walking Archives | In Lieu of Postcards

Kenmare, Ireland’s Hidden Charms

This summer marked my fifth trip to Ireland. Why, when there are so many places to go, do I continue to choose the Emerald Isle? For one, traveling to Ireland has been a formative experience for me. It was the first country I ever visited outside of North America, and the place where I spent a semester studying abroad 20 years ago. At this point in my Irish travels, there aren’t many major sites I haven’t seen. But in this place where I feel so many memories and connections, I tend to take pleasure in the mundane – walks to take, places to eat and drink, gardens and shops and inviting quaint streets. Sure, there are things I haven’t seen: despite living in Dublin for six months, I never went to the Guinness Storehouse, and I have never been to the EPIC Immigration Museum. I’d prefer instead to stand on the street in front of Kehoe’s with a pint in my hand, or to lounge on St. Stephen’s Green to watch Dubliners of every stripe intersect. Or, maybe head down to County Kerry for a slow amble through Kenmare.

The Must-Be Philosophy

I suppose I can sum this up as such: instead of “must-sees”, I gravitate toward a philosophy of “must-bes”: I must be back there. I must be in a moss-covered forest; I must be in the back of an Irish taxi with a witty driver; I must be sat at a table in front of the perfect toasted special; I must be in a pub where a fiddle is harmonizing with a concertina; I must be surrounded by slate-gray stone walls and ungainly bleating sheep and muddy crying skies. For this trip, these must-bes were converged in the small town of Kenmare, co. Kerry.

Kenmare, just off the Ring of Kerry with a population of around 2,500, is not exceptional among Irish towns, but it has long retained something of a mythical glow in my mind. It was one of the first places I visited on my first trip abroad at age 18. While my family only stayed in Kenmare for two nights, using it as a base to Killarney National Park, it was the first Irish small town I experienced, and it left such an indelible impression that I returned twice – for just one night in 2016, and then this summer for a whole week. I wrote a bit about Kenmare previously when discussing Kerry through Stephen Rynne’s cheeky book All Ireland, but after my third and longest visit, I wanted to delve more deeply into what makes this town such a delightful base for exploring one of Ireland’s most beautiful counties.

Escape from Killarney

As I wrote in my previous discussion of Kenmare, insofar as it is mentioned to tourists, it is usually as a more “cosmopolitan” alternative to neighboring Killarney, which has gone all-out in pursuit of American tourist dollars. In 2001, we stayed in a bed-and-breakfast called The Brass Lantern that I do remember as being quite elegant. It was run by a French woman named Colette, the showers were skylit and waterfall-like and the breakfast was a health-conscious platter of fruit and yogurt. This time, though, we acquiesced to modern convenience and stayed in an Airbnb (and a walk past the Brass Lantern suggests that though it is still ostensibly functional, is it not actually Xanadu), which was very close to the town center and let us explore Kenmare thoroughly in a week’s time.

Though the town has clearly grown since 2001, it retains its low-key charm, managing a nice balance with tourism that doesn’t impose on daily life. Is it boring? A little. But that’s the point. Tourists often say they want to live like the locals, but they don’t really mean it. In Kenmare, ordinariness – and straightforward, non-pandering Irishness – is the attraction.

Take, for example, the walk to town from our accommodations: we pass a field with a few grazing, wooly sheep, then walk along a river guarded by a stone wall and lush green trees. I run my hand along the wall, touching moss as soft as a shag carpet, feeling the ridges where stones were stacked, diligently, sometime in the distant past. (On one walk I managed to drop my scarf on the path; when I returned it was waiting for me, casually draped over a low shrub by a thoughtful passerby.) We spy a lone donkey eating languidly on an adjacent hill. A flower-adorned coffee shack, The Bean and Batch, beckons us across the street, and we perch on brightly colored chairs with flat whites and pain au chocolat (it’s Kenmare’s singular bastion of hipsterdom, but the clientele of sixty-somethings and young families are hardly intimidating). Just past this, the town begins: there’s a square and park that’s bustling with citizens and Kerry Way hikers making a pit stop. From there, two central streets branch out with shops, pubs and restaurants painted bright “Tidy Towns” colors, café tables spilling optimistically into the streets on the chance of a sunny day. Just a 10-minute walk and there, already, so much Irish charm.

Things to “Do” in Kenmare

You might be thinking that colorful buildings, mossy stone walls, and relaxed animals are all well and good, but what does one actually DO in Kenmare, aside from drive away to Killarney National Park, or other stops on the celebrated Ring of Kerry?

