Innocents Abroad

10 - Dublin

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.

15 - Return to Dublin

Monday, 16 May 1955

Two priests and a boy at Wynne’s for breakfast. One of the priests says, “This man will order for himself.” Kid grins from ear to ear. Returned the plucky little Ford Anglia at Murray’s Car-Hire where Mr. Russell, the manager, had my $50 traveler’s check cashed at a bank to give us the best rate of exchange. What a nice guy! Off with Ruth in the AM to buy tweeds for her and odd shopping. The lovely Sybil Connolly is there herself in her very haute couture boutique and too expensive for Ruth who loved everything (particularly the Connemara shawls and red petticoats) but said we couldn’t afford anything, we are already over budget. We have spent $170 so far and this is just the start of the trip. St. Stephen’s Green is a little green oasis in the middle of Dublin with a pond and gulls and lots of flowers.

A decent lunch at Bailey’s Restaurant is solemnly served by a young waiter assisted by a little boy in uniform. The waiters are all formally dressed but plaster is coming away from under the window sill, surfaces are painted and slightly clean but there's a hint of great dirt underneath. We find a cobbler in a shop that looks very Dickensian. He pounds what look like 10-penny nails into the delicate heels of Ruth's expensive shoes. 

When we meet for dinner, B. has a guidebook which recommends the Dolphin Restaurant. Nobody seems to know where it is but we found it, unfortunately, in a shabby part of Dublin. Our waiter has dried egg-yolk spills on his black trousers, sweaty edges on his bow tie. Our sauce Bernaise is curled up like an omelet. Maybe it’s what he’s wearing. B. tells us it will get worse in Italy. [It didn't.] Return to Wynne’s for some more Irish coffee. It helps cheer us up.

B. wants bookkeeping done immediately. How about that? In three columns no less and right away. She wants to pay her share of the expenses but she doesn’t have an accounting of what her meals cost and won’t settle for a third of the dollar amount. I quickly discover there is no way I can divide pounds, shillings and pence. (At Murray Car-Hire I notice that they must rely on a printed chart to determine costs and taxes.)

Order another Gaelic coffee and watch the townies who come in for a round or two. So ends this day, as the old ship’s logs say.