Tuna and anchovy sandwich
Sunday. Over 4 hours door-to-door, flydrive. Good enough apartment though lacked a cleaner. Then a bar to watch the game.
France 2 - Ireland 1
The whole of Ireland is in tears.
Ha'penny bridge to meet Cisco, a pilot, then Croke Park, on The Hill. Dublin and Meath, GAA.
This was rough - lots of loud drunks, swearing and lurching about. 6.00 pm ko and they'd been at it all day with the soccer. Lots of wives and young women, however, who didn't seem to mind. Two security checks on the way in and a large police presence in the ground. At least the swearing was in Irish, a rare language in Dublin these days.
Into town and met Cashin and his brother, pilot and personal trainer respectively. They were well away and virtually incomprehensible. Tapas for evening meal.
Monday. Great lunch apart from the T-shirt. Chris made me change it. Sheila and I had lunch here in 2005, off the boat - our first taste of Ireland and, incidentally the year of Flintoff's Ashes. We now try and come to Ireland most years.
Tuna and anchovy sandwich
Then the Jameson's tour. Somebody must teach me how to take photographs.
Apparently this is one of the original millstones (grist to the mill). All the distilling is now in Midleton, Cork.
Plenty of sampling. I got a shirt with a barrelman on it.
The Bridewell
The erection at the intersection
We got a few taxis, all driven by who I took to be yardies. But they are all from Nigeria.
Home at 8.00 pm. England were disgraceful. Ireland would have murdered them.
Cameron's gone, Corbyn should go, Hodgson's gone. Just who is left running the country? Same people who were running it before they all went. How about Boris for goalie, and Farage for lone striker?
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