Attractions

First there’s the Bronze-Age Stone Circle, which I wrote about previously. The circle is probably Kenmare’s biggest tourist attraction, notable for being one of the few stone circles located in a town, rather than down some long and winding road in the middle of nowhere. The only issue is that while these circles are traditionally placed for their view, someone decided to plant trees in a ring around it, perhaps to set it off and protect it from the road. The result is an incredibly tranquil experience though one that isn’t exactly true to the intentions of its creators. There is also a souvenir stand, manned by an eager teenage boy selling plush sheep and Guinness knick-knacks aplenty, if that’s your cup of tea. But visit late in the day, with the crowds gone and the stand shut, and you can feel the hushed, almost mystical vibe of the place.

From the center of town, you can see the spire of a church rising just off the main square. This is Holy Cross Catholic Church, the most visually striking of the town’s churches, consecrated in 1864. In Ireland, there are interesting churches everywhere, and while this one is not particularly old or architecturally notable, it sits next to the former Poor Clare’s Convent founded by one of the town’s most famous residents, “The Nun of Kenmare,” Otherwise known as Sister Frances Clare (otherwise known as Margaret Anna Cusack). She was a prolific and especially intellectual nun: scholar and Irish nationalist, she established the convent and proceeded to write an impressive 35 books in the 1860s-80s.

A fairy fort in Reenagross Woodland Park, Kenmare.

You can learn more about this super-nun in the homespun and delightful Kenmare Tourist Information Office, which doubles as a history museum, chronicling the town’s industry, notable figures and daily life. I love small museums like this one that tell the stories of ordinary people (Nun of Kenmare aside) in ordinary towns. It might seem boring in the abstract, but its street-level humanity fosters a more intimate connection with a place.

Nature

Reenagross Woodland Park is the best nature one can see in Kenmare without a car. Like many beautiful Irish parks, this one is attached to a property designed for the wealthy, the 5-star Victorian-era Kenmare Park Hotel. Behind the grand stone structure are manicured gardens that dissolve almost imperceptibly into forest. Knobby trees perch over ferns and moss-covered stones, and gravel paths run along the edge of Kenmare Bay. While it’s no match for the spectacular views as on the Beara Peninsula or Ring of Kerry, it feels like a fairy-tale forest just a short walk from the bustling town center.

It’s these natural, magical edges of Kenmare that I found myself drawn to the most during our stay. Walk through the town center, take a left at the pizza place and proceed up the hill, and you’ll cross the River Finnerty, the tiny river that gives Kenmare a large part of its charm. Further up the road you’ll find Cromwell’s Bridge, an improbably steep structure that was built in the 1800s (though there was a similar structure here as far back as the 11th century). The bridge is unfortunately named for Oliver Cromwell, the English politician who led a bloody conquest of Ireland in the mid-1600s resulting in mass killings, land theft and forced servitude. The naming of the bridge is a mystery; Cromwell’s war did not even enter Kerry. The historical marker hopefully suggests that the name of this bridge was simply a mistake – the Irish-language word for “moustache,” alluding to the bridge’s rainbow-like shape, sounds like “Cromwell.” Name aside, if you’re a sucker for dry stones covered in moss, you’ll find it as enchanting as I did. Nestled on a small green surrounded by wildflowers, it’s the kind of place you can imagine reclining on a lazy afternoon.

Near Cromwell’s bridge is another of those especially Irish attractions: a shrine to the Virgin Mary, settled against a stone wall and tall hedge. This was one of Ireland’s “holy wells,” a site of folk religion during the period of anti-Catholic penal laws in the late 1600s-1900s. This well’s origin is not known; it may have begun as a site of pagan worship, then was blessed and turned into a Christian site. For pilgrims or simply curious onlookers, it’s another pocket of Kenmare enchantment.

Eating and Drinking

Lamb stew and Guinness at Coachman's — Lamb stew and Guinness at Coachman’s in Kenmare

As illustrated by these examples, life in Kenmare is not lived fast. It is a town for wandering, without expectations, and seeing what you’ll find. But while I may be making it sound like the humblest backwater, it should be known that the “cosmopolitan” label isn’t all spin. The town has quite a few fine pubs, restaurants and shops for its size; unlike other places I’ve visited in Ireland, its choices for dining and drinking are fairly numerous and high-quality. The Horseshoe, the town’s best-reviewed mid-priced restaurant, offers delicious food in cozy, candlelit surroundings. For a more ebullient dining experience, the touristy-looking O’Donnabhain’s was better than expected, offering a huge menu of well-executed Irish classics by similarly precarious candlelight (Kenmare is really not worried about people setting their hair on fire). Here the setting is a bustling pub environment soundtracked, at least when we were there, by a hipster college student alternating between affecting folk songs and improbable covers of “Dancing Queen” and other radio hits. Another standout, The Coachman’s, lacked in as much atmosphere but served an amazing Irish stew.

