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A trip like this gives almost too much to write about. Almost. It deserves a decent effort.

Liz pointed out the horse in the sea. On the wide open sands as we approached Dalkey, there it was, trotting, pleased with itself and its lovely shape against the pale grey sky.  Now there is a story germinating in the tireless synapses. Agitated now and excited to be set free at last. There is… a young widow, and, she will surprise everyone with her story.

Dublin had the promised friendly people, the talkers who clearly do tongues with the Blarney stone. It did not have kind and welcoming access to us wheelies over all. How many pubs did I gaze into hopefully hearing the drift of traditional music I yearned for? Yet faced with slabs of steps, and reluctance to be dragged in at risk of pain, and certainly much indignity.

Never mind. I went along and down and up the ‘four streets’ of Dublin and even explored the ‘non-entities’ as one Dubliner described the other roads of the city. My birthday was a swill of rain and shared hilarity in our blue pixie hooded ballooning packamacs. They should have been green and we would have passed as leprechauns. I bought essential items such as new bras and hair fascinators. What else should one buy on a birthday with my gift money? With Liz urging me to not lose heart, we did eventually find a pub to serve us delicious Irish Stew and two halves of Guiness.

Maybe tomorrow I will write again about the bog bodies in the museum, the ghoulish rag remains of human beings, so preserved you could see the ridges on nails. The gently closed fine masculine hand, resonating with stories of strength and protection. Making me melancholy, for a moment or two.

I felt my Irish blood stir to see such things. And now, like many of my countrymen and women I can’t stop writing.