It is 4am, the roads are already busy, the caravans are out on the A14, the main roadway running east-west and disecting the English county of Suffolk where I live. It is the same story on the A11 and the M11 as I head to Stanstead. By 04:48 I am five lanes thick queuing to get to long stay car park Zone Z, then the bus ride to the airport itself.
Inside the airport the Stanstead scrum has begun as we go through security. The Ryanair sheep queuing to get on a plane – must get there first – despite the closed gate and the empty stand outside the window.
Meanwhile I’ll sit back, the cool, seasoned traveller that I am, and type my observations into my mobile phone before getting onto the end of the queue. There was another cool seasoned traveller who joined after me, but he would make rookie mistake later on.
I am struck by a thought – how people en-mass are really ugly despite how beautiful they may be individually (blimey, that was deep for this hour of the morning!)
I join the queue behind the hen party. Not all pink furry handcuffs and shag me T-shirts, theses were very civilised hens. Bride to be, bride to be’s best friend, both of their mother’s and Rob’s mother – I know this because they all introduced each other in the queue.
It never ceases to amaze me but no matter how many pre-recorded announcements, signs, and Ryanair staff doing spot checks, the number of passengers, and I have to say that they are mainly female, who don’t get the ‘one bag’ rule. Many who queued early, end up sidelined while they attempt to repack their oversized handbag into their overnight case, with varying degrees of success.
Some in the hen party get sidelined this way but I’m still behind the bulk of them as we get to the tarmac.
Do people not know there is a back door on aeroplanes? Whilst everyone queues on the steps to the front door, I slip under the wing – God they look flimsy close up – and board through the back door. There I have a clear view of the available seats from the rear. As usual, as men do the world over, they sit in the window and aisle seats leaving the brave to excuse themselves and dare to squeeze in the middle one.
But what is this? Just next to me, at the back door, there is a gentleman sitting in the outside seat of the last row – no one in the middle, no one in the window seat. I look at the locker space which is full halfway up the plane. Sod it! My bag can go under the seat – probably in breach of many airline regulations and a feature which I’m sure if Michael O’Leary were to fly on his own planes, he would doubtless charge us for. ( I so hope he never reads this!)
As I take my seat I notice that the other “cool” traveller who had remained seated in front of me in the terminal and opting to board even later than I had got caught behind the residue of the hen party. He made the cardinal mistake of the infrequent traveller and used the front door. He was desperately looking over the shoulders of the hen party looking for a seat. I’m sure he looked at me with a “how the F” expression of disbelief. But by now I was well into my first ever Colin Dexter novel. I had seen many an Inspector Morse on TV but never read the books, they are to be recommended. As to is Arthur Conan Doyle – another author I have only just discovered in print form.
Colin Dexter made the 50 minute flight pass so quickly that I was amazed to see Ireland’s Eye below me. It was strange looking down on the Ryan’s house in Sutton Cross, all of that was a lifetime ago but from 15,000 feet memories of the 70s came flooding back.
Landing in Dublin is always an experience. Since Ryanair have moved to the new stands, the walk from the plane to arrivals could, if you weren’t too good on your feet, take almost as long as the flight. Today emigration was closed apparently, so we all stopped and started to queue – how British is that? When an official moved a barrier, we walked on to have our passports checked by the Gardai.
Two queues, EU and non EU. Confused Americans looked to the leader of their group as his says sagely “Non EU” – this seemed to keep the group happy. The more time I spend travelling, the more I worry about giving everyone the ability to do so cheaply. It’s on a par with allowing people to have free and unfettered access to the internet in the form of blogging – and don’t get me started on this newfangled social media stuff.
Dublin Homecoming.
Because I was born here, I never think to look at the touristy things, like cheap bus fares. An idle moment on the internet last night made me think about such things, so for €20 I got five days unlimited bus travel including my trip from the airport.
