Dublin, Dublin, Dublin...

I spent a goodly portion of my time in Dublin at least a little bit lost. All the roads curve and bend around the River Liffey, occasionally disappearing altogether only to reappear a block down. I should be used to this, growing up near a river town, but this was on an utterly massive scale.

As such, it took me almost an hour and a half to find the National Museum of Archaeology. At least the walk was nice -- the tourist and shopping districts of Dublin are distinctly...ornate, actually. All the buildings seem to be lovingly-maintained ye olde brick[e], or lovingly-designed towers of steel and glass (which can be pretty, if the architects are allowed to do their job properly). There were also more than a few street musicians -- all at least fairly good, and several playing reels I recognized. Street vendors lined the, er...streets...mostly selling jewelry of one sort or another. A lot of it was kitschy junk, but there were a few selling sterling silver. Claddaghs, predictably, were a common motif, but sun and dragon knot designs were aplenty as well.

But the museum!

Dublin's "National Museum" is actually several buildings nowhere near each other. The Archaeology Museum was small-ish, but the exhibits were meticulously laid out as well as unique. The main attraction for me was the "Kingship and Sacrifice" display -- that is to say, the bog bodies.

I've always been a little bit uneasy about the display of human remains, particularly those like the Egyptian mummies, which were originally preserved for religious reasons and intended not to be disturbed. The bog bodies are something of a different case.

First, I should probably explain what a "bog body" is. The easy explanation is that it's a type of mummy, but most people hear "mummy" and think pyramids and sand. The better explanation might be that a bog body is a human body preserved by the acid and temperature of the northern bogs. In the best cases, they'll still be partially clothed, hair and fingernails will be intact, and you might even be able to read the expression on the preserved face (The Wikipedia entry on bog bodies has a photograph of Tollund Man, who is beautifully preserved). Think leather, if your stomach isn't strong enough.

The bit that icks most people out about the bog bodies is that many of them died violent ritual deaths. Triple-deaths are common -- i.e., the sacrificial victim was strangled, stabbed, and drowned all at once. Also, a lot of the remains aren't in the best of condition. Several were mangled upon discovery via farm equipment, leaving dessicated organs trailing beneath severed torsos.

I'll spare the worst of the description, as I've been informed that most people do indeed find the whole concept more gross than interesting.

The actual displays were fantastic, though. As I said, the display of formerly interred human bodies makes me uneasy. The Dublin museum had the most respectful arrangement I have yet seen. Walking into the exhibit, not a single corpse can be seen -- just the grave goods found near them, maps, and descriptions of what the bodies mean as well as a few photos. To actually see the bodies, you have to enter tiny rooms-within-rooms, spiral-shaped divisions cut into the floor; you walk a ramp slightly downward in order to reach the body in question. It's dim, and quiet, and womb-like. Perhaps this is a bit creepy to some, but I merely found it sobering.

(Also, it's probably a good way to help parents prevent very young children from accidentally discovering the bodies -- I could see them figuring in more than a few childhood nightmares.)

After leaving the museum, I spent the rest of the day wandering around the tourist district and buying gifts for my family.

As a final note, I've decided that the Irish take on Mexican food is decidedly odd. I had a "Mexicana" crepe for lunch, which was delicious and included both smoked chicken and guacamole, but the whole thing was drizzled with a sweet-spicy chili sauce that tasted distinctly Japanese. Seriously. It was like a mild version of the sauce Sushi.com in Ann Arbor drizzles over their spicy rolls. Delicious...but bewildering.

It's not all blarney. Not quite.

I’ve been meaning to write about Ireland for a bit, and it's going to take more than one post, which just made it that much harder to begin. The itinerary for the trip went something like this:

Monday 4 April: Get up godawful early to catch bus, train, ferry to Dublin. Check into hostel, find dinner, go to sleep.

Tuesday 5 April: Get up godawful early to catch Luas to rail station. Go on railtour to Blarney and Cork. Return to Dublin. ???

Wednesday 6 April: Get up and explore Dublin for a day.

Thursday 7 April: Get up not-exactly-godawful early to catch bus to ferry. Ferry, train, bus – and home. Well, flat, anyway.

Everything went pretty much according to plan! Except for getting, like, three hours of sleep Sunday night. That was unexpected.

First off – yes, it’s basically a ten-or-more-hour journey each way. I slept a lot on the train, but also had my Kindle with me, so I read here and there, too. Yes, I went alone. No one tried to accost me, and, no, I did not leave behind bodies I’m not telling you about.

