THE IRISH WRITERS' CENTRE

Over the past two months I have felt privileged to have access to the Irish Writers'Centre, and not just because of the strength of their coffee. For the last seven Tuesday evenings I have been part of Connor Kostick's group of people who are finishing their novels. Conor has been patient but demanding; who is our intended reading audience, where is the story going, how about this character, why is he in the story. Each week the first hour was studying some aspect of novel writing as dealt with in great literature; Pride and Prejudice, War and Peace, Heart of Darkness, and others.In the second hour half the group reads from work in progress and we discuss points raised. Once I got used to the Irish voices, (soft spoken and rapid) I was fascinated by the very high level of work presented. I am sorry I will not be in Dublin for the final three sessions because the stories are developing; last night I heard about a servant girl summoned home not knowing her young sister was to be married. That probably happened often in the days before universal literacy and postage. I heard the final chapter of a detective story, a clinical psychologist's report, and others read by people with madonna like faces and names like Clodagh and Nu sala and Maighred. I don't know if all this effort is because of the coming 'Novel Fair'planned for the centre on March 10th 2012, but they would all gain a high placing in any Novel Competition.
The concept of the novel fair is brilliant. A Novel Competition will close on November 11th and is designed to give 'novelists q chance to by pass the The terms and conditions of this opportunity are on the centre's website www.writerscentre.ie/novelfair.html. Oh how I wish I was sixty years younger and Irish by birth rather than ancestry.
As well as learning the structure of novels, I learned a great deal at Charlie Connelly's Travel Writing course, and met his wife, swapping reminiscences of the Blue Hotel in Methven.
Fridy afternoons is Ink Slingers, a group of writers who meet at the Centre under the inspiration of another angelic colleen who poses suggestions for us to write about. I am going to miss them all when I leave next week, even though I shall be with my old friends from the Poetry Kit list and of course I am looking forward to seeing them.

THERE WAS I WAITING FOR THE BUS

THE number 19A bus no longer runs, so this morning I decided to go exploring, using my bus card which permits unlimited travel. The first bus at the stop was an 88 somewhere or other via City Centre the sign said. My plan was to stay on that bus until it got back in to town. It headed North away from the Liffey and into suburbs, housing estates and new towns. First we drove through streets lined with plane trees and Victorian brick mansions; an early 'stock broker belt' semi detached villas of brick and stucco, tudor windows still sparkling but the paint work looking decidedly scruffy. Then concrete and timber 'eighties functional' stacked like boxes'; housing estates; a university village; motorways and waste ground. Then far away from anywhere a huge concrete building with I.K.E.A. painted on it.
Good, I thought, now we will turn around and go back. But we didn't. The bus joined several dozen other óut of service'buses in the Dublin Bus yards. The driver was nice about it and showed me where to catch the next bus back to the to city.

I must confess I was relieved to see the spire when it came into view.

FEELING HOPEFUL ABOUT HUMANITY

TV channels have been showing the violence in Tripoli until yesterday when preparations for Irene became news. Before then it was riots in London. The general impression being that violence and mayhem is all that it happening worldwide.
Yesterday evening I sat under a tree in Parnell Street watching people returning from a football match. Near me, on the grass, some young folk were sharing take aways and beer. Groups of people, families, couples, friends, in yellow and green strolled towards the city centre as did similar groups in blue. A passing nine year old in yellow turned jubilant cartwheels.
"Ah Donegal was looky," called one of the young folk. The nine year old, and his family waved before getting into their estate car and driving away. The banter continued as other groups strolled past, then the group on the grass gathered their wrappings and beer cans and continued down the hill. No confrontation, no abuse. It was wonderful.
At the Writers 'Centre Fergal poured me a cup of his special coffee, guaranteed to keep Sleeping Beauty awake for a hundred years. The second floor had been transformed into a 'Poets'Pub. this being the night people came along and shared pieces of their own work. It was a very high standard indeed. First a man sharing his work in progress, a stream of consciousness in polished prose,James Joyce would have enjoyed it; then a young woman poet, followed by a balladeer who read a rant about Dyslexia from his newly published book and sang songs accompanying himself on guitar and harmonica, reminding me of Tony Chad . Another older man also played guitar but he played, as opposed to strumming a beautiful melodic tune. High point for this bracket was not the elderly New Zealander who felt completely out of her depth, but the ordinary looking, auburn haired, middle aged woman who read excerpts from her book about surviving chemotherapy, in Irish. The audience obviously understood her, they listened with that special silence which shows people are engaging with what they hear.
That was the first bracket or performers, two more brackets to come. But it was nearing ten o'çlock and although Fergal's coffee was keeping my brain spinning my physical body {especially feet in new shoes) kept nudging me and pointing to the clock.
As I tried to sleep I thought, 'Maybe this is what the world is really like? Not the bloodshed and mayhem hyped up by television, but people sharing what they are with each other.' Must have been the caffeine.

