He walks west along the quays, past Merchant's Arch, the lights over the Ha'penny Bridge striking every iconic image of Dublin into his mind. Music drifts from the Workman's Club. Businessmen smoke outside the door of the Clarence. Crossing Parliament Street, he looks up toward City Hall framed by autumn trees, and settles into nostalgia for a time he never lived in. He glances to his landmark, the George Frederick Handel on Fishamble Street, and his reverie is broken by the pseudofuturistic nightmare of the council chambers on Wood Quay. Looking up Winetavern Street, he imagines a city of centuries ago: the Viking settlements, the cathedral under construction, rebellion after rebellion spilling onto the rolling streets, blood running into the wild river.
He stops on Bridge Street for a drink in the Brazen Head. Nobody knows him there: he can sit in peace for a while. He thinks back through the history of the bar, living the lives of all the people who drank there: the poets, the artists, the bums, the businessmen, the rich and the poor, the known and the nobodies, the popular and the lonely. A band starts up, playing the music of the past, the music he knows but does not remember. He drains his glass and leaves. The tower in Smithfield looms across the river, and the Spire scrapes the sky far off east. He can see now the unbridled river, the medieval streets, the stone bridges, water lapping against the banks of unclaimed land. A city lives and breathes before him.
He turns to Thomas Street, to the cathedral and the city walls, the fortifications that once stood sentry over the bounds of the guarded settlement. He rushes them, sword and shield in hand, screaming his battlecry. A shower of arrows and a waterfall of scalding oil, and he is dead.
He wakes and follows a tram down Dame Street, watching a carriage parade into the castle. At College Green, he watches Lords in brilliant robes emerge from Parliament. Walking by the railings of Trinity College gets him caught in a crowd of young men with books tied in string and belts. On Grafton Street a man plays a guitar under the white lights of Christmas. He stops into Bewley’s and pays a shilling for a cup of tea. He steps out into traffic, car horns singing in the air. Down Duke Street he goes to Davy Byrne’s for a cheese sandwich and a glass of Burgundy, because that’s what one does. There is a blind man trying to cross Dawson Street. From Stephen’s Green echo the firecrackers of gunshots. The Shelbourne Hotel is pockmarked with bullets and in the park there is a woman giving orders to men behind barricades. He turns down Kildare Street into a crowd waving placards. A thin man in waistcoat and glasses emerges from the Library clutching a manuscript. He follows the man to Nassau Street, watches him meet and kiss a young woman coming out of Finn’s Hotel. Moving around Lincoln Place, he sees banners advertising the grand opening of Westland Row Station. He continues down Lombard Street and crosses the Seán O’Casey Bridge, the smell of paint in his nostrils. Great ships sail down the Liffey, some are docked and unloading cargo. The noise and the smells of coal and livestock overpower him and he runs to the Custom House. He stops from the heat. The building is on fire. He passes a cabman’s shelter on Beresford Place, on his way to O’Connell Bridge, where a battleship is loading her guns. He turns to witness the construction of the Sackville Street Post Office before being herded by the crowds to the opening of the Cinematograph Volta, then on to the Araby Bazaar, where nurses smoke outside the doors of the Jervis Street Hospital and shoppers smoke outside the doors of the Jervis Shopping Centre. He takes his lunch in KFC and walks up Abbey Street to the King’s Inns. Coming down Chancery Place, he finds himself in the middle of television cameras and reporters shouting names at the gates. He crosses the river back towards Wood Quay and sees the wooden huts and plumes of smoke, and men in furs chopping down trees in the snow. Moving east along the riverbank, the headlamps of cars rush towards him like an army and the road forms beneath his feet and he leaps onto Fishamble Street, the strains of choral music wafting to his ears. In Temple Bar he finds a garden bounding a house, then rundown old buildings in narrow shit-smeared alleys. He takes a quick left through Merchant’s Arch and stumbles on the steps. He falls. Wiping blood from his palms, he looks up at the Ha’penny Bridge, its lights still burning in the autumn night, still the postcard of the city that it has always been to him.
