Sometimes All You Need Is Time (and a few cute boys fawning all over you)

So, I'll preface this by saying that it may appear from this post that I am big-noting myself. I am, undoubtedly so, but indulge me, because all of my self-flattery has a point.

My last relationship completely shot my confidence, tore it completely to shreds, and I felt like the grieving period afterwards, coupled with the disappointment, aged me more quickly than I would like. In other words, it took a lot out of me. My ex almost took the title of King of Emotional Fuckwittery (but just lost out to the ex that came before him, who began the hideous cycle of self-doubt that I had fallen into). Therefore, the more recent ex will be known as the Lord of Emotional Fuckwittery (LEF). The LEF built me up with all of these hopes and dreams and fantasies, and then tore them all down, ripped out my heart, stamped all over it, and wondered why at the end of all this I didn't really want to be friends. But I think the worst thing about the entire situation was the fact that the demise of the relationship sapped me of any confidence that I had: confidence in my ability to make good decisions when it comes to relationships, confidence in my ability to know when to trust in another human being and believe what they are telling me, and just confidence in the way that I looked and felt about myself. 

Since arriving in Dublin I've been feeling a little bit ugly. I can't really put my finger on why. I guess it must have something to do with the adjustment period I'm going through, getting used to being away from my family and friends, and the fact that there are loads of beautiful (like OMFG! beautiful) Irish girls didn't help my fragile little ego. I was just starting to get over all that, getting back to my usual state of being vain and checking myself out in any reflective surface, randomly smiling at good-looking lads in the street, and then last night rolled around.

Last night I went on a pub crawl with a large collection of people, mainly Aussies, and it was marvelous fun (or craic, if you prefer). I drank a ridiculous amount of alcohol (think lots of cider, 3 euro shots of Baby Guiness, 5 euro cocktails with red bull in them, and a 7% beer). Along the way there was lots of heckling the tour guide (DAVO!) who was a great guy, feeling up of men dancing in cages, and requests for Galway Girl with the local trad musicians (who indulged our whims). 

At the cocktail bar (Capitol- brilliant, so going back there) I met three young guys at the bar, all wearing very similar v-neck jumpers with small animal/bird motifs on the left-hand side of the chest area. I didn't really get a vibe that they were interested, and I had to leave for the last club, and they did the polite thing and asked me to tell them where I was going and said that they might catch up with me later (I did not have high hopes of this). 

So it was on to the club, which was also just brilliant. Lots of cool bars, dancefloors, cages, etc. And the music was great. I was standing at the bar and struck up a conversation with a couple of guys who as it turns out were over from England on a stag's night (Dublin is disturbingly popular for these type of events). They were asking me where I was from in Sydney and when it turned out I was from Summer Bay (or at least where H&A is filmed) they started asking why I wasn't an extra in the show. I informed them that I am not really H&A material, not being tanned or blonde etc. One of them proceeded to tell me that I was definitely pretty enough to be on H&A (aww, shucks, what a lovely little ego-boosting lie). The other agreed that I definitely looked more Irish than what stereotypical Australian women apparently look like, and told me he thought I was Irish until I started to speak. Anyway, the second one, and by far the better looking one, think tall, dark and broad-shouldered, let's call him Checkers, offered to buy me a drink. I generally don't accept drinks from guys unless I'm interested in them, to do otherwise is just a bit mean. I gratefully accepted Checkers' offer of a drink though, who am I to turn down a great looking guy with a lovely accent offering me a drink? After he got the drink something weird happened though. Checkers spoke to me for another two minutes and then said that he had to go find his friends but that we should meet back at the bar in half an hour or so. I, being in a rather fragile state of self-doubt, took this to mean that he had just bought me a drink to be nice, and that he was now just running away, never to be seen again. I took it on the chin and went to find my mates, who were luckily just on the dance floor. We were having a grand time busting our moves on the dance floor and about twenty minutes later who should appear again but Checkers! Imagine my surprise! Anyhoo, we danced and then he pulled me aside, needing to tell me something important. He proceeded to tell me that he thought that I was gorgeous and beautiful, but that he was taken. I have to say, I've never been happier to learn that a hot guy has a girlfriend, because it meant that the reason he had taken off in the first place and hadn't since made a move wasn't that I was hideous, old-looking or desperate, but simply that he couldn't! We agreed to keep dancing though, and had a great time. 

