Music in the streets

Dubliners are serious about their buskers—I saw a lot of them, especially at the weekend.

On Grafton Street, they seem to be assigned positions and timeslots for their performances. And their stations seem to be just far enough apart that you don’t hear them over one another. I saw this young girl in a couple of places at different times on Saturday:

If you notice the tag on her music stand, it’s her “license”, I guess. All the ones on Grafton had them; presumably official approval to busk. (She was singing C&W; I personally think she’s too young for that—you need to have lived long enough to experience honky-tonks before you get cred in that genre. But props for the effort.)

The notion of a fella out with a piano was quite new to me. I saw him at one end of Grafton Street on Friday:

And at the other on Saturday:

Then there was this one—not technically a busker, but...

And around the corner from the Bank of Ireland, there was this guy:

Not uilleann pipes, but Galician gaita. In one of his intervals he was talking with someone on his mobile in Spanish.

There’s something wonderful about a country that makes official room for buskers of all types.

One for the road

While I was in Ireland the past week, I decided I would not check US news. I did get some updates through Twitter, but only once did I click on a WaPo story about Commander Bone Spurs co-opting the annual 4^th of July concert on the National Mall and turning it into one of his fascist rallies. That was enough to send me scuttling back into news Siberia.

I have to say that it was a wise decision. I just fired up the newspaper’s website and just sank under the crap that schmuck and his toadies are flinging around.

So here’s a photo of the last whiskey I had the night before I returned:

It was gorgeous, truly. But it’s not enough to wash the taste of this administration out of my mouth.

Gratitude Monday: Irish connections

It’s Gratitude Monday, and I’m on a flight back to the States after a week in Ireland. I’m so grateful that my friend John goaded me into taking this trip. I have a lot to tell you about, but for today, here’s my very full load of thanks:

The tour of the sectarian neighborhoods of Belfast—so much to be hopeful about, and so much to lose if Britain screws the pooch with Brexit.

Choosing the Pearse Lyons Distillery out of all the options as my Irish whiskey experience. The enthusiasm expressed by every employee I met filled me with lightness, which I sorely need. Also, a long chat with James, the tasting master, led to a couple of recommendations for other Dublin attractions, which led me to…

14 Henrietta Street, a museum devoted to the history of—mostly—the tenements in Dublin, but it takes you from the original single-family English colonial occupants of an elegant Georgian townhouse, through a period as commercial/civic premises and then to the conversion to a tenement; where once there was a single family in 15 rooms, there were now 17 families, with double digit members, in 17 single rooms. I’ll write more about it later, but even as a historian, this was a stunning experience.

And, finally, meeting up at the National Gallery with someone I know from Twitter. I wouldn’t have gone to the Gallery this time, except she suggested it, and I had time to view some extraordinary works that weren’t on display the last time I was there. But primarily the more-than two hours that we chatted gave me super insights into changes that are taking place in Ireland, the pall that Brexit uncertainty spreads over everything and what she hopes for the future of her children. Who did very well during what must have been a tedious Sunday afternoon with their mam yakking with some weird American.

Those experiences were worth the expense of this trip. And I’m grateful for having just busted loose and taken it.

And, apropos of nothing, really, I’ll leave you with one of the flower beds from Merrion Square.

Walking meditation

I went to Christchurch (Anglican) Cathedral yesterday to walk their labyrinth. The concierge at my hotel promised me it wouldn’t rain, so I thought I’d chance it. He was right, yay!

The labyrinth is directly in front of the entrance to the church, and was therefore overrun with what we at William & Mary used to refer to as tourons. But I walked it anyway.

  

(This was at the center.)

The cathedral grounds aren’t very big, but here’s a shout-out to the first performance of Messiah in Dublin, which was held there.

And a nod to homelessness (I assume).

There was a very small bed of flowers:

Wouldn’t you know, someone added to the décor:

In light of that, on my way back to the hotel (which took me through the happening area of Temple Bar), I came across this bit of rage against the man:

Here’s a close-up of the graffiti:

Dubliners, man.

On the Green

So far, I’ve walked through St. Stephen’s Green a couple of times. Thursday afternoon, it looked like the drizzle had stopped, so I suited up and went out. As soon as I got out of the hotel, it started pissing down rain. So yesterday, in the sun, I went back. Today’s post is a tale of two parks.

I won’t go into the history of St. Stephen’s Green, but it was a key site in the Easter Uprising of 1916. Today it’s a gorgeous green space, with a couple of ponds, a playground, and shady and open areas. When I went on Thursday, there were a few folks dawdling, but mostly they were just walking as fast as they good to get from one place to another. So I was kind of surprised yesterday to find about a squillion people out, lounging on the grass, sitting on benches, feeding the seagulls and the pigeons and playing in the playground. Here are some images.

First, Thursday’s drenched outing.

NB: the video is a little jumpy because I was shooting while holding an umbrella. The sound you hear is the rain hitting the umbrella.

