While living in Dublin, I have regularly commuted daily over the River Liffey. During this commute, I have been taking notice of a bridge that was unlike any other in design. As I walked home from school last Tuesday, I decided to cross the River Liffey by way of that particular bridge. It is made from white cast iron, with three archways to cross under, and steps leading up to and down from the base of the bridge. While crossing, I noticed that the archways were covered in locks that had names and dates written on them.

The bridge is the Wellington Bridge, but is more commonly referred to as the Ha’penny Bridge. It is called this because the toll to cross was a ha’penny. It was built in 1816, and was commissioned by William Walsh, a Liffey ferry owner. Turnstiles were placed at either end of the bridge when the toll was still collected, but have since been removed. It was the first pedestrian bridge over the Liffey. It is also often used as a symbol of Dublin.

The part of the Ha’penny Bridge that intrigued me the most was the locks on the arches. Upon further investigation, I learned that these are called love locks. They started appearing in Europe in the early 2000’s, and are placed in random locations in many major cities. They are often attached to a gates, fences, and bridges by sweethearts to symbolize their everlasting love.

Upon learning about these locks, I knew it would be the best way to commemorate my time in Dublin. A few days after my initial crossing of the bridge, I decided to go put a lock on the Ha’penny Bridge. I went to the store, got a lock, and wrote TU Dublin 2013 on it. I then took it to the bridge, and placed the lock on the middle arch. I then threw the key in the River Liffey, as per tradition with the love padlocks.

I felt a rush of exhilaration when I was putting the lock on the bridge. While it is legal, the government cuts off many locks annually. Dublin has quickly become a place that I have fallen in love with. When I placed the lock on Ha’penny Bridge, I was locking my heart to the city forever. I hope that one-day, if I have to opportunity to return, my lock will still on the bridge. To me, the placing of the lock represents a bond that I will constantly share with this city. It is rare that one finds a foreign city where they feel completely at home, and for me, Dublin is that city. James Joyce best puts my feelings into perspective when he says “When I die Dublin will be written in my heart.” By leaving a lock here, I have also left a piece of my heart.

I have always had a curious and, to put it plainly, odd relationship with large bodies of water. I loathe to be in them – my imagination runs wild and places Lovecraftian monstrosities just below the surface. I do not enjoy swimming at beaches, and mostly restrict my interaction with shore-water to whatever tendrils of liquid that make their way to my chair, momentarily distracting me from whatever weather-worn book I am reading.

As I stroll down the length of the walls that make up Dún Laoghaire’s harbor, I reflect on the juxtaposition that is my enjoyment of ocean-going vessels. I thoroughly enjoy riding on ships and boats, whether they’re river-running fishing tins or ocean-spanning cruise liners. One of my earliest hobbies was collecting miniature ships – my favorites were the majestic ships of the line from the 17th and 18th centuries, sails unfurled in imaginary winds. I’m sure they’re in a closet somewhere now, collecting dust.

I turn to look at the boats bobbing in the soft currents of the inner harbor. Some 200 years earlier, two ships that had departed from Dublin had smashed into the rocks near here. The British, still in control of Ireland at that time, realized the need for a permanent and protected harbor that could service Dublin. That plan developed into the harbor my feet carry me across now, old stone crunching beneath my heel. Plans had already existed at the time to create a harbor to service Dubin, but the loss of the Prince of Wales and the Rochdale, along with 400 souls between them, had put expediency into the lagging efforts.

Along with the increased interest from the English came other changes as well. Dún Laoghaire is as Irish a name as one could think for a little town near the ocean. The English, however, decided that Dún Laoghaire needed a proper and suitably English name, and so the town was christened ‘Kingstown’ when King Charles IV visited the new harbor in 1821.

Of course, when the Irish rebelled and won their independence from the English, they quickly began dismantling the signs and fixtures of their colonial rule, and the names of streets and towns were soon switched from their English designations to their original Irish names, and so Dún Laoghaire (or Dunleary) existed again.

I stop at the end of the pier, the lighthouse to my right and the harbor laid out in front of me. There are no more great sailing ships, unfortunately – the harbour is now home to a posh yacht club, and the two piers encompass the anchored boats like embracing arms. Looking down into the murky water, my minds eye sees something slither just under the surface. I shudder, and some deep level of my subconscious notes that I’ll want fish and chips for dinner tonight as some sort of symbolic gesture of defiance. Regardless, I begin my walk back, the sun warm on my back and my lungs full of salty air.

Cities, it seems, grow from one of two methods. The first is by a system of organized construction and planned development – regimented blocks segmented by streets made parallel by a graphing compass and pencil. These kind of cities have either grown recently with the advent of improved technology, or were founded by ancient civilizations that enjoyed order in their settlements.

The other kind of city is the exact opposite: these are the cities that grew from towns and villages, where new neighborhoods and sections of streets have developed organically and freely. In these places it is the chaos of natural and unplanned growth over time that has decided the current shape of the once-tiny settlements.

Dublin is very much the latter. Starting as a Viking city in the 9th century, it has endured and expanded after multiple attempts by nature to seemingly end the city’s existence – plagues in the 14th and 17th centuries and attacks by native Irish clans have the population of Dublin in tatters, only to see it spring back and keep growing.

Dublin reminds me of what is essentially my hometown of Doylestown (I say ‘essentially’ due to the fact that I didn’t grow up there, but I’ve spent more than half my life in and around that area). In fact, it does more than remind me – they feel the same. Main Street winds its way up a hill, intersected by a multitude of smaller streets. While paved concrete is the main choice for roads, you can still find the older paths covered in cobblestones and bricks.

Interestingly enough (I’m sure the Irish can appreciate this fact), Doylestown started in the mid-18th century as the spot where William Doyle opened his tavern along the intersection of roads connecting major population centers of the day (most importantly, Philadelphia). From there, the town has grown over time in spurts and sprints, most notably after the American Civil War ended.

And, just like in Dublin, there’s the nooks and crannies between buildings that make up the alleyways and back streets that a local can navigate like the back of his hand. And its in these side streets, where the cars can’t reach and you’ve got to rely on your feet to make your way, that the real fun is. Sure, you can pick the bars on the main roads if you want, but getting off the beaten path is half the adventure. Take a left instead of a right, and suddenly you’ll find yourself in a whole new area – completely different shops and pubs wills stretch out in front of you, another treasure trove of new experiences.

But you can’t really get lost, it seems. A few more blind turns will, somehow, bring you back to a pub, shop, or street you already know, and by then you’ll have your bearings. Just follow your feet – they know the way.