Atlantic Bar, a no-frills institution with a blue façade on the town square, became our go-to pub for lunch. With its perfectly presented toasted special (a hot ham sandwich with aged cheddar cheese and onion on robust buttery toast, served with golden chips), delectably fluffy Guinness, and cheerful proprietor, it was the platonic ideal of the Irish pub. Each time we visited, local workers of various professions laughed together and mingled with a few tourists enjoying a slower meal. On our second visit, we sat next to two friends on holiday from the UK, who engaged us in conversation on issues ranging from Paul McCartney to British and U.S. elections.

Traditional music session at Crowley's Bar — Trad session at Crowley’s

At night, the pubs come alive, and many try to offer live music, at least in the summer when tourists are around. This is highly variable; “live music” could mean a true Irish session, a solo accordionist, or an earnest young man playing “Wonderwall.” (Granted, the latter style can still be appealing; my husband and I did enjoy a pint in front of P.F. McCarthy’s as the band inside played a fine cover of Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.”) Crowley’s Bar is known as the place for “real” trad sessions, though Kenmare is not celebrated for its music scene like Dingle or Doolin. But the crowd packs in, and the festive atmosphere accompanied by lively fiddle, guitar and mandolin is irresistible. Elderly tourists holding iPads aloft seem to come out of the woodwork for a trad session, but a pervasive atmosphere of good cheer envelopes everyone anyway. During our visit, an Irishman visiting from another county treated the audience to a beautiful Sean-nós performance of the traditional tune “Little Saro.” His clear voice rang out in the hushed room, stopping for a moment the extroverted environment of the pub and turning inward – an old song and a new emotion.

Embrace the Boring

We made quite a few day trips from Kenmare, to beautiful and impressive surroundings (recommendations below). But when traveling anywhere, I’ve learned not to take for granted the ordinary experiences that aren’t on anyone’s bucket list. Next time you’re staying in a humble town, even one that’s never been labeled “cosmopolitan” or “colorful,” I recommend plunging yourself into the mundane, the boring, the every day. These are the things that make the essence of a place, and these are the things – as evidenced by my 23-year-pining for Kenmare – that you’ll remember.

Things to see near Kenmare

Gleninchaquin Park & Uragh Stone Circle: This breathtaking private park and neighboring stone circle on the Beara Peninsula is like something out of a dream. It’s a long drive on an incredibly narrow road, but worth it.
Kissane Sheep Farm: For animal lovers, a sheepdog herding demonstration on this picturesque farm is a delightful way to spend a morning.
Killarney National Park: This one’s obvious, but a hike in KNP is a must-do if you’re nearby. Tourists tend to flock to Muckross House and Castle, but the trails are peaceful and wooded. Arthur Young’s Walk was our choice; a lovely trail along the lake.
The Ring of Kerry: Another obvious one. There’s a lot to do on the Ring, but I’d recommend choosing a place and staying a night or two, rather than driving the whole thing in one day. See my previous post for discussion of Cahersiveen and its surroundings.

“Dublin” on My Heart: In the Drizzly City of Contrasts

My third visit to Dublin began with—of all things—a discussion of the city’s tram system, Luas. Chatting with our taxi driver on our way into the city from the airport, my husband and I recalled the chaotic Luis-related construction we encountered during our most recent visit in 2016. This came as a surprise as we assumed it would be done—way back in 2004 when we were studying at University College Dublin, the project was already beginning operation. So what happened? All told, our driver explained, the project took a turbulent 13 years (it’s finally finished): first city government decided on two separate city centre lines; then they decided to join them; next they realized the tracks were two different sizes and needed to be redone; and eventually the 2010 recession stalled the whole endeavor. Hence the 2017 completion date.

Our new friend from the north side put it like this: “In this city, we prefer to do something wrong the first time, and then spend ages fixing it.”

This little motto seemed even more apt days later, when we stopped in at the National Gallery of Ireland. Upon our last visit to Dublin, the museum was in the midst of a laborious, drawn-out renovation that pushed some of its most celebrated art into storage. But when we returned these three years later hoping to finally see the beautiful (supposedly complete) new wings, we found them shut down once again, for “essential maintenance.” Those Jack Yeats paintings will have to wait until our next visit, I suppose.

Dublin: City of Frustration?

