BALLYKISSWHERE?

One of the nice things about being a lone traveller is that other people share their stories. On the bus tour to Wicklow we stopped at AVOCA the village where Ballykissangel was filmed. It all looks very familiar, especially Fitzgerald's hotel and the police station.
"Are you on your own?"asked an unmistakably English voice, "Come and eat with us."
Lisa Dawn and her mother are from Jersey. Her husband died last January and she now runs marathons to raise funds for cancer research. She ran the London Marathon, a half Marathon in Italy and has run to the top of Mount KIlimanjaro in Africa and down again. By running she has raised more than 15,000 pounds for Cancer research.
The service in Fitzgerald's is slow, it took us nearly an hour to even have our order taken, but the food was good. I had fresh vegetable soup with new baked soda bread. Lisa Dawn had Guinness stew and her mother lasagne. We all had a slice of rhubarb tart to finish and it was delicious.
We then visited the oldest woollen mill in Ireland for a guided tour. Guided as in footsteps painted on the floor and notices on the wall above the various machines.
Some men were weaving cloth on the hand machines and in the inevitable shop we saw examples of clothes made from the cloth. Beautiful but I have to watch my weight, luggage weight that is.

A TALE OF KINDNESS

Who remembers Madge, (You're soaking in it)? who sold Palmolive liquid on TV a long time ago. I liked Madge because she didn't put on any airs, she just told viewers why Palmolive was a good product. She was not young, as T.V. celebrities go, but she had an honest sort of charm about her, Well I met Madge's Irish equivalent on Friday, Her name is Bernie, she would be about the age Madge was when she sold Palmolive. How did I meet her? A nice Irish voice telephoned me. Could he please come and take some photographs for the Irish Times Magazine article Sinead Gleeson was preparing. We agreed to meet at the Irish Writers'Centre at 3 oçlock, I have reached the age where make up is irrelevant, it doesn't hide the wrinkles, so I don't usually bother. But in a photo I would look like a beacon.
I called into a pharmacy near the Dublin Spire, seeking something to kill the shine. I wanted something I could brush on. Bernie saw me browsing and asked how she could help. I explained what I needed, and that it was for a one off photo shoot. My daughter-in-law, Jo is an Avon lady and every Christmas stocks me us with products from her range. Bernie understood immediately and tested my skin tones, then filled a small bag with sample sachets from her range.
Now, for anyone buying cosmetics in Europe I want to make a recommendation. VICHY COSMETICS are sold only in pharmacies, and they are good, as in soft on the skin, and sold by knowledgable people like Bernie.
The photoshoot went well, the photographer look a lot more pictures than I expected, and I shall see the result in next week end's magazine.

ENSEMBLE C'EST TOUT

VOYONS MES AMIS! Here are the two honorary grand daughters who shared my dormitory last week, Anna Ise is the blonde with glasses and Rhiannon is the brunette. They were delightful company, as have been all the girls who spend a night or two at Citihostel before moving on, or returning home.

Yesterday I listened as a tall, dark, Spanish girl and a petite blond from the Czech Republic sorted out plans for visiting the Irish National Museum. They did this in English which is their common language.

I am beginning to feel like a Dubliner. Yesterday I walked down Harcourt Street to St Stephen's Green and a woman approached me. Could I direct her to Camden CCourt Hotel? It was a pleasure, straight along here to the next set of traffic lights, turn right, walk up Camden Street until you come to the Bleeding Horse. Camden Court is right next to that. It's about a five minute walk. I've done it! I have actually given someone directions for reaching somewhere! And just now I was able to direct the little Czech girl to Adelaide Road.

I just hope I can find the bus stop for my day trip to Wicklow to-morrow, Last Thursday I followed directions to the letter, finished up asking directions from the wrong 'bus company and missed my ride. They were very polite about it, so I hope I get to and from Wiclow without trouble. I shall see the pub where Ballykissangel was filmed.

