"Not all who wander are lost"

Dublin: I took the scenic route down to Dublin; via Ballynahinch. Before I left Belfast, I looked up our surname in the phone book. They were supposed to be all over the place, but... I found less than twenty in the Belfast/County Down area – not a good sign. As it turned out, there were none in Ballynahinch.

Interestingly, my research at the Public Records Office suggest Ballymacarn; I had a thought that my grandfather may have used Ballynahinch as the closest significant township since William and Martin are listed as farmers. I also think the name is dying out in County Down and the Belfast region.

So, I went to the Presbyterian church and the first gravestone is for Thomas and family. I took a photo and wandered around some more. The Kers are there – Martin rented from them – and a couple of Reas – my great-grandmother’s family. It bears a closer look, especially since I have a few books to look through. From Ballynahinch, I took the coast road that included the stunning Newcastle and the Mountains of Mourne.


With bare hills (no doubt snow-covered in Winter) and rugged coastline, it's almost my idea location. Needless to say, it took longer to get to Dublin than from Dublin to Belfast, since I just had to pause and admire the views of both coast and mountains; and the occasional castle ruin.



Dublin is a crazy traffic city, but instincts – and we sometimes have to trust them – took me to a car park. There are no free car parks in the city, which is a real pain. I found myself at a church – Dublin Cathedral, I think, and they directed me to a hostel. They, at least, would know where Abegail's was. As I waited at a pedestrian crossing an evil scrote of a gypsy tried to get to my wallet. She managed to unzip my backpack five inches before I realised. With an evil eye in her direction, I held the pack close to my front. I think she got my breath mints. From the other side of the road, and through a bus window, I saw the 'jovial' bunch, of which the woman was a part, nick a poor schmuck's wallet and move off before I could do anything about it. I'd barely been in the city an hour.

I found the hostel, and parking nearby. Once settled in the dorm with a couple of girls from British Columbia, I went down to Temple Bar, a restaurant/bar 'Square'. At the Quay restaurant, I had Irish Stew and a pint of Guinness. Guinness was great; the stew, well, my mother makes it better. The menu declared ‘traditional Irish food’, though I don't think spring rolls and crispy skinned chicken wings are considered Irish. Not cheap, but I can say I've had Irish stew in Ireland.

In the evening, I looked out the window and down into the alley below. There, a young man in a grey hoodie crouched over a flame. The match went out as I watched. He lit another, heated his fix then used the syringe. He lowered his pants and injected the stuff into the crease of his leg. He did, much to my surprise, clean the syringe out with water before packing up and leaving.

Later that night, someone set a plastic garbage hopper on fire. Choking smoke rose in the alley and wafted into the room. A couple of restaurant employees tried to put the fire out, but in the end called the fire department. It was nearly 11 pm.

I went back to bed. We’ve been joined in the room by two County Cork girls on their way to Africa and one from Nice, France on the way to an au pair job.

Only one complaint: The bed is rock hard!