I’ve spent more time in Dublin than perhaps your average tourist—around 7 months or so total—but I can’t claim to know it, of course, like people who live there. And yet the great thing about being a repeat visitor to any destination is the ability to see different sides of it: you observe its changes over time, but you also can’t help but change your own perspective on it. This time, I feel like I’ve I’ve shaken the stars from my eyes a bit and started to see what the locals see—that in some ways, Dublin is a frustrating place.

George's Street, Dublin, Ireland — George’s Street, Dublin

As countless poets, novelists and songwriters have observed over the years, Dublin spends much of its time being gray, drizzly and smelling of exhaust, the traffic is a nightmare and stalled building projects seem to glare from every corner. Like many other 21st-century metropoles, the city of Dublin has a problem with poverty, homelessness and drug addiction, and gentrification and skyrocketing housing costs haven’t helped. Perusing local independent paper the Dublin Inquirer, I read stories on rising noise levels in the city, the housing crisis and other myriad city problems. Being a Dubliner, never easy, seems to be getting even harder. So why do I, why do many of us, love this city so incredibly much?

“Dublin” on Our Hearts

James Joyce allegedly once stated that when he died, they’d find the name “Dublin” written on his heart. It’s a sentiment you’re likely to hear from others who have spent any amount of time in the city, even (perhaps especially) those given to griping over daily annoyances. I think perhaps what makes the city near and dear to so many are in fact its contrasts; this juxtaposition of the frustrating and the inspiring.

There’s the way those gray, rainy mornings can open up into sunshiny, optimistic afternoons—the kind that call post-work crowds to sunbathe on St. Stephen’s Green or congregate chattily in front of pubs with friends and pints in their hands.

And maybe it’s that feeling when you enter Merrion Square, and the shocking green of the vegetation seems to throw the city into technicolor, and its statue of Oscar Wilde, artfully slouching on his rock, half-smiles as if to say not too bad, is it?

Or those times when you enter a crowded, cozy pub, with its snugs and panels of beaten wood, and just when the barman has topped up your Guinness a few generous lads get up and leave you the perfect table.

The Winding Stair Bookshop, Dublin, Ireland

Perhaps also it’s the seemingly endless number of great bookshops to duck into, swearing you’re just going to browse until you encounter the carefully curated tables piled with enchanting works and the shopkeeper from central casting with the owl-eyed glasses (and 100 euro later you stagger out with a stack and a tote bag and a new lease on life).

And it’s noisy, yes, but in such a way that heightens one’s appreciation of the quiet places, like the medieval sanctuary at St. Audeon’s Church, the dignified stacks in the 18th-century Marsh’s Library, the dusky elegance of the Central Hotel’s upstairs Library Bar.

St. Audeon's Church, Dublin, Ireland — St. Audeon’s Church

Library Bar, Dublin, Ireland — Library Bar

Finally then there’s the way the noise seems to fall away on a Grafton Street Sunday morning, when the street’s occasionally tacky cover-song buskers make way for a singer-songwriter with startling talent, and people crowd around and listen as though they were in church.

David Owens on Grafton Street, Dublin, Ireland

Postscript from a Smitten Tourist

There’s a lot I could say to you about Dublin, about the ways I like to walk the city, its hidden charms and jagged edges, the off-the-beaten-path attractions, the food, the pints, the wit and wisdom of its people. But these few points of description really say it all. Dublin is a city of frustration, grit, poverty, occasional violence. But it’s also a city of tender moments, of beauty and softness, of light breaking through heavy clouds and bright colors on Georgian doors, of a group of friends and a song and a pint in your hand on a summer evening.

Ha'Penny Bridge on the River Liffey, Dublin, Ireland — Ha’Penny Bridge on the River Liffey, Dublin

Dublin Recommendations

Books:

Books Upstairs, 17 D’Olier Street, Dublin 2
The Winding Stair Bookshop, 40 Lower Ormond Quay, N. City, Dublin 1
Ulysses Rare Books, 10 Duke Street, Dublin 2
Hodges Figgis, 56-58 Dawson Street, Dublin 2

Pubs:

