Crypts. Tombs. Sepulchres. Deep dark places where the dead sleep.

Places where the dead are placed to rest are never actually full of peaceful corpses, as far as fiction in concerned. And here I was, entering into just such a place, without a single coat of chainmail, mace, or holy symbol to protect myself.

St. Michan’s proper is a rather beautiful if plain church that’s existed since the 11th century and has survived the trials and tribulations of all those longs centuries. It also happens to be the exact location in which people discovered it’s a pretty decent place to store bodies. The temperature underground stays constant year round and the limestone walls absorb the moisture from the air.

The crypts possess a semi-oppressive atmosphere. The darkness is almost alive, clinging to corners, nooks and crannies where the light of the olds electric bulbs cannot reach. The tombs, some still in use, remain unlit as per tradition. I felt the urge to move to the other side of the path as I walked past them, overactive imagination coalescing darkness into rotten hands reaching out.

However, the areas that light graced were a sight to behold. The most important of those rooms hold the remains of four people. One is relatively unknown, but by his condition it’s thought that he paid his way into the tomb. It’s the other three that are far more fascinating.

The first was a man with his feet and one hand chopped off. Battle damage? Perhaps, but it’s more likely that he was a thief who’s luck ran out (or who never had any luck to begin with), was caught and was punished. So how did he end up in the crypts? Again, he could have bought his way in, but chances are that he joined the church as a way of repentance.

The second corpse is that of a woman, and the first detail that stands out about her is the condition of the feet and hands – they’re so well preserved that one can still see her nails. This, as the tour guide explained, was a sign of her status as a nun, and when she passed it was her right to be buried under St. Michan’s.

The last body is the most fascinating. It is the body of a crusader (most likely a participant in the 3rd Crusade), whose body was brought back to the Church for its eternal slumber. The man was once 6’ 6” (a giant, especially in those days), and so his legs were broken so he could fit into the casket.

It’s eerie, being with those mummies – it’s almost as though I could feel eyes on the back of my head as I stepped into the room to touch the crusader’s hand, a little lucky charm as legend has it. But if there is anyone else here, they’re not speaking up.

I’m rather alright with that.

Stadiums are interesting places, even for those who do not actively watch or follow the sports that take place in them. As I take a seat in Croke Park’s section usually meant for announcers and sportcasters, I soon realize that this particular stadium stands out a bit more from the others I’ve visited. Earlier today, our guide had explained the Irish way of support for teams, the way that they stick to their home county, no matter where they are in the country (or the world). It’s a bit strange to the average American way, where one can ‘adopt’ teams of other cities in case of a displacement.

Sitting back in the semi-comfortable plastic seat, my focus switches back to the tour guide who’s been leading us through the stadium. The park itself has been around since the 1880s, and was a prominent part of the GAA from its inception in 1884. The park ran into financial problems in 1908, and a GAA member by the name of Frank Dineen purchased Croke Park for the sum of $3,250. The GAA managed to pool together the resources necessary to purchase the park from Dineen, and in 1913 Croke Park was signed over for $3,500.

Our guide gestures to one of the the four sides of the stadium, smaller in height than the others. She says the name of that section is Hill 16, and was once nothing but a mound of dirt and grass that spectators crowded onto. Once known as Hill 60, referencing a brutal and bloody fight in Gallipoli in WW1, its current name comes from the Easter Rising of 1916 – the rubble produced from the destruction of Dublin buildings by the British gunboat Helga was used to create a more permanent fixture on the hill. The hill as it stands today is the gathering ground of Dubliners, the section turning into a sea of sky blue during games when Dublin’s team is playing.

We are led out of the stands, back through the Broadcaster’s  box, and go down a level where we come to a black stone monument – the stadium’s remembrance to the events of Bloody Sunday. One cannot speak of Croke Park without mentioning the events of that day – the stadium was the site where a force of RIC police and the British Auxiliary Division opened fired on the crowd in the stands after a group of British Intelligence officers were assassinated by Michael Collins and his men earlier in the day. It is still hotly debated whether or not they were provoked by IRA agents, or if they opened fire on their own.

In the aftermath, 13 spectators and the captain of Tipperary’s team, Michael Hogan, had been killed. It was to them that the monument was built, and one of the sections was named after Hogan himself. It’s a sobering lesson in the blood-stained history of Ireland.

As a child, I spent many hours on stage, both dancing and acting. At one point in my life, I even aspired to be a Broadway actress. So, needless to say that when I heard that our class was attending a production at the historic Abbey Theatre, I was thrilled! I had never passed by, but have heard many things about the Abbey Theatre, mostly about the quality of the productions that have been put on there.

When I arrived, I was underwhelmed to say the least. I knew that the theatre was over 100 years old, so I was quite disappointed to walk up to a modern looking, beige box that was made out of concrete. The building is so non-descript that I could have easily walked by without noticing it. After conducting some research, I found that the original Abbey Theatre was destroyed in a fire in 1955. The theatre that I visited was rebuilt as the Abbey Theatre in 1966, and until that time was known as the Queen’s Theatre.

Photo of the original Abbey Theatre – courtesy of http://www.abbeytheatre.ie/behind_the_scenes/article/history/

The Abbey Theatre as it exists today.

