For my brother, Kilian - a walk to Killiney Hill
I was in Ireland last week for the very sad purpose of burying my brother who had died suddenly as the result of a cerebral haemorrhage. He was only 54.
On our last day my sister and I walked up the beautiful Killiney Hill which stands some 140 metres above the Bay of Dublin.
This was where our father loved to bring us for Sunday walks when we wild and unruly children. We loved the place and it has remained a regular point of pilgrimage on our rare return visits to the city even though we are well into our middle years.
Kilian was very much with us on that walk and I suspect that he will always be a silent companion on our travels through the rest of our years.
The obelisk on Dalkey Hill established by John Mapas in 1741 as part of a famine relief work programme. You see, in those days you couldn’t just give food to starving and malnourished people. Instead you made them work for it by building follies like this.
This is the spectacular view from Dalkey Hill on the outskirts of Dublin looking southwards to the magical count of Wicklow.
It’s a view that’s frequently compared to Sorrento in Italy and many of the street names in the Dalkey area have Italian allusions to them.
I’m not the type inclined to invade any mega-celebrity’s privacy, but as I was able to get this shot of his garden from the road, I hope Bono (for it is he) won’t mind.
He has a not-overly ostentatious home in the suburb of Dalkey in Dublin, Rep. of Ireland, which is a sort of Irish Beverly Hills. Anyone who is anyone, both Irish and International, seems to have a place in Dalkey.
It was also the birthplace of one George Bernard Shaw.
Night lights at London City Airport
Christopher Wren’s Baroque masterpiece which was some thirty-five years in the making and was considered the crowning glory of one history’s finest architects.
Commenced in 1668 it would not be completed until well into the following century and it is said that Wren maintained a house in London to so he could be on hand to monitor each stage of the construction.
On one such visit, at the incredible age then of 91, he caught a chill and subsequently passed on.
He is buried in the crypt of the cathedral and the inscription on his tomb, as written by his son, reads: ”Here in its foundations lies the architect of this church and city, Christopher Wren, who lived beyond ninety years, not for his own profit but for the public good. Reader, if you seek his monument – look around you. Died 25 Feb. 1723, age 91.”
A River Runs Through It