Then, something completely unexpected occurred, one of the boys from the cocktail bar showed up at the club! Let's call him Moose. I was so shocked when I saw Moose, and when he offered to buy me a drink I didn't really know what to say, as Checkers was standing right behind me. I ended up saying yes to a drink and Moose went off to get it. Luckily when he got back he hadn't been able to get me a drink as he had no cash and they wouldn't accept his card, because immediately after he arrived back to me Checkers and his friend started dancing around near us and Moose took this as an indication that he should go. I did feel really bad, but unfortunately England won the battle against Ireland last night (although Ireland do have a home-ground advantage and I expect they'll regroup in the next match and come out on top). 

Checkers ended up walking me home and told me just as he left me near my door that he thought that I was, and I quote, 'the prettiest girl' he had ever seen, stated that he couldn't believe I didn't have a boyfriend, and that if he didn't have a girlfriend he would definitely have wanted to come inside (whether he would have been permitted is really a moot point).

So I guess the point is, self-flattery and moral issues surrounding Checkers' girlfriend (although nothing happened beyond some flirting) aside, last night made me realise that I am not going to be relegated to the back of the shelf, to be picked up by some dodgy guy who I settle for in spite of myself out of sheer terror of being alone, or not to be picked at all. Checkers and Moose made me realise that I am still attractive to good-looking young guys, and that I should definitely have the confidence to just throw myself back out there. And what better place to do it than Dublin, with all the black-haired, blue-eyed lads who make my heart skip several beats. 

And, just like that, I'm back, baby, I'm back.

From 'The Prettiest Girl',

B. J. Barnes

Books: Glorious, Beautiful, Marvelous Books

Today I took a stroll to St. Pat's cathedral, which is about twenty minutes from my current location. I didn't go into the grand old gothic cathedral though, I had already spent some tourist moments on my last trip to Dublin in the church of which author and satirist Jonathan Swift was Dean. Today I visited St. Pat's for an entirely different reason, its next door neighbour, the small, hidden jewel for bibliophiles in Dublin, Marsh's Library. The Library opened in 1701, and it holds an astonishingly beautiful collection of old books. I spent a good hour in this small building, which is still a public library, and soaked it all in. None of the flashiness and 'don't touch me, I'm expensive' glass cases of Chester Beatty Library, nestled in the courtyard of Dublin Castle (not that I didn't absolutely love this place too!) Marsh's Library is like the Old Library of Trinity College, but on a much smaller, more intimate scale (so intimate in fact that they used to lock scholars into reading rooms to prevent them from stealing the books). I think what I loved most about this place though was the fact that in the middle of the library there were scholars actually using these texts! And, what's more, upon having a conversation with the libarian, I was encouraged to make an appointment to come back and read some of the old law and history texts that they hold in the library! Needless to say, this caused me to have a minor embolism and I have full intentions of taking them up on this offer. 

After Marsh's I was inspired and visited a few of the city's myriad of bookstores (which are littered, literally, all over the place). I found a brilliant little bookstore just across the way from Trinity College, on Dame Street, Upstairs Books, a spectacular little old second hand bookstore specialising in old, old, old books, many of them first editions, and a larger, more modern store closer to home that had a bargain basement (literally) filled with all of the classics from around 2.99 Euro a piece! Even though I have recently become a turncoat and purchased a Kindle for convenience, I couldn't help myself, and I purchased a couple of Edith Wharton books and Anna Karenina (Tolstoy and I are old, embattled friends, but War and Peace caused me to take a long hiatus from anything with his name on the cover), and I got everything for under 10 Euro. I also have my eye on a collection of Oscar Wilde's work, and feel that it would be only right to purchase it and read in the sunshine amongst the flowers of Merrion Square. I think that bookstores are going to be much frequented places on my Irish jaunt. 

I also discovered today that the Dublin Writers Festival commences on the 1st of June, and I have full intentions of going to see Ian McEwan and Yann Martel. And, of course, on the 16th, Bloomsday is upon us. I have just started Ulysses and I will, nay, I must, finish it in time to understand what the hell is going on on that historically charged day! All very exciting. 

As a brief aside, Dublin Boy Watch continues, and I am pleased to report that there was not one, but two (!) rather fetching young gentleman scholars making use of the books in Marsh's Library today. The bookstores are also hot spots, with many dapper young things in scarfs and blazers gazing at literary brilliance. I have to say, I've always felt that I was meant for one cut from this scholarly mould (rather than the beer-swilling, rugby and poker-playing, pot-smoking, but still for the most part highly entertaining men that usually catch my eye), and think that hanging out in libraries and bookstores is something I can definitely do in the quest for true love, written, as it were, in the stars (or the margins of Joyce, Wilde and Stoker).

