A Dublin Day

We start off in the Temple Bar area for a pub lunch. "The Oliver St. John Gogarty Pub". Try saying that after a pint or two of Guinness! We ordered a big serving of their good Irish stew and soda bread. And Guinness. Just in case we can't remember what country we've now come to. And just to make completely sure, at the neighboring table there's a group of three playing Irish tunes on flutes, fiddle and guitar. Yup, we're in the Emerald Isle.
If you don't recall hearing of this Mr. Oliver St. John Gogarty, he was not just a poet-revolutionary-politician-surgeon-swimmer-pilot. He was also the sometimes great friend, sometimes worst enemy, of James Joyce. He made a legendary daring escape from execution in prison swimming the icy Liffy. And he wrote poetry admired by W.B. Yeats.

And all this leads us to the Dublin Writer's Museum. We cross the Liffy, by bridge, no swim today. March down the broad O'Connor Street up to Parnell Square. The boulevard has a pedestrian walkway down its center, adorned with statues of famous citizens. And now also accompanied by huge silly-looking bronze bunnies. Skinny, leaping, crouching rabbits with large floppy ears.

There's another noticeable addition to O'Connors: "The Needle". Stretching up into the stratosphere, bright shiny silver. An easy landmark, and great meeting place. Of course this is where Ørnulf and I get separated. As I wait a half hour for him to show up again he walks all the way up to the museum. Without looking back.
Reunited at Parnell Square we wander through Ireland's literary history from the Book of Kells to Nobel Prize winning authors. Swift's "Gulliver's Travels", Brian Stoker's "Dracula", Thomas Moore, Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Becket and, of course, W. B. Yeats. And the great James Joyce. Most of these modern writers are represented in the museum with their typewriters.

No personal computers. Yet.