Wednesday, 11 May 1955
Hearty breakfast of grapefruit, eggs, sausage, bacon, toast and coffee in Wynne’s dining room. Ruth says excellent, loves the silver tableware and the Blue Willow china. We walk up to the Hotel Gresham, rated the best in Dublin, to see our illustrator friend B. She’s not in, so we stop by the nearby Irish Tourist Association, then to Royal Auto Club to get a license to drive in Ireland.
Our rented 1955 Ford Anglia
Selected a Ford Anglia from Murray’s Car-Hire and the congenial owner had us driven over to Fogra Failte where we spent a good deal of time with with a very helpful Mr. Sheehy. He had a hundred stories and suggestions about where to travel in Ireland. Most of the stories had to do with “the troubles” of the 1920s, when the Hotel Gresham was blown up and burned to the ground and all that remained was its mailbox.
Ruth notes that we had a lovely walk down O’Connell Street where many shops were tended by well turned-out pretty girls and that I was handsome in my new tweed cap [so that’s where it came from]. She thought it was beginning to look more like Europe on this sunny day, though it could be New Brunswick, Canada, except for the grungy few in tatters and rubber Wellingtons. “So poor!” she exclaimed. She loved the flowers: “lavish garden growth everywhere, hanging baskets of moss and geraniums, beds of pink tulips and rust-orange primroses, window boxes and every available flower pot jammed with a dozen or more varieties, a little old lady on a bus carrying a basket with a tiny bouquet of pansies and primroses; palm trees in some dooryards.” (Click on photos to enlarge.) The images I remember were of harridens hawking tabloids and selling bananas from wooden crates on prams, hundreds of bicycles whose riders tucked their pants cuffs into grimy socks. Very attractive young women and young, good-looking and unarmed cops, dirty handwoven tweeds, soft conversations, green double-deck buses, one with Donnybrook as its destination. The Georgian architecture is stunning, everyone is very polite, signs read “Buy Irish.” We meet up with B and eat at Jammet’s, a highly recommended restaurant. We had tornedos and a curry, a bottle of Bordeaux rouge, coffee and Irish Mist. The cost was four Irish pounds. It looked as if someone had punched a hole in the wall at the end of our table. The toilet was cold and dirty. If this was indeed the best restaurant in Dublin, what must the others be like?
Scanned directly from my notes. The drawings look less timid which is a good sign, I guess.
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