Somewhere in the past, he crossed that bridge. A long time ago he saw the city breathe. He saw the city live, he saw the city born and he saw the city die. He looked to the sky and he laughed, and the city came down in flames.
He stops on Bridge Street for a drink in the Brazen Head. Nobody knows him there: he can sit in peace for a while. He thinks back through the history of the bar, living the lives of all the people who drank there: the poets, the artists, the bums, the businessmen, the rich and the poor, the known and the nobodies, the popular and the lonely. A band starts up, playing the music of the past, the music he knows but does not remember. He drains his glass and leaves. The tower in Smithfield looms across the river, and the Spire scrapes the sky far off east. He can see now the unbridled river, the medieval streets, the stone bridges, water lapping against the banks of unclaimed land. A city lives and breathes before him.
He turns to Thomas Street, to the cathedral and the city walls, the fortifications that once stood sentry over the bounds of the guarded settlement. He rushes them, sword and shield in hand, screaming his battlecry. A shower of arrows and a waterfall of scalding oil, and he is dead.
He wakes and follows a tram down Dame Street, watching a carriage parade into the castle. At College Green, he watches Lords in brilliant robes emerge from Parliament. Walking by the railings of Trinity College gets him caught in a crowd of young men with books tied in string and belts. On Grafton Street a man plays a guitar under the white lights of Christmas. He stops into Bewley’s and pays a shilling for a cup of tea. He steps out into traffic, car horns singing in the air. Down Duke Street he goes to Davy Byrne’s for a cheese sandwich and a glass of Burgundy, because that’s what one does. There is a blind man trying to cross Dawson Street. From Stephen’s Green echo the firecrackers of gunshots. The Shelbourne Hotel is pockmarked with bullets and in the park there is a woman giving orders to men behind barricades. He turns down Kildare Street into a crowd waving placards. A thin man in waistcoat and glasses emerges from the Library clutching a manuscript. He follows the man to Nassau Street, watches him meet and kiss a young woman coming out of Finn’s Hotel. Moving around Lincoln Place, he sees banners advertising the grand opening of Westland Row Station. He continues down Lombard Street and crosses the Seán O’Casey Bridge, the smell of paint in his nostrils. Great ships sail down the Liffey, some are docked and unloading cargo. The noise and the smells of coal and livestock overpower him and he runs to the Custom House. He stops from the heat. The building is on fire. He passes a cabman’s shelter on Beresford Place, on his way to O’Connell Bridge, where a battleship is loading her guns. He turns to witness the construction of the Sackville Street Post Office before being herded by the crowds to the opening of the Cinematograph Volta, then on to the Araby Bazaar, where nurses smoke outside the doors of the Jervis Street Hospital and shoppers smoke outside the doors of the Jervis Shopping Centre. He takes his lunch in KFC and walks up Abbey Street to the King’s Inns. Coming down Chancery Place, he finds himself in the middle of television cameras and reporters shouting names at the gates. He crosses the river back towards Wood Quay and sees the wooden huts and plumes of smoke, and men in furs chopping down trees in the snow. Moving east along the riverbank, the headlamps of cars rush towards him like an army and the road forms beneath his feet and he leaps onto Fishamble Street, the strains of choral music wafting to his ears. In Temple Bar he finds a garden bounding a house, then rundown old buildings in narrow shit-smeared alleys. He takes a quick left through Merchant’s Arch and stumbles on the steps. He falls. Wiping blood from his palms, he looks up at the Ha’penny Bridge, its lights still burning in the autumn night, still the postcard of the city that it has always been to him.
Somewhere in the past, he crossed that bridge. A long time ago he saw the city breathe. He saw the city live, he saw the city born and he saw the city die. He looked to the sky and he laughed, and the city came down in flames.
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