With my trusty Dublin Bus ticket in hand, I board the 747 – only Dubliners could name the airport bus 747 don’t you think? Showing my ticket to the driver, he nods and says “Just swipe it across that sensor behind you.” Nothing happens. “Oh,” says he “never mind it must be broken, just take a seat.” He then accounts for my presence on the bus manually!
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Hometown.
I get off in O’Connell Street, it’s not yet 9 o’clock – the self-imposed photographic theme for my weekend is “hometown”. The challenge is one camera, one lens. Time to take a very slow walk… O’Connell Street, O’Connel Street Bridge, Trinity, Grafton Street, St Stephen’s Green. Along the ‘Green an art shows is taking place, works hung on the railings, but wait a minute, these aren’t paintings this is a photographic exhibition, I’ve died and gone to heaven.
Or is it hell, some of this stuff is good, I mean really good. I wander off to the ‘Green itself to take some pics. At the entrance a young Japanese girl walks over to the pond with a bag full of bread and is immediately engulfed by pigeons, she continues to feed them and is joined by ‘rats with wings’, ducks and swans. How nice of her to feed these poor creatures I’m thinking, then as she crouches down with the remains of her bread, I spot her real motivation… she’s a photographer! Out comes the camera for the close ups of her newest best friends.
I move in on her territory, well every other tourist in Dublin has! I then find myself inexorably drawn back to the photographic exhibition… it is so depressing, but hey at €80 for a A3 print – I could do that, couldn’t I?
I soon find myself walking past the National Concert Hall. There are flags advertising the National Orchestra, why are they oriental images? OK, maybe it’s not the right nation – but it’s in Irish!
It starts to rain. I pack the camera away and walk towards the Grand Canal, I sit on a bench contemplating poor light, angles and hardly any inspiration when I get a text message from a colleague in Scotland – he’s drinking Guinness in a bar in Glasgow, perhaps it’s time I made my way to the pub – anything to put off going anywhere near the house in Derrynane.
The pub.
I wander through Baggott Street, past my old primary school, Haddington Road Church – no, I’ve not got religion. For some reason I remember standing on the steps after mass one Sunday with my mother and father… why am I here, looking for textures, I tell myself, not getting rid of ghosts. Without wanting to admit it I’m heading for Slattery’s, No 62 (see how that number haunts me?) at the top of Bath Avenue, where oft times before I have taken on Dutch courage before facing the house I’ve come to hate, yet have fond memories of, if that make sense?
What I never remember is that Slattery’s doesn’t do food at weekends. Even during the week their fare is confined to ham or cheese sandwiches, toasted it you want something hot. After the second pint I work up the courage to ask the barman if he minds if I take a shot of the four Guinness pumps in a row. He hides his surprise well then offers to straighten one up and wipes them all clean for me. The picture I had in my head was nowhere near what I took a picture of.
Is it always as quiet as this I ask – I’m the only one in the pub. “Ah we’re a certain type of pub [the empty type?] and sure the rugby hasn’t started yet [its August, we’ve five months to go to the six nations] we get a big rugby crowd in here [you’re a ten minute walk from Lansdown Road – every pub around here gets a big rugby crowd!]. I go back to my pint.
“So are ya over here on business or pleasure?” asked the barman.
“Business” says I, which technically wasn’t a lie.
“And what sort of business are you in?” he asked,
“Photography” again, not tecnically a lie.
“And what part of Dublin are you from originally?”
“About 200yds down the road”
At this the conversation ended abruptly.
By the end of my third pint, I was ready to face Derrynane.
Derrynane
Derrynane was a shock, a pleasant one. The decorating had commenced and was progressing well. The shock was that under the stair carpet was red lino with white rubber noses on each step. I must have been a kid when that was laid. The walls are now a non-descript magnolia, the woodwork a clean white. “Gerry” the decorator has suggested a mid-brown carpet from some samples he had shown Derek. He also has started work on the back room on the day I left Dublin. Simply amazing progress after almost a decade of neglect and probably a decade before that when Dad couldn’t do much or wasn’t inclined.
