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.