Library Bar at the Central Hotel, Exchequer Street, Dublin 2 – Go up 1 floor for the bar. This is a great place to have a pint by yourself with a book, though I’d recommend going before 5 p.m. to get a good spot.
The Long Hall, 51 South Great George’s Street, Dublin 2 – Classic Victorian Pub that’s small but always seems to have room for you. It’s faded Dublin elegance at its best.
Palace Bar, 21 Fleet Street, Dublin 2 – Another Victorian bar with a cozy skylit room and outdoor street tables. Midcentury meeting place for journalists from the Irish Times.
Mulligan’s, 8 Poolbeg Street, Dublin 2 – Storied 18th-century pub frequented by James Joyce and Irish poet Seamus Heaney, nicely hidden near Trinity College.
Bruxelles, 8 Harry Street, Dublin 2 – A Dublin institution frequented by musicians and featuring a statue outside of Thin Lizzy’s Phil Lynott, one of Ireland’s biggest rock stars. Go downstairs and you’ll have your choice between a cocktail lounge (the Zodiac Bar) and the Flanders Bar, a pub for aging punks and what Bruxelles’ website calls “rock heads.” I’d highly recommend the latter.
Kehoe’s, 9 Anne Street South, Dublin 2 – Traditional pub that draws large post-work crowds. Stand outside on charming Anne Street for a view of beautiful St. Ann’s Church.
Whelan’s, 25 Wexford Street, Portobello, Dublin 2 – Dublin’s best music venue, with a pub in the front and a club in the back.

Feeling London: Wandering in England’s Capital

Walking in the exciting city of London is the perfect way to really experience it in a short time.

London: a city that conjures up a lot of excitement in me, mainly due to years of listening to music, reading books and watching films set in the city. While it’s not the world’s most beautiful, exotic or affordable place, it is one of the most cosmopolitan and exciting. When I had the opportunity to visit in June on the way to see friends in the southwestern English city of Exeter, I seized it. I had been to London twice before but had never been intentional about how I spent my time there. In short, I never felt like I really got a feel for even part of the city, something I was determined to do this time around.

The Two-Day Trip

Strangely enough, my two previous visits to London had also been two days — it’s like some accidental pattern I can’t break. The main reason for this trend, however, is sadly no mystery: I had and continue to have very little money, and London is one of the most expensive cities in the world.

I was 18 when I first traveled to England — by ferry from France, as part of a French class trip. We did the usual — Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, Topshop, and karaoke in a pub, for some reason. I don’t remember much (though I do remember my karaoke selection, Soft Cell’s seminal “Tainted Love”), which is probably because we only really spent a day there, dedicating much of day two to an Oxford-Stratford day trip.

View of the London Eye from Westminster Bridge.

The second time was during my study abroad semester in Ireland, when a friend and I decided to meet in London with another friend studying at University College London. Toward the ends of our semesters and impoverished, my friend and I agreed to share a tiny twin bed in an empty UCL dorm room rather than pay for a hotel. We saw a West End production of When Harry Met Sally starring an aging Luke Perry, spent a day at the Tate Modern, and wandered around pleasantly for the rest of the time. I came away satisfied and happy to have seen friends, but without much understanding of London beyond parks and pints and red phone booths.

Feeling London

This time around I was focused, determined not to waste my two days. My husband and I booked a room at an economical, well-located, and slightly shabby South Kensington establishment called the Cromwell International Hotel, and I set out excitedly to plan my first London trip as a proper adult. My husband was planning some meetings with overseas colleagues, so I would have a good chunk of each day alone to do as I pleased. I perused lists of museums and markets and theatrical performances, but what I was really chasing was a feeling: the feeling of being in London, the city of so much music, literature and film I loved. So I decided to simply do what I like best, which is walk.

Parliament Square, at the end of my walk. — Parliament Square, looking pretty at the end of my walk.

As discussed in my post on the “flâneuse,” the best kind of walking for a traveler like me is wandering solo — I don’t much enjoy an organized tour, no matter how informative. Knowing little about the best ways to wander in London, I looked online for self-guided walks and landed on London for Free’s “Bridges Walk,” a very on-the-beaten path kind of stroll that would take me through the heart of tourist London. While I’m not usually one to go full tourist, I couldn’t resist the misery-gray allure of the Thames. Plus, considering I didn’t feel like I’d really seen London, it seemed a logical place to start.

But First, Records

The original Rough Trade record shop in Notting Hill, which opened in 1976.

Our first morning in London, my husband and I had one thing to check off our list before I embarked upon my walk: a visit to the original Rough Trade Records on Talbot Street in Notting Hill. Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve been obsessed with British music (of which London is undoubtedly the locus), as well as contemporary London novels by the likes of Nick Hornby and Emma Forrest. I longed to finally get a feel for the city of Rob Fleming’s imaginary Championship Vinyl; the city in which Damon Albarn, brokenhearted and detoxing, wrote “Tender,” one of my all-time favorite songs; the home base of so many great bands, some of whom released music on the Rough Trade label in the ’80s and ’90s.