Even the seagull looked uncomfortable.

There’s this one swan, which I only saw in the rain:

Note the expanse of no people:

There are several statues. Here’s one called Famine:

And this one, from the former Federal Republic of Germany, commemorates post-WWII aid sent to German children by the Irish:

It depicts the three Fates, spinning the destiny of humans. In the second shot you may be able to see the rain running down their faces, as though they’re weeping.

Moving on to yesterday, let’s start with the statuary. You saw the Fates in the rain, here they are in the sunshine:

The famine group is a little harder to distinguish:

And here’s one behind Famine: Wolfe Tone, the father of Irish Republicanism, who died in British custody, having been sentenced to hang for his part in the Rebellion of 1798. He’d been denied his request to be shot; it’s in dispute whether he committed suicide or was murdered by his jailors.

And an interesting, techy touch:

A lot of people were, uh, interacting with the pigeons:

Frankly, I don’t know why you’d want to do that; they’re just disease transmitters. But, hey…

Remember that wet, empty grass from Thursday? Here’s what I found yesterday:

And I really loved these fountains, which I hadn’t even seen the day before:

Summing up, we have benches from Thursday:

And an art fair that appeared on the railings yesterday. They were taking a chance that it wouldn’t be pissing down rain again:

High spirits in Dublin

Today’s post is about whiskey. If you’re teetotal, walk on by.

I’d booked a tour at the Pearse Lyons Distillery in The Liberties essentially on the recommendation of the head concierge at my hotel. The barman here seconded it, and both of them are well known to the PLD folks.

I believe it was a good choice. As it turns out I had a private tour, as no one else seems to have booked for that time slot, so I had Bernard, my guide, and James, the tasting master, to myself.

And it was a good choice because of the history of the enterprise. Pearse Lyons was an Irish biochemist and entrepreneur who built a multi-billion-dollar business in fermentation science and animal nutrition, based in Lexington, Ky. Part of his empire was brewing beer and distilling whiskeys, and he decided to bring his experience to bear on Irish whiskey. He bought a deconsecrated church across from the Guinness brewery and, with his wife, set out to build a distilling business.

The Liberties has a history of making booze; it contains the Golden Triangle of distilleries—more than 40 in a one-mile radius at one time (including the big guns, Powers and Jameson). Lyons (who died last year) viewed PLD as more than a business operation; it’s an investment in Dublin and The Liberties. Bernard told me that the St. James church cost €700K about five years ago, and there’s been several million spent on renovating the dilapidated structure and building out the whiskey business. While Lyons’ first enterprise, Alltech, made a profit in months, his distillery here may not for a long time, but its mission was to revive local history, and not to drive revenues.

Okay, that got my attention.

Not a small portion of that multi-million euro investment is archaeological work in the graveyard, uncovering centuries of burials:

The original church was part of an abbey complex constructed by Henry II as part of his penance for the murder of Thomas à Becket, in 1177. It was a point of origin for pilgrims headed to Santiago de Compostela, and the distillery honors that in some of the stained glass windows they put in. If you have a pilgrim’s passport to Santiago, you can still get a stamp there.

(There’s another St. James church down the road—the PLD one was converted to Church of Ireland in the time of Henry VIII, when its associated abbey was dissolved. That church seems to have taken over the pilgrimage business:)

All that history was before we even walked into the distillery. The instant we walked into the building, I was hit by the odor of the mash fermenting. As it happens, in this vat:

The two pot stills were brought over from Kentucky; the larger one (initial pass) on the left is Mighty Molly, the smaller one (finishing) is Little Lizzie.

Evidently it’s the custom to give stills women’s names. I don’t make this stuff up, I just report it.

Two thousand liters of mash from that vat go into Molly; eventually 190 liters emerge from Lizzie. They go into bourbon barrels (and some on to sherry barrels) from the Lexington distillery (since you can only use a bourbon barrel once for making bourbon but you can re-use them several times for making Irish whiskey), and age.

At that point, Bernard handed me off to James, and I sampled five whiskeys (plus a bit of in-process stuff that the distiller brought over). I liked one of them very much, and another couple okay. Two were not “my profile”, as my whiskey mentor would say.

Turns out they also make gin, and I tried their rhubarb gin, which was surprisingly good. (I’m not a gin drinker.)

Sadly, it didn’t occur to me to take pictures, so you just have to imagine.

However, I really was only partly there for the tasting, as it happens. I mean—trying a new whiskey is attractive, but the history really took over the tour for me and the tasting was just a perk. The most impressive thing about this was that every single PLD employee I spoke with, from the pensioner class to the 20-somethings, was absolutely, joyfully passionate about what they and the company are doing. I don’t know when I’ve come across that.

So I’m going to leave you with shots of the chandeliers, which—in keeping with the history of pilgrims—have the Templars cross on their sides (visible in the third photo), who protected those traveling to holy places.