SATURDAY MORNING STROLL

To day I planned to use my bus card to travel randomly on Dublin Buses and see more of the city. Fate, or more the state of my internal regions decreed otherwise. Dublin certainly is a lively place, especially when one can't sleep and lives on the edge of the club belt, full of less than sober revelers hailing taxis, talking politics in incomprehensible languages, saying good night to girlfriends in the next county, and the girls shrieking responses. I finally got to sleep about five and re-surfaced at 10.30. Too late for breakfast at the hostel, so I set off to O'Brien's cafe where Laszlo and Kristina (thanks to their friend who sent me their names) filled a sesame sprinkled bagel with bacon, egg. tomato and relish, and served it with their strongest coffee. Fortified, and feeling much better I continued my walk. Harcourt Road connects Harcourt Street with Camden Street. It is now a one way double lane with double yellow lines down both sides sod there is absolutely no where to park. The the little shops that once flourished there are now boarded up or are clinging on to existence. I find that sad, because little shops are part of Dublin's appeal.This morning I walked a left handed circuit from the hostel, turned into Harcourst road and again turned left before I reached the junction at the top of Camden Street. There I found a real fruit and veg shop, and a lovely little curio (not old enough to be antiques) store with a model phrenologists head in white china, a set of Astrologer's character reading charts hand painted on vellum, and a beautiful little sextant in a case with the basic knots surrounding it. Next left turn brought me to the housing estate in Charlemont Street but I turned right this time and reached a row of pretty houses facing the grand canal.
The photograph at the top is looking down Charlemont Street from the hostel. There is one house that might be a relic of Georgian days, but is, I suspect, a 20th century copy, and the rest of the street is definitely Functional Modern. I wonder, in 200 years time will students lead a protest to prevent their demolition?

IN CASE YOU ARE WONDERING

At present I am living in one of Dublin's many hostels, I share a dormitory with three other women, a passing parade of nationalities who are all very kind to me because of my great age. There were the two French girls who have the same baptismal names as two of my grand daughters, Rosemary whose broad Irish brogue makes her harder to understand than Livia, the Brazilian girl currently in one of the top bunks.
The hostel is clean and safe but the plumbing is dire, especially the showers where one cowers in a corner and punches a button which sends a torrent of ice cold water everywhere, including the dry towel rail. Just as the water becomes bearable it all shuts off. I endure this because the staff,Brazillian, Spanish, French and Moroccan are outstanding.
BUT THE INTERNET ACCESS IS HOPELESS. My in box is full of messages from Kaye in Darwin, Jan in Temuka,Stu in Chipping Sodbury and when I try to download them I get a message rhat something seems to be wrong etc. Worse than that, I am supposed to send and receive chapters of work from the novel writing course I am mainly here for.Last Tuesday, after a week of trying to send text and getting a 'we are sorry connection appears to be broken'I took my lap top across town, sorely termpted to toss it into the Liffey as I crossed. A technician in Moor Street said it was a virus which he could clean out for 40 euros.
At the Irish Writers Centre in Parnell Square I logged on, downloaded my e mails, sent the homework I was expected to share with the novel writing group, Everything worked perfectly.
So Kaye, Jan, Terry, Stu, Lesley Tammara in Israel and everybody, as well hunting for Vogel's bread,which Mimi tells me is available in Dublin (not in Camden Street Tescos though) I shall lug my laptop across town on a 19A bus and read and answer your e mails.
That is after I have braved the shower.

ANCESTOR HUNTING ALONG O'CONNELL STREET STREET

maTwo years ago my sister's daughter and I came to Ireland hunting ancestors. In the taxi from Dublin airport Mary talked to the driver about her quest to locate her father's mother who had migrated from Dublin more than a century ago.
"She was a Miss Ennis." Mary told him.
ÉNNIS? Then she would have lived in Moor Street. The Ennis's were baker" the driver replied. So yesterday I went hunting along Henry Street until I found Moore Street a rather dilapidated area full of market stalls with fruit at half the price of Tescos. I bought a box of grapes for 1euro.




"S

I KNOW IT'S DUBLIN WHEN

Modern buildings have FOR SALE or TO LET or LEASING NOW signs all over them. Cars are either silver grey MERCS or bright red AUDIS (I want one).
Girls look as though they are auditioning for RIVER DANCE. They wear jeans under their dresses, and they walk about holding their hands to their ears talking to themselves. That Red headed colleen in the cafe is actually Russian and her boy friend is from Brazil.
When people here talk about 'football'they mean some peculiar game with rules as esoteric as Aussie football. New Zealanders get a far away look in their eyes when we mention Molenberg or Vogels. The bread here is awfyl. I look at the Braeburn Apples in Tesco's and wonder how far from Glenavy they grew.
When I cross on a red light waiting motorists smile and wave! The protocols for road crossing are sensible.

One of the Porters here who reminds me of Le Beau in Hogan's Heroes (remember Le Beau? Pocket sized and gorgeous) has just shown me how to clean the inside of my computer. I take it to the nearest petrol station and use their free air pump to blow all the dust etc that gets lodged under the keyboard.
In just two weeks I head for Bristol, Liverpool and then home at last. C'est la vie!
My first purchasw when I get home? After a car that is,A loaf of Vogels bread.