Kilmainham Gaol

Here I am, trying to think of a catchy title for this post when, really, Kilmainham gaol speaks for itself, echoing with the voices of all of those who lived and died within its imposing stone walls. I made the quick bus trip to Kilmainham yesterday, something I missed out on during my time here a few years ago, and I have to say that if you only have a few days in Dublin, and you are interested in the history of the city, this is the place to see.

The only way to access the gaol is through a guided tour (I believe because if you were allowed to wander around yourself you might get locked in, it was a prison after all). The tour takes you through the older sections of the gaol (dating back to 1796 I believe), which were bitterly cold yesterday, and it's May! I don't even want to think about how cold it gets in there in winter time. The walls here are scrawled with graffiti (most of it modern, except for a rather poignant poem etched above a doorway, Beware the Risen People) and you can peep into the old cells through very small holes in the incredibly old doors. The structure of this part of the gaol is very much how you would picture an old gaol, all dungeons and dark corridors.

The next section that you're taken to is the more modern part of the gaol, which is dominated by a giant skylight (apparently sunlight from the heavens inspires people to reform from their wicked ways) and embodies an all-seeing structure so that the prison guards could keep constant watch on all of the cells. Above some of the cell doors, both in the old and the new parts of the prison, are the names of rather famous prisoners, including some of the leaders of the Easter Rising of 1916 who were executed in the grounds of the prison. Another notable prisoner (and the last to leave the gaol before its closure) was Eamon De Valera, who would later become the nation's leader.

The tour ends in the work yard of the prison, where the participants in the Easter Rising were executed by firing squad. Two unadorned black crosses mark the places where they stood (or sat, in the case of Connolly, who was already fatally injured when they shot him in the heart) and the Irish flag flutters in the wind in the centre of the yard. It is a quiet place, and standing there now it is difficult to conjure up the scenes of martyrdom that took place there, difficult to imagine the brand new wife of Plunkett (married in the prison chapel just hours before his execution) standing outside the gates of the prison after she refused to leave, hearing the bullets that killed her husband ring out into the night. But one inescapable fact that I had no difficulty grasping is that because of the men that gave their lives for what they believed in, the freedom that had been fought for in Ireland for as long as the English had occupied the island, the Irish flag now flies freely in that yard, a symbol of freedom, a symbol of peace, an ever present reminder of what came before.

Fashion in a Faraway Land

I am delighted to report that Dublin is most definitely a shopper's city. Anyone pressed for time can be certain to find something to take their fancy in Grafton Street, with H&M, Zara, Topshop, M&S, several far more upmarket (read expensive) department stores, as well as a healthy spattering of smaller, what I presume to be, chain stores. Stephen's Green shopping complex also has a lot of small boutique-esque offerings. But the real delight has been finding the little stores that do not form part of the main shopping thoroughfare. Tucked down the side-streets, discovered in rambling old arcades, nestled between cafes and pubs, these little stores are opening up a whole new world of fashion possibilities for me. And I must say that clothing in Dublin is comparatively quite affordable, which is at once exciting and economical! Dublin shopping reminds me a little bit of Melbourne, with the cobblestoned alleyways, hidden boutiques and interestingly different pieces, but without the Australian price tags. I have made a resolution- new city, new style. At this stage I am drawing inspiration from Tim Burton's fabulously fashionable film adaptation of Alice in Wonderland (think lots of colour, loads of taffeta, and a hint of lace), Gossip Girl (I have already started my venture here by purchasing some coloured and patterned opaque tights which I intend to wear with gorgeous colourful coats), and Audrey Hepburn (it seems that this fashion icon's influence is alive and well in Dublin, with many Hepburn-esque dresses, coats and tops catching my eye). So, like me, the key word is eclectic. Can't wait to embark on my journey of style!

Whimsy, Music and Just a Touch of Magic

Dublin is, for me, a city filled with whimsical delights. This could be because I am brand spanking new here, but I'm not sure that the magic will ever wear off for me. 

