At the Edge of Ireland Read Online Free PDF Page B

neoclassical public buildings and the dainty, decorous streets of Georgian refinement.
    And we were sad, despite the fact that we’d barely touched the place in our brief stay. As had so many others, our hearts had warmed immediately to the heart of Dublin. We could have done, however, without the endless outer eddies of suburban “semis” financed by the surging economic tsunamis of Ireland’s “Celtic Tiger” affluence, with their pristine privet hedges and eye-blurring stamp of bland sameness and keeping-up-with-the-Joneses mundanity. And we also tried hard to ignore the bizarre, carnival-colored bungalow mania that seemed to characterize the outer-outer neighborhoods. The riotous riches of downtown Dublin remained with us as we curled on through the high Wicklow Mountains with the radio playing either endless recountings of the Easter Rising or “let’s pretend we understand” discussions and diatribes about Beckett’s intentionally ambiguous and obscure works that were apparently not meant to be “understood” but rather “un-understood” by the hoi polloi.
    â€œWe’ll be back,” said Anne when we finally switched off the natter-chatter.
    â€œI’m still there,” I said. And I meant it.
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    A ND I INDEED FELT we were “still there” a little later that day when we paused on the quay in the pleasant riverside town of Wexford to while away an hour or so over lunch before continuing our drive to County Cork and the Beara Peninsula (a seven-hour drive we managed to stretch into a leisurely three-day backroading odyssey).
    Hardly had we ordered a platter of “toasties” (those ubiquitous toasted ham and cheese sandwiches that are a staple of pubs everywhere here) than we became aware of a real Irish brouhaha at a nearby table. The subject (of course) was the Easter Rising again, and the pro-and-con arguments were so complex in the Beckettian sense that I was convinced we were back in one of those gloriously intimate and intense little pubs just outside Trinity College where feisty debates and furious beer-imbibing are the order of the day. Every day.
    It quickly became apparent that the distinct lack of concerted conviction on the part of the public in support of the Rising still lingers on today. I tried to keep notes on the group’s arguments, but they spoke far too fast (a frustrating national problem over here) and the dialect was far too thick (another problem). But I did find, the following day, parts of a Sunday Times editorial that seemed to strike a reasoned balance in all the blather and blarney:
    Twenty-first Century Ireland is an independent, proud and prosperous republic, and the world’s tenth wealthiest nation. Its economy is thriving, its culture is vibrant. Other societies now look to Ireland as an economic role model and covet its confidence and accomplishments. Irish people no longer need the dubious myths and shibboleths of the past to bolster their identity. [By the sound and fury of the adjoining debate, one could seriously question such an optimistic statement.] People who see the world today through a republican lens complain that it has taken far too long for the modern Irish state to acknowledge formally the undeniable courage and idealism of the men who led the insurrection on that fateful April morning in 1916. [The debate at the nearby table continued: “It had officially been canceled, for God’s sake! They couldn’t get enough support,” claimed one of the men at the table. “It was only the crazies who kept going, and if the stupid Brits hadn’t executed them in the stonebreaker’s yard at Kilmainhan Jail and made martyrs of them, they’d all be long forgotten today!”] Those who believe this bloody and divisive rebellion had a malign effect on modern Irish history meanwhile argue that the celebrations glorify political violence and send out dangerous signals