The Dunwiddie Post

There are evenings that feel borrowed from another life.

I left home expecting little more than dinner and conversation, and somehow found myself standing beneath the lamps of the Irish Parliament while chants and drums rolled through the Dublin air outside the gates.

Flags moved in the wind beyond the barriers. Protestors clustered beneath speakers and banners, their voices carrying across the street in waves of anger, rhythm and conviction. Nearby stood two quiet watchers who I instinctively suspected were plain-clothes police, their eyes drifting casually across arrivals and faces while I waited to be invited inside.

Soon afterwards I passed through the security gates, exchanged my name for a temporary badge and crossed quietly into the inner world beyond the barriers.

There is always something slightly surreal about entering places normally reserved for the machinery of the state. As children we see such buildings through television screens and distant ceremony. They exist symbolically long before they ever exist physically.

Yet once inside, symbolism faded quickly.

The first thing that struck me was not power, but humanity.

The old guards at the doors carried themselves with the calm confidence of men who had watched governments rise and fall for decades. Staff members spoke warmly about the building as though it were a living thing they had spent years protecting.

One security man casually quoted Oscar Wilde to me.

“A cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

He had no idea it was already one of my favourite quotations.

That somehow made the moment even better.

Outside, only a short distance away, stands Wilde’s former home. Dublin has a habit of folding history quietly into ordinary conversation when you least expect it.

The deeper into the evening I drifted, the more the atmosphere softened. Formality dissolved into conversation. Politicians spoke openly over drinks, sharing stories not of ideology, but of pressure, campaigns, close calls and moments they had stood their ground when events turned hostile around them.

At one point, a senior political figure moved swiftly through the restaurant with the practiced instinct of someone accustomed to constant movement and constant demands.

And yet even that moment felt strangely human rather than grand.

That was perhaps the strangest thing of all.

Inside the Parliament itself, the surreal quickly became normal.

You shake hands with ministers.
You wander corridors lined with history.
You eat in the restaurant and share drinks in the bar with politicians.
And after a while it simply feels like another gathering of human beings trying to navigate the age they were born into.

There was, at one point, a sense that the night had reached its natural conclusion. I had already wandered the corridors of Parliament, eaten in the restaurant, shared drinks in the bar and stepped back out into the Dublin night.

That alone would have been enough to remember.

Yet life occasionally opens a second door after the first has already closed.

An invitation came almost casually — a suggestion that the night continue elsewhere, this time in a Dublin pub accompanied by three politicians.

And so naturally, I went.

Away from Parliament itself, titles loosened further. The conversations became warmer, funnier and more reflective. Stories emerged not from prepared political language, but from lived experience — campaigns fought, moments of pressure endured, strange encounters, narrow victories and private doubts.

The deeper the evening drifted, the more Ireland itself seemed to reveal its character not through institutions, but through people.

Only later, stepping back out once more into the cool Dublin night, did the unreality begin to settle in properly.

The chants were gone. Dublin carried on around me exactly as before, indifferent to who had passed through which rooms only an hour earlier.

And I found myself thinking how strange life becomes once you begin moving again.

A few years ago my world had narrowed into obligation and repetition. Yet here I was — wandering through parliamentary corridors, listening to old guards dispense quiet truths while politicians traded stories over whiskey and wine deep into the night.

Life does not return all at once.

It arrives in fragments.

Autumn in Odessos.
Christmas Eve in the heat of colonial Georgetown.
A church in Tangier.
A windswept beach at dusk with a metal detector humming softly from finds beneath the sand.
An unexpected invitation.
The sudden opening of a gate.

And one day you realise the current has begun flowing through your world again.

Tangier had lived in my imagination long before I ever reached it.

As a boy I used to stare at old British stamps overprinted with a single improbable word: Tangier. Small imperial artefacts from a vanished world. Something about them haunted me. Britain, but not Britain. Europe, but not Europe. A frontier city where the edges of empires touched Africa and then slowly dissolved into dust.

Years later I finally arrived there myself by train from Rabat.

Not into the old city, of course.

Modernity rarely enters through the old gates.

The new station now sits outside the ancient heart of Tangier, functional and detached, while the beautiful old Art Deco station nearer the port survives like a forgotten actor after the audience has gone home. Rail-less now. Disconnected from the line that once carried diplomats, merchants, officers and travellers directly into the old international city. One more elegant relic stranded by time.

Tangier is full of such things.

Ghost structures.

Fragments of abandoned futures.

I stayed inside the Medina, where the old Arab city still breathes beneath the noise of modern Morocco. White walls reflecting afternoon light. Narrow passages winding endlessly downhill towards the sea. The call to prayer floating over rooftops as gulls circled above the Strait.

There are cities which feel built for commerce.

Tangier feels built for memory.