I live right near Merrion Square and have taken to walking through there as a nice little shortcut to St. Stephen's Green. Merrion Square is a small park (Dublin is full of them) and walking through there makes me think of The Secret Garden, Alice in Wonderland, or any of the myriad of Blyton books I read as a child. There's something a little bit magical about the winding paths lined with gorgeously green trees and shrubs, the little squares within the square filled with garden beds of bright flowers, the fact that you are in the middle of a city but feel like you've just stepped into an English summer garden. As a child I often imagined escaping to just such a place, and it appears that as an adult I have finally managed to achieve this goal. 


I have mentioned the abundance of music here previously, but you will find that music is a topic I will return to again and again, like a moth drawn inexorably to a glimmering flame. I have now been to a pub where they were playing traditional Irish music (or Trad, as the locals like to call it), and I have to say that there is something in the mournful ballads, as well as the toe-tapping faster numbers, that touches my soul. Music is something that never leaves my head, I constantly have a song running through my mind, and have been delighted to discover what I always suspected, that music is an essential element of life in this city, indeed, this country. I love the fact that you can go into a pub to hear Trad, then walk into Grafton Street on a Saturday afternoon to see a band of handsome youngsters dressed in Buddy Holly style get-ups singing Presley and other 1950s American dream songs, only to turn the corner and find a singer-songwriter or a funky young rock band like The Riptide Movement (yes, I saw them again today, I think it is fate). Dublin is marching to a beat that I can understand, and I think that the lyrical Irish blood in me is finding a place here.


In other news, tourists keep asking me for directions, I suspect that this has something to do with my tragically Irish colouring of fair skin and dark hair (and hope that it is because I look effortlessly local and comfortable in my surrounds). I am not necessarily complaining about this, some directions asking by a rather cute young American tourist led to a statement that I had 'enchanting' eyes. He may have been full of it as he said this almost immediately after mimicking my accent (a phenomenon I am growing to dislike as my accent is so coarse here in the land of diddly dee, potatoes, potatoes), but I am not going to dismiss such a compliment, as it made me feel rather less hideous (spending roughly twenty-four hours on a plane, the jetlag that follows, and the cold from hell do little for your looks, and recovery is not immediate).


In a completely opposing story, whilst consulting my map to try and determine where the Temple Bar Food Markets were located, I was approached by an older (ok, let's just cut to the chase and say elderly) Irish gentleman who offered me directions for anywhere I could ever need to go in Dublin. He rounded off these directions by planting a kiss on my cheek. It was a most amusing experience, one might even say a little whimsical.


B. J. Barnes

Australian News- Bloody Brilliant- Part II

Too good to be true really, two in one week! You bloody beauty etc.

http://www.smh.com.au/travel/travel-news/incywincy-spider-causes-world-of-pain-for-skinnydipping-tourist-20100514-v2hb.html?autostart=1

B. J. Barnes

Walking, walking, walking

Dublin is a city which was built to perambulate. It is definitely a city of walkers (and bike riders, and I am considering riding a bike again for the first time since I was about fourteen, even though they don't wear helmets here, which scares me... a lot). I am learning this, and have the blisters to prove it. Unfortunately, Dublin is also, weirdly, a city of slow walkers. I think I may be (or at some stage in the past most definitely was) a member of a Facebook group called 'I Secretly Want to Punch Slow Walking People in the Back of the Head.' Let's just say that I stand by this sentiment to this day, except to add that the word 'secretly' is not necessary. I make no secret of the fact that I would like to deal violently with all of those tortoise-paced, 'let's walk in long lines of five abreast and cover the entire footpath and then just stop randomly for no apparent reason', morons who infest most cities and/or major shopping centres. Unfortunately I appear to have just moved to a city where slow walkers reign supreme. Could have something to do with tourism, I don't really care why, I just want them to go away and leave the footpaths free for me to traverse. Bah.

B. J. Barnes

Australian News- Bloody Brilliant

From time to time the Australian print media offers something out of the ordinary, something wacky, something so breath-takingly bizarre it makes you choke on the hot cup of tea you're nursing. Usually these morsels of crazy are confined to papers from the NT or far North Queensland. So far nothing has rivalled revenge croc, which was a tale of untimely death, anguish, and, ultimately, reprisals:

http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/queensland/monster-croc-out-for-revenge/story-e6freoof-1111117751279

However, upon reading my favourite paper from my motherland (nothing like a bit of political commentary to cure the homesickness), I found a little gem, and I didn't even have to go to the more obscure newspapers to find it!

http://www.smh.com.au/nsw/hard-to-swallow-but-true-says-relative--slugeating-dare-caused-rare-disease-20100513-v0k4.html
 

The gist of this story was that some guy ate a slug  for a dare and became rather ill as a result. The quote of the day came shining on through:

"It's a real warning for people not to eat a slug."

