwhile stop.) As soon as halftime rolled around, we moved on to a more crowded and lively pub. To Emilie and Erell's disappointment, there didn't seem to be any French people here either, but they didn't let that dampen their enthusiasm. I returned from the bathroom to find that they had hung a French flag over our table, which made for a good conversation starter with the guy at the next table over. It must've been a good-luck charm too, because France squeaked out a victory, and we didn't even get attacked by the disappointed Irish fans.


Immediately after the match ended, I spotted Katherine and co. walking past the pub and ran out to catch them. (They'd spent the last three or four hours at the Jameson Factory. Enough said?) So we all teamed up again and walked back to the city center for dinner, with Claudia sporting the French flag as a cloak. On the way we stopped along O'Connell Street to get a look at the post office (where the bullet holes from the 1916 Rising are still visible in the pillars) and, at the opposite end of the significance spectrum, the Millennium Spire, which is just a giant needle pointing skyward that means pretty much nothing--the Irish equivalent of the Bean in Chicago. After dinner, when looking for a good pub, we followed the advice of a friendly Irishman and ended up finding two nice places--one where we behaved like the unabashed Yanks we were by dancing to the music (something Irish people don't generally do), and another where we got to hear a trad session (traditional Irish music) and where Katherine was propositioned by one of the musicians. Oh, and this whole time, Claudia still had the French flag draped around her shoulders.


Before I wrap up, I should just mention that the London contingent was very impressed by the openness and warmth of the Irish people we encountered. That's something I appreciate too. From the guy sitting by us during the rugby match, who graciously congratulated Emilie on France's victory, to the guy who offered us pub suggestions ("What kind of scene are you after?"...and when we thanked him, "Ah, don't be daft!") to the lady who checked us in at the hostel the first day (before the Portuguese/Italian/mystery people took over), who was clearly overwhelmed by her hectic day but still managed to be personable, everyone had been more than pleasant to us. One of many things that makes Ireland special.


Whew. Three days down, one to go. Writing about it is almost more exhausting than the experience itself! (I hope reading about it isn't as much of a challenge. I know I ramble, but you were all forewarned....) At this rate I should finish up the Dublin recap just in time to head to London next weekend!