It was surprisingly pleasant and quiet wandering down the famous Portobello Road on a cloudy Tuesday morning (all in all, I found Tuesday and Wednesday to be excellent days for visiting London), and though the neighborhood is now quite pricey, I was easily able to imagine its humble roots as a home to artists and musicians. The shop itself was small, with a lived-in feel and basement full of great vinyl. The only downside was that I had little money to spend and little room in my suitcase. After much deliberation, a vinyl record by the 1970s post-punk band Magazine and a CD by 1980s London indie-poppers the Siddeleys were enough to satisfy me. I parted ways with my husband and hopped on the tube to Tower Bridge.

The Tower Bridge, site #1 on my self-guided walk.

“Drinking Tea with the Taste of the Thames”

This line from Morrissey’s song “Come Back to Camden” always springs to mind when I think of the Thames, an evocative line in an aching ballad about lost love in London. It was time to start my journey along the iconic river, and I popped on my headphones with this song full blast. As a big-time music nerd (I spent five years as a critic for the late indie rock zine Cokemachineglow), I always make playlists for my trips. I made this one extra-long and extra-British, with my all-time favorites the Smiths/Morrissey, Radiohead, Blur; lesser-known bands like the Field Mice, The Clientele and Talulah Gosh; and selections from my mom’s record collection like the Beatles, Kinks, Donovan and the Small Faces (see condensed Spotify version of playlist below). I knew it would be just the company I needed for a magical walk.

I decided to reverse the order of the London for Free walk and begin at the Tower Bridge, ending closer to Soho, where I was to meet my husband in early evening. The walk was clearly designed for an optimal Big Ben photo op in the early day sun, but seeing as the famous landmark was surrounded by scaffolding anyway, I was unconcerned. The day began cloudy, and i was fully prepared for a famous London rain shower. But I was pleased to find the sun coming out as the day wore on. The Tower Bridge, the so-called “most famous bridge in the world” (completed in 1894), cut a striking silhouette against the river.

I proceeded from the Tower Bridge into the morass of office buildings in the Southwark neighborhood. Tourists and Londoners alike rested casually on the steps separating buildings from river. Weaving in between smartly dressed people with briefcases, I felt a stab of jealousy toward the central London office worker, who each day hustles into the heart of one of the world’s most exciting cities, feeling the wind off the Thames, breathing in aromas from the food stalls at Borough Market. Having worked for awhile in Midtown Manhattan, I know that this kind of daily commute can become strenuous and repetitive. But I also know that it takes a lot to quell that internal breathlessness: I’m really here, in the heart of New York City. I’m here in London, at the center of it all.

Borough Market is an oft-recommended lunch stop in London for good reason: it’s a place to find something delicious and filling for less than ten pounds, more often than not less than five. It is one of many showcases for London’s robust population of immigrants, featuring food from countries all over the world. Overwhelmed by the options swimming around me, I stopped at stall with no line advertising “food of the Balkans.” Feeling that this was sufficiently far-flung, I ordered a savory pie (I’m pretty sure it was some variation on a börek) filled with spinach, cheese and artichoke. Sitting on a Thames-facing bench with my Balkan pie, people-watching and eavesdropping, I have to admit I was pretty freaking happy.

The Tate Modern and Half-Hidden Big Ben

Bottles from Brazilian artist Cildo Meireles's 1970 Coca-Cola Project — Brazilian artist Cildo Meireles’s 1970 “Insertions into Ideological Circuits: Coca-Cola Project,” one of my favorite works at the Tate Modern. Meireles printed Coke bottles with political slogans (and Molotov cocktail instructions) and put them into circulation.

After lunch, I crossed Southwark Bridge to catch a glimpse of St. Paul’s cathedral before continuing on my way. My next bridge was Millennium, the pedestrian bridge that opened in the year 2000. I’m always pro-pedestrian bridge, and — despite a general disdain for anything dubbed “Millennium” — I find it to be a pretty lovely structure, with a view of St. Paul’s on one side and the Tate Modern on the other. While I hadn’t planned on visiting the Tate Modern again, I couldn’t resist its pull. It’s one of the best museums in the world after all, and as the façade boasts, it’s completely free.

The Tate Modern: wonderful inside & out.

The Tate Modern grounds are also a prime example of London’s excellent public spaces. On this sunny 65-degree day, many congregated on the museum’s green and benches to chat, picnic or read. Nearby, a man slung a small lasso through a pool of bubble solution, sending clouds of iridescent spheres into the air.

My quite ugly photo of a backlit, be-scaffolded Big Ben. — My proudly ugly photo of a backlit, be-scaffolded Big Ben.