One walks through it with the strange sensation that history never fully departed. It merely withdrew into the walls.

By day I wandered through the old Medina. By evening I walked the Rue d’Italie, absorbing the remnants of the European Tangier that once existed alongside the Arab one. Faded balconies. Colonial façades. Cafés that seemed to belong to another century. Spanish voices still drifting through the streets long after the flags themselves disappeared.

Tangier was once an international city where empires overlapped rather than ruled outright. British, Spanish, French, Arab, Jewish, European and African worlds collided there beside the sea.

And traces of all of them remain.

On Sunday morning I attended service at the old Protestant church built by the British in the early twentieth century.

That hour stayed with me.

Not because of doctrine, but because of continuity.

For a moment it felt possible to step backward through time and glimpse the old British Tangier community exactly as it may once have existed. Merchants in linen suits. Naval officers. Consular staff. Families carrying hymn books through North African sunlight while believing, as all civilisations eventually do, that their presence there might somehow endure.

Afterwards I walked slowly through the church graveyard.

War graves.

Empire builders.

Forgotten surnames carved into weathered stone.

People who once stood confidently at the edge of empire, believing history itself moved in their direction.

Now most lie unvisited beneath palm trees and Atlantic light.

Tangier teaches a hard lesson quietly.

Nothing remains at its height forever.

Not empires.
Not languages.
Not influence.

Not even memory itself.

What fascinated me most was realising how close Tangier came to becoming something else entirely. In many ways the city feels as though it should have become Spanish. Even today Spanish lingers everywhere beneath the surface — in speech, architecture, rhythm and temperament. It remains the city’s second language long after the age that created it has passed.

Yet even that influence now feels impermanent.

Perhaps nowhere more so than in the enormous modernist Spanish cathedral built during the late 1950s. A brutal concrete declaration of permanence. Spain, it seemed, still imagined itself rooted there indefinitely.

But today the building already carries the melancholy of a future that failed to arrive.

That is Tangier.

A city where every civilisation eventually becomes an echo.

Arab.
Spanish.
French.
British.

One layer settling quietly upon another beside the sea.

And perhaps that is why I loved it so much.

Because Tangier does not flatter modern illusions of permanence.

It reminds a man that all power is temporary.
All empires recede.
All railways eventually stop at another station.

Even the ones that once printed their names upon the stamps of the world.

I went to Limerick to face a younger man.

Twenty-eight and a half years ago, I had an MRI scan that resulted in me being told I might never walk again. Some sentences do not fade. They divide a life. There is the man before them, and the man after.

I wanted to stand again where that fracture began. Not for closure. I have no use for that word. I wanted to look back at the man who heard it, and at the road he took afterwards, with all that followed from it, for better and for worse.

Ireland can do that. It can alter the course of a life without warning, and only decades later do you see the full shape of the turn.

I visited a few places in Limerick, but took no photographs. It seemed wrong somehow. Not every place should be converted into an image. Some are better left as encounter.

And yet Limerick, appropriately enough, also gave me a limerick:

There once was a man from Hobro
Who knew it was time to go,
And start a new life
Without all that strife,
And so he went off to Wicklow.

A joke, obviously. But not only a joke.

From there I drove on, meaning to see Cahir Castle, and instead found myself halted by something else: one of the most beautiful churches I have seen in Ireland.

You could see it from far off. Protestant Gothic. Intact, solid, self-possessed. Built in 1818 and designed by Nash, it immediately pulled me toward the age I so often meet in the earth and on the beaches: the late Georgian and Regency world, the world of old copper, worn silver, and the coins that still surface beneath the grass and sand. Then there was the door, painted a challenging orange. In Ireland, orange is never merely orange. History still speaks through colour.

Then Dungarvan.

A beautiful seaside town, but one marked by subtraction. You can feel the railway’s absence in the place. The town remains handsome, but the old line still haunts it. The Greenway now runs through that lost corridor, with so much railway architecture still standing that the old movement has not entirely gone. It has only changed form.

Then Waterford.

The energy shifted again. Medieval, certainly, but not trapped in its own past. Some towns feel burdened by memory. Waterford did not. It felt old, but still open. Less weighed down by what it had been. More alive to what it may yet become.

That, perhaps, was the shape of the journey.

Limerick was reckoning.
Cahir was surprise.
Dungarvan was beauty marked by loss.
Waterford was old stone with forward motion still in it.

Tomorrow I will head home. But first there is Waterford city centre, and perhaps, if the weather opens, a new beach or two to detect. I have already identified them.

Then Passage East, literally. A rarity now: a car ferry between Irish places. After years in Denmark, I like the thought of that more than I should. Driving onto a boat, crossing a stretch of water, and letting it put me down elsewhere. Not exile. Not escape. Just passage.

And then home.

And perhaps that is enough for now: not answers, but movement.