One might have thought that the "real warning" not to eat a slug would be the fact that it is a slug. Maybe that's just me though.

B. J. Barnes

Death (Almost) Becameth Her

POST NUMBER:

 

Urgh, argh, blurgh, etc. I have just come off one of the worst colds I think I have ever, ever, ever had. Not only did I feel like I was about to trundle off the mortal coil, I also looked disturbingly like those vampires from Twilight or True Blood (think deathly pale and hungry looking, but not as hot). I slept for roughly sixteen hours, dosed up as I was on some fabulous Irish cold and flu tablets which knocked me flat out like a lizard drinking (sorry, I now have to start using bad Australian slang all the time, even when it does not remotely fit the context of my post), and emerged only a little while ago, feeling insanely better (although not 100% yet), and having found myself somewhere to reside in this lovely city. No, I did not in my drug/phlegm induced haze go out and find a home, I had actually already viewed the place (just down the road from Merrion Square, previously home to the great wit and one of my idols, none other than Mr. Oscar Wilde) on Friday night, and learnt last night that I was welcome to move in. This was brilliant news, as it was a last minute reprieve from having to impose myself on my relatives over here (not to mention having to lug my ridiculous amount of luggage to their place in Swords). So I move in tomorrow and I am very excited as this is really one of the first big steps in my new life here.

After I finally managed to drag myself out of bed I ventured across the Liffey to O'Connell Street, where I haven't spent much time yet, being as entranced as I am by the south side. My reason for intrepidly travelling north? Why, Penneys of course! Did I mention I love Penneys? Did I also mention that Penneys is an incredibly dangerous place for me to visit, what with their brilliantly cheap underwear and (to my mind, ridiculously climate inappropriate, I mean, hello, we're not in Australia here and flimsy summer pj's are not really suitable) pyjamas? I also bought some boring house stuff, ho hum, but I blew a small fortune on new underwear and sleepwear. 

Whilst up north I did notice a disturbing trend amongst the young women folk. They all seemed to be wearing ill-fitting, very unattractive reebok tracksuits (think shorter, stouter, whiter versions of Roberta Williams in the first season of Underbelly). One in particular caught my eye, it was what can only be described as a mauve abomination, that looked somewhat like the one Queen Madge wears below:

Key differences, however, were that the tracksuit I witnessed was shiny, lighter in colour, and sported fetching fluro pink stripes. I know, I know, you're all rushing out to buy one just like it. If you do, you'll have a special spot reserved for you on the uber-chic O'Connell Street. I am beginning to realise that boganism is not unique to Australia. I know that the equivalent are called chavs in England, does anyone know what they are called here?

Dublin Boy Watch: 

• Cute guy working in a breathtakingly beautiful Victorian-era bar called The Bank (mainly because it was originally the Belfast Bank). This guy was also very cranky and I witnessed him telling off one of the waitresses. Originally a 7/10, his temper dropped him to a 6/10.
• Boy (far too young, early twenties would be my estimate) walking along Dame Street near my hotel. Reminded me of a young man I know from Cork (Cark), known as KCliff, only Dame St lad had sparkly blue eyes rather than KCliff's sparkly green. What is it with the Irish and the sparkly eyes? They kill me everytime! Sparkly Dame St lad gets a solid 9/10. Those numbers don't lie, I'm a sucker for blue eyes.

Anyway, on that note, I'm off to luxuriate in my somewhat restored health.

B. J. Barnes

Travel Tips Hot Off The Press- Part One

Bewley's for breakfast- best poached eggs I've ever had, stained glass windows, big comfy high backed old school lounges, gorgeous massive portraits hanging on the walls, can't go wrong.

St. Stephen's Green in the sunshine- sitting on a bench reading a book or observing the gigantic (I mean dinosaur sized) seagulls they have in these parts. Another awesome aspect of this park is definitely the horse and carriage stand (rather than taxi) next to it. So quaint, and the horsies were so shiny!

More to come later.

B. J. Barnes

Dublin- The Old, The New; The Austere, and the Downright Amusing

Yesterday was an odd day, a day of contradictions that made me realise that, Toto, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore. 