After spending time at the Tate, I crossed Blackfriars’ Bridge, walked west along Temple Gardens and crossed again via Waterloo, threading my way through the thongs at the London Eye — the only place on my walk that felt a little too touristy. I was headed to Westminster Bridge and Big Ben, arguably London’s most iconic spot, which was at this particular time shrouded in scaffolding. I had to laugh to myself when I saw it, and thought of the mixture of disappointment and relief the tourists around me must be feeling — freed from the pressure of snapping the “perfect” photo. The scaffolding brought Big Ben down to earth somehow, stripping away its grandeur to reveal a humble clock tower in need of repair.

Protests at Parliament

Pro-choice protest in Parliament Square.

A protest against violence in Gaza, Parliament Square.

I concluded my walk at Parliament Square, just as the workday was ending and the crowds were flowing into the surrounding tube stations. As I strolled toward Parliament Square Garden, a gathering of protestors caught my eye. Joining the crowd, I listened as speakers from Northern Ireland argued for abortion rights in that country, in light of the Republic of Ireland’s recent decision to repeal the eighth amendment. Northern Ireland now stands alone as the only country in the UK where women do not have access to safe, legal abortion.

The protest concluded and I ambled down Parliament Street, quickly running into another, larger gathering protesting the Israeli occupation of Gaza and the recent military violence against activists at the border. The crowd at this protest was large and incredibly diverse, with native Brits and immigrants alike cheering support for a roster of speakers. I realized I had come to Parliament Square at the right time, as it was a great opportunity to experience activism in London firsthand and learn more about the issues that matter to people here.

End of an Introduction

A pre-dinner pint at the Dog & Duck pub in Soho.

I moved on to meet my husband at the Dog and Duck pub in Soho (a former hangout of George Orwell, it must be noted), and early evening in the city was lively and golden. Garrulous after-work crowds gathered outside of pubs, balancing pints on windowsills and smoking in shirts-and-ties and smart dresses (when in England or Ireland, I always experience jealousy pangs that Americans don’t celebrate happy hour with nearly as much gusto).

Chuffed to be drinking Fuller's at the Dog & Duck — Chuffed to be drinking Fuller’s at the Dog & Duck

Though I was tired and ready to settle in for a pint and some conversation, it was bittersweet to end my day of walking — to turn off my headphones and my meandering thoughts and break from my role as silent observer, passerby, sightseer.

After downing some pints with a friend in the crowded, cozy pub, we concluded our day with dinner at Machiya, a reasonably priced, modern and delicious Japanese restaurant in the neighborhood. I still had another day to go in London, but I finished the first proud of what I had accomplished. Not only did I spend the day exactly as I pleased, wandering with no pressure to accomplish anything besides move from point A to point B; I was intentional about my path, and as present in the moment as I could be. I discovered I now had a feeling for London, at least a very small slice of it. I could trace on a map where I had been and what I had seen there, I could remember what it felt like to weave through the office crowds in Southwark, to roam the Tate Modern lawn with bubbles popping around me, to stand surrounded by protestors outside Parliament.

London is a large and complex city, and I am by no means finished with it. But over one day in early June, we had the chance become ever-so-gently acquainted, to make a tentative connection. And for that, I’m thankful.

My London Wander Playlist

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Flâneuse by Lauren Elkin & the Joys of Wandering

Does the simple act of walking facilitate the best travel experiences?

A Flâneuse, as defined by Lauren Elkin in her book of the same name, is the “feminine form of flâneur [flanne-euhr], an idler, a dawdling observer, usually found in cities” (pg. 7). As a scholar of French literature, Elkin was struck by the fact that men have historically been the ones depicted as walkers, wanders and ponderers – so much so that a word was created for them. But women flâneurs exist, too, and Elkin’s book weaves together the stories of famous flâneuses – Jean Rhys, George Sand, Martha Gellhorn and Agnès Varda, to name a few – as well as chronicle her own history of traveling and wandering.

Flâneuse: Women Walk the City in Paris, New York, Tokyo, Venice, and London is not your typical travel book. It’s not a travelogue, nor does it aim to get inside a particular place. Yet Elkin writes with such insight about the ways we experience place that it will likely appeal most to lovers of travel and travel literature.

A photo of New York City at night, taken while flâneuse-ing. — A (blurry) photo I took of New York City at night while flâneuse-ing.

The Joy of Wandering

I was excited to read Flâneuse when it came out last year, because the concept of the flâneuse gets to the heart of what I find so exhilarating about travel. Walking the streets of a city, particularly in a foreign country, is when I feel the most moved by and connected to a new place. I feel myself become one in a crowd, watching people and storefronts, experiencing a day in the life of a place half a world away from where I usually spend my days. I remember loving this feeling even as a child, when I would leave my small town and go with my parents to Chicago or New York. Walking with them on the streets, I would feel the energy of the city, and long to break off on my own and become a part of it.