I first arrived in Dublin, and while I was waiting for my luggage (I only had my purse and a carry-on size roller bag, which I was told to check at Holyhead), an Irish-English lady struck up a conversation. She was wonderfully nice, and of the variety who simply cannot understand why she hasn’t moved back to Ireland. Her children, born and raised in England, all moved “back.” “There’s a connection with the land,” she told me. Something spiritual.

Also, a note to travelers: it’s really hard to find a Bureau de Change in Dublin. I actually had to just go to an ATM and withdraw Euros the first night so I could pay for the locker I needed and buy food.

My first impression of Dublin was the stink. The bus ride from the ferry (luckily that particular bus takes pounds – bills only, folks!) went right by a refinery. Stepping off the bus, it just smelled like a city. Car exhaust and too many bodies and old stone, moss and damp and weeds growing up in the cracks. Further, all the roads in Dublin curve and stop and pick up again ten yards down. I never exactly got lost, but I was frequently uncertain of exactly where I was going. It wasn’t like in Edinburgh, where I immediately felt at ease. . .though Edinburgh is also a good deal smaller and arguably even more touristy.

The railtour was as advertised, more or less – I think they should’ve left “Cork” off the destination list, as those who did the “full” tour only drove through it on the way to the next stop. Irish countryside is surprisingly a lot like what they show you in movies. Minus the cliffs, because we were inland. Tiny ramshackle farmhouses, plank fences, sheep, cattle, horses – a random castle ruin – more houses, rivers and streams that somehow looked ice cold and crisp. I saw a heron, or else a bird a lot like one, in a brief flash of a second where I was lucky enough to be looking down as we crossed a gully.

An odd thing about the livestock, though. Besides the fact that there were a lot of draft horses, there were a lot of white horses. Or grays, if you insist, but of the sort that look white. The cattle were often mixed as well. Whereas back in Michigan, most farmers will have more or less one variety of cow – maybe all Holstein or Angus or Jersey, or perhaps Holstein bred with Angus to make them look more uniform or whatnot – and they’ll all be more or less the same color, in Ireland that didn’t seem to be the case. Most pastures had a mix of animals, some red, or red-and-white, or black, or white, patched, highland breeds. . .and I’m not sure why this would be the case. Perhaps breed is less of an issue there and ARGH I am going on about cows. ‘Scuse me, I have to go wash off the flannel shirt now.

Blarney village. This was the part that felt like a fairy tale. The grounds were brilliantbrilliant green, and it was misting a little, drops coating my hair and eyelashes (and my camera, if I wasn’t careful). The castle itself isn’t huge, but it is appreciably big, and stone, and it looms. There are dungeons and dripping caves and towers. To climb up as far as the Blarney Stone, you have to climb a spiral staircase cut into the stone, each step so narrow and slick with raindrops and the climb so steep that I clung to the rope on the central pillar and essentially hauled myself up that way.

Whether or not the Blarney Stone works is something I suppose you’ll have to judge for yourself.

Climbing down was easier, or would have been if the older couple in front of me hadn’t had a tendency to pause unexpectedly to catch their breaths, with me teetering on the edge of the steps above them. At least there was a railing, and I was too busy processing the fact that I was in a castle, uneven floors and mysterious draughts and odd echoes and all, to actually care.

I spent most of my time in Blarney exploring the grounds. It was a little chill and damp, as I mentioned, which I loved. Blarney has beautiful gardens which normally I would have to avoid due to a severe bee sting allergy. But the weather meant that most insects were out of sight, or at least too dopey to sting. I spent a little time in the Poison Garden, which is exactly what it sounds like. It was interesting, but a little too. . .groomed for my taste. Everything had a label, and a stake, and an exact place where it was supposed to be. Which is a good thing, considering what the plants were and that the purpose of the garden is to educate, but artistically it’s a little lackluster.

More interesting were the dead-end stone grottos that somehow muted all outside noise despite only being twelve feet tall or so. More interesting were the steep banks overflowing with ferns growing up and out like fountains. More interesting the caves so low even I had to bend double, feeling with my hands to clamber over the rocks. The way was dimly lit by carefully-placed electric lamps, tiny round spotlights. In front of one of these was a violently-green rash of clover.

More interesting was sitting on the rocks by the river, eyes closed, and opening them again and staring in disbelief, because in that shock of light, everything was so green, so bursting with it, that my eyes perceived it all as a landscape of blue.