The Evening Herald
Dublin has a fine old tradition of newspapers being sold in traffic at traffic lights. For years this has involved newspaper sellers risking lift & limb dodging traffic to sell their wares. There are obvious dangers involved in this for all concerned, commuters do not want to have their cow catchers scraped and for these itinerant purveyors of newsprint running up & down lines of traffic is difficult with broken limbs.
With one eye on Health & Safety legislation and the other on an advertising opportunity the main evening newspaper, the Evening Herald, has issued its paper sellers with bright orange jumpsuits emblazoned with “Evening Herald”. To the casual observer it might seem that President Obama’s bid to empty Guantanamo has increased the casual sales of Ireland’s leading evening paper.
Pints in Blackrock
Niall & I ended up in O’Rourke’s in Blackrock on Saturday night – not having eaten for some time and having consumed too many pints in Slattery’s on my own, my first objective was to eat. Henry was busy in Ikea, so we finished early, returning to the main Blackrock road to catch our busses. Standing at the traffic lights a car flew by and blew its horn, neither of us paid much attention but something made me look around the corner to discover that we’d just been spotted by Henry and Jacinta. It was Jacinta who suggested going back to theirs, this proving an organisational challenge given the bits of Ikea purchases which had to be re-arranged. Niall and I simply held the desk top on our knees while we headed off to an off license. We spent an enjoyable evening watch “Butter” polish the floor, Butters is H&J’s dog, a Bijon.
It was about 2am when we rang for a taxi – Niall wondering if Mary would be up to let him in as he was travelling sans keys. She did.
Henry & I had drinks in Paddy Cullens, The Ballsbridge Inn that was, on Sunday – Niall having to recover from his late night. Oddly enough they had live music on a Sunday night, but we moved when we realised that our bar stools were in direct firing line of the speakers, also they only started at 10:30 by which time Henry needed to catch the last Dart home – now there’s a song title if ever I heard one!
Back at the airport.
Meanwhile back at Dublin airport, the passengers for FR294 to Stansted are up and queuing in their priority lane, its 40 minutes to take off and there isn’t a plane in site on our stand.
New annoying things from Europe. It’s a sort of suitcase on wheels for kids, Mum gets to pack all her little darlings odds & sods whilst said darling gets to sit on this and be towed or, even worse, tows it themself. Children, it may be observed, have no sense of direction.
When God invented the MP3 player in a phone, he also invented headphones for same but some air brains still think it cool to walk around with their precious phone blaring out tunes on the tin-y speaker to the annoyance of anyone within a 100yd radius and all dogs.
It never ceases to amaze me how many people can be late for a flight. Flight FR046, the 16:00 from Dublin to Brussels has just had a girl turn up who was amazed to discover that she was the last to board. How can this be? “I didn’t know what gate it was leaving from” she said. Now call me old fashioned, but if I am booked on a 4pm flight, I usually arrive well before 4 to fine out where the damm thing is!
Three young adults, two girls and a boy, arrive and go into panic mode because gate D61 now says its closed. “Oh no this can’t be!” shrieks the alpha female as she taps furiously on the window hoping for a response from the plane below. There was something so funny about this that everyone else sitting around waiting for the next flight were desperately trying not to laugh. A boarding gate “ramp operator”, for so it was emblazoned on his hi vis jacket was sought out and valiantly tried to radio to the plane, all to no avail. The three then take up residence at the gate – I’m guessing the Ryanair “one bag” rule doesn’t apply to Belgian flights or stupid people, as they spread themselves and their bags out across the doorway which remains firmly shut. Perhaps they think they are now first in the queue for the next flight – which, by the way, is FR294 to Stanstead.
Despite their obvious anger at being so sorely treated the alpha female did find time to shoot the departure of their plane on video using her mobile phone – something to laugh about later perhaps, certainly not now. They left dejectedly.
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