Elkin puts this feeling into words regarding her first extended stay in Paris:

In those six months, the streets were transformed from places in   between home and wherever I was going into a great passion. I drifted wherever they looked interesting, lured by the sight of a decaying wall, or colorful window boxes, or something intriguing down at the other end, which might be as pedestrian as a perpendicular street. Anything, any detail that suddenly loosened itself, would draw me towards it. Every turn I made was a reminder that the day was mine and I didn't have to be anywhere I didn't want to be.[pg. 6]

Since those days as a child and teenager longing to amble through a city on my own, I’ve tried to take the time to do just that anywhere new I’ve visited. In recent years I’ve been traveling to Italy, a country that rewards flâneuse-ing almost as much as Paris, with its piazzas and hidden archways, its food and clothing markets, and its vibrant public life, even in smaller towns.

Piazza San't Agostino, Arezzo — Piazza San’t Agostino in Arezzo, Italy, at dusk.

Environments that “Inhabit Us”

Elkin’s book covers a lot of ground (and spends perhaps more time than I would have liked on close readings of works of literature and film). She discusses the debt that the modern flâneuse owes to feminist pioneers, who made it possible for women to walk the streets alone in many parts of the world. And in the memoir sections especially, she writes of the glorious feeling of independence such an action can bring. But she also talks about the struggles of being in a new place, and the difficult journey of figuring out who you are and what you want while also being far from home. It’s a sentiment any ex-patriate or nomad will relate to strongly. In one of the most affecting passages, she writes,

'Environments inhabit us,' Varda said. These places that we take into ourselves and make part of us, so that we are made of all the places we've loved, or of all the places where we've changed. We pick up bits and pieces from each of them, and hold them all in ourselves.

And sometimes we hold on with both hands to things we really want to release. 

This is a hard thing to admit. How do we know what to keep, and what is just an old idea we had about ourselves? [pg. 240–41]

This is a thought-provoking question, particularly for those of us that travel. We are often prompted to change and adapt quickly, to revise our assumptions about both ourselves and others. We are thrust into new situations with new people that cause us to rethink our positions and the way we envision ourselves and our lives. And then there’s the leaving – the sometimes painful process of leaving a place for somewhere new. And the struggle to reserve a piece of your heart for that place while still moving on. But we wouldn’t want it any other way, would we?

Dublin Castle, photographed while flaneuse-ing.

Flâneuse-ing Favorite: Dublin, Ireland

While reading Elkin’s book, I couldn’t help but think of Dublin, the only non-American city I can say I’ve actually “lived” in (I spent six-plus months there on study abroad in 2004). It was the first place in which I really practiced flâneuse-ing for the first time on my own, and I recognized immediately how much it suited me.

When I think of my time in Dublin now, I remember myself hopping on the bus to the city center and ambling around, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone, strolling past shops or over the Ha’penny bridge or through St. Stephen’s Green. I’d hear snippets of conversation, smell sizzling fish and chips or sticky cider and cigarette smoke wafting out of bars, spot graffiti and murals on walls and sidewalk panels. I remember the riotous fun of St. Patrick’s Day, leaving the dorm at 11 a.m. and wandering around all day with this companion and that, meeting friends and acquaintances old and new, and returning at 5 a.m. the next morning with a new zeal for the city in which I found myself and the life I was living.

James Joyce graffiti in Dublin, Ireland — James Joyce mural in Dublin, Ireland

Dublin is a great city for flaneuse-ing, but not for photographing. It’s perpetually dark and cloudy, and the last time I visited in 2016 (when these photos were taken), the city was swallowed whole by construction. It’s not classically beautiful in the way of Paris, Venice, Barcelona or other romantic cities I could name. And yet it’s an incredible city to walk around. It’s almost certainly in part my own nostalgia – I’ll never be able to separate this place from my own journey, as cheesy as it sounds, into adulthood. But there’s something else about it, too. It has a unique, haunted beauty all its own.

When I’m being a flâneuse in Dublin, I often think of Louis MacNeice’s 1939 poem, simply called “Dublin.” The entire poem captures the essence of roaming around the city, though the second stanza speaks to me most:

This never was my town,
I was not born or bred
Nor schooled here and she will not
Have me alive or dead
But yet she holds my mind
With her seedy elegance,
With her gentle veils of rain
And all her ghosts that walk
And all that hide behind
Her Georgian facades –
The catcalls and the pain,
The glamour of her squalor,
The bravado of her talk.

I’ll leave it there for now. For all you flâneurs and flâneuses out there, may you never tire of exploring. I know I won’t.

Top image: Harcourt Street in Dublin, photographed while flaneuse-ing.

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