The interior of the theatre was nothing to be impressed by either. It is just a plain lobby, with red carpeting and white walls, that contains a concession stand. It reminded me of the Wilma Theater in Philadelphia, where I have attended many productions. I had initially expected grandiose decorations, but now that I know this theater is more modern, I am not surprised by the style of the furnishings. The Abbey contains two stages, with the larger being more ornate than the smaller one. The larger of the two is much more impressive architecturally, and contains a balcony. The smaller is pretty bare bones, with a plain stage and one level of seating.

While I thought Shush, the show that we saw, was excellent, I was still disappointed by the Abbey Theatre. I wish that I was able to somehow see the original Abbey Theatre, not only because of the beautiful architecture, but also so that I would be able to stand in a place that was the creation of W.B. Yeats, one of the most celebrated authors and playwrights in Ireland. To me, the original Abbey Theatre represents old Dublin, and great writers of the past. Like many other beautiful buildings in Ireland, it exists now only in historical documents and the memory of older Dubliners.

Walking through Ireland, one sees many different churches, which is most likely due to the emphasis that Irish society places on religion. When walking through Cork, a beautiful city in southern Ireland, last weekend, one in particular caught my eye. At first, I thought it was a castle of some sort. As I got closer, I realized that it was not a castle at all, but a church! A service was in session, but a pastor let me in the gate to the grounds. A sign outside told me that it was Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral, an Anglican church. The church was built in 1863, and is done in the Early French style of architecture.

St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, Cork, Ireland

While walking through the grounds, my breath was taken away. There were old graves scattered throughout the churchyard. Some gravestones were written in Gaelic, and others were so worn that you couldn’t even read what was written on them. The church had a gold angel on top, and is made of light gray stone. Even more magnificent than the churchyard is the front of the church. There are nine women carved into the door, and the doors themselves are made of dark wood, that is beautifully carved.

The roof & door of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral

Seeing this church made me think of the churches in Dublin that are closer to my home. The most prominent one would be Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, which is also an Anglican church. I encountered it while walking through Dublin with my class one day during our first week in Dublin. While a beautiful church, I did not feel the same while I was walking through the grounds of Saint Patrick’s. Built in the twelfth century, it is done in the Gothic style of architecture. The church has gorgeous stained glass windows and is made from darker gray stone.

For some reason, Saint Patrick’s did not affect me the way that Saint Fin Barre’s did. For days now, I have been trying to figure out why. I believe that I personally connect more with the style of architecture that Saint Fin Barre’s is designed in. It is more airy and lighter than the style of Saint Patrick’s. I also feel that the graves in the churchyard make it more of a personal experience. While St. Patrick’s is beautiful, in my opinion, it is such an important monument in Ireland that it has become less personalized over the years.

St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, Ireland

Unfortunately I have not had the opportunity to enter either church yet. I was hoping to attend a service at Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral, but had missed the last service. I am planning to attend a service at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral while in Dublin, and am hoping the inside will help me change my mind about the personality of the building. I am also planning to go back to Cork just to attend mass at St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral. While different in style, both are beautiful buildings. I personally prefer St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, but ultimately it comes down to personal taste and style.

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.

After my first day of class, as I was wandering lost in the midst of Dublin, I stumbled across an old set of buildings.  Not sure as to what it was, curiosity got the best of me, and I was forced to investigate.  It turns out that this campus was Trinity College.  Traveling from Temple University, which is also an inner-city school, Trinity College provided many similarities and differences to what I experience daily.

Built between 1755 and 1759, Trinity College is a prime example of Georgian architecture.  The buildings are made of stone and are situated in a square around a bright green lawn.  The Georgian architecture at Trinity College uses gray rock, and symmetrical lines.  Panel front doors were centered and often topped with rectangular windows and surrounded by elaborate decoration.  Larger windows were used on the lower floors, with the smaller ones at top.  They are arranged with about 5 across the floor of the building.  Smaller windows have 6 panes while the larger have either 9 or 12.

Most of these buildings were built by Sir William Chambers, who was the architect for George III.  Two of the most prominent buildings are the library, which holds the Book of Kells, and the chapel, which is the only chapel in the Irish Republic that is shared by all Irish denominations.  They surround the Campanile, which is better known to us Temple students as the bell tower.    Upon doing some research, I found that the court was arranged by Thomas Nevile in the early 17^th century, and has retained its same look today.

While walking through the area, I felt calm.  While it is constantly filled with people, if one would walk through, it would not feel hectic.  Finding an open space like this in a city like Dublin would have been previously unheard of in my mind.  Coming from a city like Philadelphia, this area is a nice change of pace.  Our city has no open spaces on a college campus; instead all of the buildings are crowded together.  This could also be because of the difference in student population.  Temple is home to about 38,000 students, while Trinity students total to just under 18,000 students.

As I left Trinity College, I found myself wishing that Temple University would be more architecturally similar to Trinity College. I definitely prefer the Georgian architecture and the open calm to the mish-mash style of buildings and hectic nature of Temple.   However, in my mind, Temple would not work if it were just in one style of architecture.  The variety of architectural styles represent the variety of students you can find there. While they do share some similar characteristics, both Temple & Trinity work architecturally for the area they are located in.  I guess this experience can only lead me to appreciate the buildings at Temple more, once we get back to Philadelphia.

During our studies in Dublin, Caitlin Reis and Brian Hamilton are the students who will be covering the Architecture beat.