Just Back From…Dublin

Despite being from London, last weekend was my first trip to Dublin, and only my second to Ireland (after a walking holiday in County Kerry as a child). It had the potential to be an even more historic one, too—Ireland were in the quarter-final of the Rugby World Cup, a stage they haven’t passed in three decades, and expectation was in the air from my arrival on Thursday. While that particular story ended in heartbreak, my own four days were truly heart-lifting—combining art, nature, and plenty of Guinness in the cozy “snugs” (semi-private, walled-off drinking compartments) that line many of the city’s oldest pubs. 

My base for the weekend was the  Westbury Hotel  just off Grafton Street. Owned by the Doyle Collection, who invited me for the weekend, the hotel is marking its 40th year, and its ownership by the same family. My room had a four-poster bed and a huge marble bathroom, one of 29 newly renovated suites—but most everything else at the hotel, including the family’s art collection, is exactly as it’s always been. While the hotel is just off the city’s main shopping thoroughfare with its share of big chain stores, on the upside I found it to be convenient to almost everything.

Thursday

After a short morning flight from London and a half-hour drive from the airport, I started with a quick lunch at  Balfe’s, the more relaxed of the hotel’s two restaurants. The place was packed with Dublin locals catching up over salads and steak sandwiches—a promising sign—and remained that way during my stay. After unpacking, I began with the first of three ways (a walk, a workout, a drink) that always help me settle into a new place, and headed off towards  St. Stephen’s Green, a 350-year-old park full of Henry Moore sculptures, fountains and statues of historic figures (James Joyce, Constance Markievicz) who enjoyed the gardens in their lifetimes.

As for my exercise, the ClassPass app helped me discover  BikeRowSki  in the Fairview suburb, which was an intense 45 minutes of exactly what it sounds like. I got there—and all over Dublin—using public transport. While Dublin doesn’t yet take contactless payments on buses, it’s easy to buy a €5 “Leap” card at any newsstand and then put a few more euros on it as you go. (Doing this saved me countless walking hours and Uber fees.) Then it was off for my first Guinness at  The Long Hall, a pub that dates to the 1860s and claims Bruce Springsteen, when he’s in town, among its regulars. As with every Dublin pub I’d enter, I was charmed by how the barmen seemed to make it their mission to make me feel welcome, with both drink and conversation. 

Friday

I started my first full day by nabbing the last ticket on a tour of  Kilmainham Gaol, a prison that looms large in Ireland’s memory, not least because it housed many prisoners from the 1916 Easter Rising, many of whom are now remembered as heroes of Ireland’s struggle for independence. The tour guide was great—funny without being corny, serious when the moment called for it, and savvy enough to leave plenty of free time for us to roam the panopticon, a staggering structure that made it possible for guards to see all 96 cells from one central viewing area. 

The prison is conveniently next to the  Irish Museum of Modern Art, approached via its tree-lined promenade. Entrance is free (which I appreciated given that the permanent collection was nowhere to be seen, and the special exhibitions fairly modest), but I was grateful to experience the architecture of the space—a vast central courtyard with a cafe, and a beautiful sculpture garden full of comfortable benches for an afternoon of reading or walking.

Then it was back to the Westbury for  afternoon tea. Initially, I was hesitant about this—nightmares of being trapped in a chair for three hours with finger food—but the hotel lets you order the specific sandwiches and cakes you want off the menu, and, even better, it’s bottomless. Admittedly that’s after you’ve forked over €68, but the whole thing is done with ceremony and so much more warmth than at London’s Claridge’s Hotel (my only other experience of the ritual). 

On my way back from the museum, I’d noticed posters everywhere for another one—the  Hugh Lane Gallery, which was having a massive Andy Warhol show with over 250 of his works. I can’t stress enough that this is the museum to go to over the IMMA. Even after this Warhol show closes (in late January 2024), the space is remarkable—it seemed to go on and on, including a full-scale recreation of Francis Bacon’s studio and another room full of large silver helium balloons that delighted a gaggle of schoolchildren.