VIEW FROM THE THIRD FLOOR

THE IRISH WRITERS'CENTRE is a marvellous resource in Dublin. It is opposite the garden of remembrance in Parnell Square, next to the Irish Writers Museum. On the ground floor is the administration and a room where writers can sit, in really comfortable chairs, and drink the best coffee I have drunk since coming to Dublin, made by two leprechauns in disguise, Fergall and John. The bookshelves are lined with Irish Literature.
On the second floor is a meeting room where "A Twitter of Wit' a brilliant Pastiche from Irish comedies is performed several times a week by two actors.. Then on the top floor are the classrooms. I go there every Friday afternoon for 'INKSLINGERS' a creative writing group . I also climb those three flights on Tuesday evening when Conor Kostick teaches us about writing a novel. It's worth the climb every time.
The photograph was taken from the third floor window, and was of a very noisy, but disciplined anti abortion rally. We had to close the double glazed windows in order to hear Charlie Connolly deliver what we had paid to attend, a workshop on travel writing. Later, as I waited at the traffic lights for the procession to pass I thought back to the time when world news was aghast at the plight of 'X' fourteen years old, raped by her father's friend, stopped from going to England for a termination recommended by doctors and psychiatrists.
So last night I sat in the third floor room again. Each Tuesday five people in Conor's class read a thousand words they have previously distributed by e mail. Conor then asks questions, making us justify details of the plot, characterisation, use of metaphor. He is a tough teacher. One of the extracts last night told of a fourteen year old girl in a Catholic school whose teacher, a nun, tried to have her class discuss the question of 'X's' dilemma, It was brilliantly written,showing the teacher nun's embarrassment, the uncaring inattention of most of the class and the bigotry of a few.
Another writer's excerpt was the start of a mystery novel, and opened with a priest taking the last confession for the day. And to my surprise I discovered that most of the group were not practising catholics. They had only hazy notions of what went on during confession.
Interestinger and interestinger!

MORASL

WELCOME STEPHANIE HELEN DAVIES

And I am not going to try and post any photographs, of course she is gorgeous, like her mother and father. However there is a multilingual wave of congratulations floating through the hostel since the e mail arrived.


Let me see, the receptionist is Spanish, as is one of the ladies who cleans like the proverbial white tornado. The this morning there was a couple in the corridor reading a play in Italian. A young man here in the dining room is calling someone in extremely fast French on his computer, Audrey, who is into alternative religion and has been sending positive prayers for your well being is Canadian.The girls who shared my dorm last night are German.

Occasionally I here Irish spoken,and Rosemary the other long term resident in my dorm has a beautiful Irish brogue. Now Stephanie Helen, with your mother's command of Swedish and all these good wishes washing over to you it seems inevitable that you too will become a world traveller, able to converse in any language. Which is just as it should be.
Much love to you
from your Grandmother Davies (Your other Grandmother is a great lady too.)

WHO SAYS DUBLIN'S NOT HAUNTED?

My camera has run our of battery so I regret no photo this time.
Last Sunday afternoon I went for a long walk around where I live, particularly to The Bleeding Horse tavern in Camden Street. It is mentioned at least twice in Ulysses and they have quotes set in concrete at each entrance. A board outside advertised what was available and at the end was a note:- Writers'Night To-night 8 p.m.' so I walked in to the bar and asked about it. The barman was a pleasant young man with red hair and designer bristle.
"The writers come to-night to read their work, Any one can come'" and he showed me the space, unchanged since 1904 when James Joyce wrote about it. And at the back the very benches where Joyce and later Brendan Behan had sat.
Ï'll be here,'I promised myself and dashed home to the hostel to change, slacks and T shirt did not seem appropriate for meeting the ghosts of Joyce and Behan.
Shortly before 8p.m.I walked through the bar to the 'Writers'space' A notice hung on the railing 'This Space Reserved @ 8p.m. I ordered a glass of wine and waited, and waited, and waited. On the wall near the bar was a notice BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS AND LOOSE WOMEN. I looked around the bar, full of little spaces, and stairways leading to balconies overlooking everything.The afternoon shift had gone, the bar staff flitted busily. I could not see my red headed friend anywhere. Finally qabout 8.25 I asked
a barman, probably Romanian, 'When will the writers night start?'
He looked bewildered, asked a rapid question of a more senior bartender.
Neither knew of a Writers'Night.
An Irishman came in and began setting up a sound system on the little dais which housed the benches Behan and Joyce had once sat on.
Writers'Night? He had never heard of a band called that.
So I came home and spent the rest of Sunday listening to an Australian motorbike fanatic from Perth and an Irishman called Brendon who rode a beautiful red Honda.
And I pass the Bleeding Horse every day when I walk into Camden Street, but I have not seen that red headed bar tender since.