In Ireland, bars serve in a social as well as informational capacity. For example, we witnessed several tourists seeking information entering the moderately-famous Temple Bar Information Center, but after several hours inside, they seemed less able to find their way successfully.
If you look carefully, though, you can see the real ploy with the Dublin Signage. Carefully concealed is a 90th anniversary Socialist Party Meeting. Although the meeting starts out cheerfully enough (The Cuban Ambassador to Ireland speaks, a lively debate is scheduled to occur), the ending leaves much to the imagination. Drinks and live entertainment are offered, but are they free? The information center was unable to help us with these questions. Also, their food and drink options were most definitely not gratis.
Here is the "Information Center." A pleasant establishment, and a delightful place to people watch. Unlike most people watching situations, however, our group was able to do so without being discreet. Most people walking around had experienced "information overload" already. In fact, this Temple Bar district reminded me of Mardi Gras, only if Mardi Gras took place in arctic conditions and during Socialist worker movements.
This establishment does not hold itself out to be an information center. Instead, it claims to be the "oldest pub in Ireland." Unfortunately, a pub down the street claims a similar title. Confounded, our group wandered on.
It is difficult to visit Ireland without being overwhelmed by the friendly people speaking at times fork-thick English, or by other times the mountain dew that flows from Dublin.
We visited its source in the Guinness Storehouse.
The namesake Guinness apparently secured a 9000 year lease on this water supply running through the brewery with origins in the local mountains in order to make his brew. I feel that he should have thought more long term about this acquisition.
With highs around 20 degrees Fahrenheit and wind gusts blowing snow horizontally, we thought it was perfect beach weather. So, we visited Bray, which is just a few miles outside of Dublin City.
See the hill top in the distance? Keep it in mind.
The small dog pictured frolicking on the Bray Beach was part of a larger pack of Bray Strays, a menacing group of canine miniatures whose ferocious lust for flesh could only be satiated by taking beach-side photographs of their wanton leader.
After escaping, I posed beside the sea. I also wrote a new definition of 'Cold' in my unabridged dictionary, which I could easily carry under my coat.
Camo-feet.
The diligent reader will recall the hill top in one of the previous photos. After little deliberation, myself and friend decided the time was right to tackle it. The following pictures represent a two hour journey to the top, and at times, the last photographs I believed I would take.
The steps up the mountain began innocently enough. Here, they are nice and concrete. It is as if the hill is beckoning us forward.
Quickly, though, it seemed to us that Irish national funding priorities did not include concrete staircases into the hilly wilderness. As we ascended, it became clear that A. Guinness' water supply was slowly coursing its way down the mountain into Bray and into my socks.
The path continues. The smallish Irish evergreens appeared to part their ways as we approached, revealing a small path. The originality of our idea began to seem less so.
Almost to the top.
The top. My friend recommended that we repel down. Unfortunately, the wind was too strong at this point, and we were left frozen in place for several minutes. Truthfully, I have never felt wind like this. It was like a wind tunnel at the top.