Still feeling slightly jetlagged and rather ill from my ridiculously long flight (I swear you feel like you have aged twenty years by the time you get off those long haul trips), I had high hopes in terms of touristy behaviour, but fell far short and had to settle for a brief walking tour of Trinity College. The tour was brilliant, as I fell ever so slightly in love with the (far too young) tour guide, whose name was Stephen (or Steven, who can tell?). Now, Stephen was not my type at all, for a start he was blonde and incredibly preppy/scholarly (think chinos, blue jumper, button down striped shirt and scarf). But probably the most disturbing part of my attraction to him was that he looked like an odd mix between Christopher Lloyd when he played the professor in Back to the Future, and John Mayer when he had the weird high hair. For the sake of my pride I'm going to say he looked more like the latter than the former.

Anyway, the reason I fell in love with Stephen is because when he spoke, it was absolutely captivating. His lovely Irish lilt added drama, but also comedy, to the tour, and really brought the college buildings to life. Perhaps my favourite snippet from the tour was when he referred to Henry VIII taking over the monastery which would later become the site of Trinity College, in his quest to trade up from a blonde to a brunette, and then back to a blonde again. Alas and alack, Stephen (who was a History graduate who had run off to Paris after completion of his degree to drink wine and eat oysters, possibly another reason my pulse went into overdrive) is only at Trinity until October, because after that point he leaves to study a Masters in English literature at Oxford (I think he is quite possibly my sweepy-haired soulmate). So if you want to see him you'll need to get over to Dublin before then.

After Stephen turned down my offer of a tip (possibly bribe to try and draw him out and snag a date) I made my way along to see the Book of Kells and The Old Library (also known as the Long Room). Now, I have seen both of these things before, and the Book of Kells is amazingly beautiful and filled with light and joy (especially when you consider that it was created by some monks living on a crappy rock somewhere near Scotland), but the Long Room hit me hard once again:

For anyone who has a love of books, this is the place to go. I spent about an hour in there yesterday, reading all of the documents (which include an original copy of the declaration of independence prepared for the Easter Rising in 1916- truly thrilling stuff!), and staring, awestruck, at all of the beautiful old books and marvelling at the beauty of the room itself. If you can only do one thing in Dublin, and you're a massive book nerd like myself, the Long Room in Trinity College is my hot tip, I've never been so moved by a room before in my life, and it just got better the second time around.

After I finally managed to drag myself away from all of those books, I wandered over to Grafton Street seeking food, and came across a brilliant little rock band playing in the middle of the street to a large crowd. These guys are actually charting here at the moment and were selling their albums for 10 euro, this is something virtually unheard of in Australia, I know that I've certainly never seen a charting band playing an impromptu gig in Pitt Street Mall before. Anyway, The Riptide Movement, check them out- http://www.theriptidemovement.com/

After moving along from here I saw a protest march coming down the street. At first I thought it might be a protest against the bank bailouts, as I'd been seeing signs posted about the place for this one, but it turned out to be a protest for the legalisation of marijuana. Very, very, very amusing,and such a contrast. All of these stoners in their Bob Marley hats smoking what must have been cigarettes, rather than the wacky tabacky, seeing as there were gardai everywhere, marching down the street shouting their brilliant chants (probably all composed in a haze of smoke), all outside of Trinity College, which is home to some of Ireland's most important cultural heritage! 


Finally, in just another example of how the old mixes with the new in Dublin so seamlessly, after turning the corner from the lovable stoners I came across a lady playing a traditional Irish harp (not unlike the one found in the Long Room).


An interesting, and hilarious, start to my new life. I don't think Dublin is going to stop surprising me for a while yet. 


Signing off, 


B. J. Barnes

Welcome to Dublin!

Hello and welcome to what might possibly be the most boring blog on this earth. I am a twenty seven year old Australian and I have just arrived in Dublin, Ireland, from Sydney, hoping for I know not what. I gave up a stable job, the security of being surrounded by fabulous friends and family, not to mention the sunshine (!), all because on my last trip here I felt something that I have never felt before. There was a connection between myself and this place, I could feel the history of the place coming up out of the ground, and I fell madly in love with it. In essence this blog will track a journey of self-discovery (oh no, I hear you cry, not another journey of self-discovery), but I'm hoping to intersperse it with some fabulous travel tips, random tales from Europe and beyond, and the ramblings of a mind not yet fully formed in its opinions of the world, but getting there slowly by putting them down in written form. So come with me on a jaunt around the Irish capital and beyond, and failte to you all.

From this:

To this: