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There I was, on a bright Easter morning, only moments awake, when suddenly I was kidnapped, thrown into the back of a car and urged not to ask any questions until we had reached the as yet nameless destination. No, it wasn’t anything serious – my parents had just hatched a very kind yet mysterious plan to celebrate my forthcoming birthday.
Ah, Dublin! Rarely more than a hundred miles from my doorstep, yet neglected and bypassed for so much of my life unless deemed useful as a means of transit to somewhere more exotic. No longer! After a typically lazy New Years Day, I was off in the direction of the whole other country we “nordies” call ‘down south‘ (original, eh?).
Despite living on the island of Ireland for 24 years, I had never in that time ventured beyond the mysterious, metaphysical threshold of Dublin – a veiled barricade of strangeness had seemingly blocked my path to the wondrous world south of the Liffey, where leprechaun’s still dance and pots of gold sit at the end of rainbows.
Dublin is expensive and smelly. I saw one street I liked, and it was inhabited by bums. There’s a completely pointless, gigantic point in the middle of O’Connell Street – I believe it’s called the Spine. They have no Christmas decorations and way too many odd looking doors. But surroundings weren’t the most important thing.
My task for the day is to drag myself a laborious 80 miles south to Dublin Airport. By the end, i’ll be as tired and jet-lagged as someone who’s travelled 6,000. I have no real idea when I’m going to head, but I suddenly get the urge at around 4.00pm. The next bus departs at 4.30. So, we dart through the streets of Belfast in record time.