After that, it was time to try my second pub of the trip,  Neary’s, which also dates to the 1800s. I’d seen it on a few lists, but decided to stop in after walking past it and finding it relatively tourist-free. Inside, I again encountered cozy snugs, welcoming bartenders, patiently poured Guinness, and plenty of people-watching. Then it was dinner at  Wilde  at the Westbury, which was full of well-dressed families and couples, for sea scallops from west Ireland, another steak, and wines (a Fritz Haag Riesling and a Margaux) suggested by the restaurant’s thoughtful Brazilian sommelier. It was about 10 when I finished, and not feeling quite ready for bed yet, I made one choice that I won’t blame Dublin for: going to see the Taylor Swift Era’s Concert Film at the  Parnell Street Cineworld. The movie was great, but avoid that theatre at all costs—the volume was so deafening that many chose to leave after their complaints went nowhere.

Saturday

My third and favorite day started with pancakes at the hotel to fuel my plan: hiking the cliffs of  Howth, on Ireland’s East Coast. Flying over from London, I’d spotted the dramatic coastline and resolved to get out and see it for myself. It was a thirty minute train from Tara Street station to Howth, and from there, a twenty-minute walk through a charming fishing town before the cliff trails emerged. Here I encountered some of the most moving views, whether it was a cove with almost tropical blue water, horses grazing on the plateau, or a jagged peninsula with a lighthouse at the end. To navigate it, I chose the easier Green route, which was only about two hours and well paved. Afterwards, I took a €25 pontoon tour out to Ireland’s Eye, a tiny uninhabited island off the coast, where gray seals loll on the rocks and, in season, puffins abound. Our tour guide, from  Ireland’s Eye Ferries,  played “Zombie” by the Cranberries — an Irish rugby anthem—ahead of the big game. Once we’d pulled back into Howth, I was ready to eat, and  Beshoff’s Fish and Chips  didn’t disappoint — the line outside reassured about its local popularity but moved quickly, and the cod was truly fresh.

I now faced a dilemma when it came to my evening plans: honor my tickets to a play that night at the  Abbey Theatre, or watch the big game. Ultimately, I didn’t want to miss a play by Pulitzer-winning Polish playwright Martyna Majok, but I still won’t forget peering into pubs on my way home, seeing thousands of Dubliners crestfallen at the loss.  

Sunday 

Before my afternoon flight home, I’d booked myself onto a morning tour of  Trinity College, after years of hearing about the university’s literary history. The Georgian symmetry of the campus was impressive and our slightly overzealous guide shared interesting factoids—e.g., Trinity’s highest-performing scholars can technically still graze their sheep on the college lawns and carry swords on campus. Our tour closed at the  Book of Kells, an illuminated manuscript dating back to the Middle Ages and one of Ireland’s proudest objects. It’s housed right outside of the entrance to the 18th-century  Long Room, a library I’d seen in so many Instagram photos, though it was a shame that most of the usual 200,000 books had been taken off the shelves as part of a  long-planned restoration project.

On the way back to the hotel, I stopped into a running store, and walked out with one of my best souvenirs ever: several pairs of €20 O’Neills shorts.  Seeing an entire wall of them in different colors on entering, I asked the shop assistants about them, and all said similar things: “I’ve had mine for fifteen years,” “You can’t be Irish and not have a pair of O’Neills.” I’ve since learned that they’re the same shorts  Normal People’s Paul Mescal went viral for wearing in summer 2020, and I understand why—they’re a perfect throw-on short for sleep/movie night/running/going to the gym. 

As the clock was ticking down, I kept telling people I didn’t want to leave. More than any of the sights I’d seen, it was because there’s something so nice about walking around a city knowing that the average person would be up for some conversation. It was something I felt I’d miss—and have—after getting back to London.