Bridge - From Shropshire to Dublin

On a short visit to Dublin a few years ago, I was fascinated by the Ha’penny Bridge over the River Liffey. It is cute and pretty and looks like something from Fairyland. It was built in 1816, a cast iron pedestrian bridge to replace the boats which ferried people across the river. The proper name is the Liffey Bridge. When it opened, the toll was a halfpenny. I believe it is free these days, but the name Ha’penny has stuck. Unfortunately, I didn’t set foot upon it, as much as I hoped to. Dashing from one thing to another, we crossed the river on O’Connell Bridge nearby. I loved what I saw of Dublin and another, longer visit would be very welcome – on my retirement bucket list.

 

Another bridge I haven’t set foot upon, not yet, is the Iron Bridge at the village of the same name near Telford. Apart from Shrewsbury, where we’ve had mini breaks to go to events at Theatre Severn, I don’t know Shropshire very well. With family members recently taking up residence there, I’m looking at places to stay and places of interest. The Iron Bridge, over the River Severn opened in 1781 and was the first major bridge in the world to be constructed of cast iron. It is most definitely a place of interest to me.

 

These bridges are linked and not just by 18^th-19^th century technology. They were both built at iron works in Coalbrookdale, Shropshire. The eighteen sections of cast iron ribs which make the Ha’penny Bridge were shipped from Shropshire to Dublin. The five ribs that make the Iron Bridge were carried down the road.

 

My poem,

 

River Liffey, dancing and singing,

     Let me join in your songs.
    Tuneful melody, joy it’s bringing,
    Through Dublin it belongs.
    Watch from the bridge, the water flows fast,
    Cheerfully rippling through,
    So clap with the chorus running past
    In shades of green and blue.
 

River Severn is quiet today,

     Raging torrents now calm
    As the mighty storm has blown away
    And nothing came to harm.
    Now, gentle river hear my wishes
    And carry them upstream
    Wrapped up with love and hugs and kisses
    For my Gemini Dream.

PMW 2020

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Candles - Remembrance

Strolling around Dublin’s Temple Bar district with friends, I found myself thinking of my late Uncle Bill, a lovely Irishman and one of the pub landlords in my family. We were buddies for the whole eight years we had each other. He loved to take baby me out in my pram. When I was old enough he took me to the swings and my aunt would come along, too. Most Sunday afternoons our whole family would be together. Pubs closed on Sundays between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days and at that time we still lived fairly close to each other. I was always a Daddy’s girl, but Uncle Bill was another good playmate and had a wealth of stories to tell me. With no children of their own, my uncle and aunt doted on me and we were all thrilled with the arrival of my new baby sister. Uncle Bill died suddenly on 16^th March, 1964. His rich singing voice would not be heard on St Patrick’s Day, or ever again. He is buried in his native Cork.

I was in Dublin, my first visit to Ireland, but it won’t be my last, it’s on my ‘to do’ list to go back and see more, including Cork, but it was too far away on that short break. With my head full of childhood memories of Uncle Bill, I excused myself from my company while I nipped into nearby St Teresa’s Church to light him a candle. Feeling spiritual rather than religious, I watched the flame become established, pointing heavenward, unfaltering in the still air like others around it, a tiny light expressing strength and power, a symbol of remembrance and love. I spent a few moments reflection before returning to my friends.

Sometime in my not-too-distant future I will return to Ireland and visit as much of the Emerald Isle as I can. I hope to visit Uncle Bill’s burial place. I will light a candle for him in Cork.

 

I found this poem,

 

 

Candle in the Window

 

There’s a candle in the window,

Shining with a loving light.

It’s been sitting there for years now,

It really is a lovely sight.

 

A tiny candle in the window

Burning with a light so rare,

Where the cold wind doesn’t blow,

A loving sign that someone cares.

 

A tiny flame that burns inside

The window of that tiny shack,

Like the flame that in the heart resides,

Wishing someone would come back.

 

It will burn ‘til two soul mates

Are reunited once again,

And overcome the cruel hand of fate,

And joy replaces all the pain.

 

Juan Olivarez

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Oscar Wilde - Come to my Party

If I could host a gathering of people from bygone times, Oscar Wilde would be way up at the top of my guest list. I would sit him next to me for a good while so I could hang on to his every word and hope that his brilliance and wit might rub off on me. Eventually, I would have to set him free to mingle amongst my other guests and allow him to entertain, as is his nature. Sometimes, I’m quite sure I belong to Victorian times. I enjoy the written work of Oscar Wilde. I prefer his plays to his poetry and best of all, his novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

A decade ago, I visited Dublin with a small group of fellow writers. It was just four of us and amusing to us that we were English, Irish, Welsh and Scottish, gone to Ireland to see a play by a Russian, (The Three Sisters by Chekhov at Dublin’s Abbey Theatre) and a film about Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas, ‘The Edge of Love’, which had just released. We packed a lot of literary based interest into our three day adventure and spent as much time as possible in the fascinating Dublin Writers Museum. I enjoyed everything we did and everywhere we went. My personal highlight was going to Merrion Square and seeing the birthplace of Oscar Wilde then spending ages in complete wonder at Danny Osborne’s 1997 sculpture.

This is my own photograph, one of many taken that afternoon. I thought the statue was painted, but the colours come from the different materials used by the sculptor. The torso is made from nephrite jade and pink thulite, the legs from blue pearl granite from Norway and the head was originally porcelain but replaced by white jadeite when the porcelain showed early signs of cracking. The Trinity College tie is made of porcelain. The stone he is placed on is quartz from Wicklow.

Oscar Wilde read Classics at Trinity College, Dublin then continued at Magdalen College Oxford where he gained a double first in his B.A. of Classical Moderations and Literae Humaniores.

It is well documented that Wilde led a ‘scandalous lifestyle’ for which he served time in prison. Last year, he and others were posthumously pardoned for committing homosexual acts which were no longer offences.

To me, he was a great writer, with nothing to declare except his genius.

 

John Betjeman's poem,

 

 

The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel

 

He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer

As he gazed at the London skies

Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains

Or was it his bees-winged eyes?

 

To the right and before him Pont Street

Did tower in her new built red,

As hard as the morning gaslight

That shone on his unmade bed.

 

‘I want some more hock in my seltzer,

And Robbie, please give me your hand -

Is this the end or beginning?

How can I understand?

 

‘So you’ve brought me the latest Yellow Book:

And Buchan has got in it now:

Approval of what is approved of

Is as false as a well-kept vow.

 

‘More hock, Robbie – where is the seltzer?

Dear boy, pull again at the bell!

They are all little better than cretins,

Though this is the Cadogan Hotel.

 

‘One astrakhan coat is at Willis’s –

Another one’s at the Savoy:

Do fetch my morocco portmanteau,

And bring them on later, dear boy.’

 

A thump, and a murmur of voices –

(‘Oh why must they make such a din?’)

As the door of the bedroom swung open

And two plain clothes policemen came in:

 

‘Mr Woilde, we ‘ave come for tew take yew

Where felons and criminals dwell:

We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly

For this is the Cadogan Hotel.’

 

He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book.

He staggered – and, terrible-eyed,

He brushed past the palms on the staircase

And was helped to a hansom outside.

 

                         John Betjeman

 

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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