In the Neighbourhood

Once we’d moved into our house and done a bit of unpacking and recovered from all the above the next item on the agenda was to explore our new surroundings.  My agenda, anyway, and that’s the one that counts.  The kids would have been happy to stay home and watch t.v. but this is not a democracy, people.  I kept making them put their woollies on and get out into the world and live.

We live in the suburb of Killiney (Kil-LINE-ee) near the port of Dun Laoghaire (Dun Leary) on the south side of Dublin.  Like this:

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You can see how much sea we can see, so to speak, from just about anywhere around here.  It’s nice having so much water around.  You don’t feel as though you’re in the middle of a big soulless city.  And people really use all this water.  People go boating and scuba diving and fishing and swimming and all sorts.  There’s a scuba school and a sailing school in the local town, Dun Laoghaire, so whenever I’m waiting for the bus I have fun watching all the wet people traipsing past in their life jackets carrying paddles on their way from the harbour to wherever it is that they go to dry off and defrost.  This happens year round.  I don’t feel the need to participate, although Daniel did some kayaking and wharf-jumping last term with his class.

The first place we explored was Killiney Hill.  From our house it’s a walk of 10 or 15 minutes to the start of the park, marked by a statue of Daedalus of not-listening-to-his-father fame.  A great teaching moment every single time we pass it.

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You walk up a gentle slope and come upon some not-too-shabby views of Killiney Beach and Bray Head to the south:

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Bray Head (on a nicer day than most of the other photos)

 

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Killiney Beach, with Enya’s castle in the foreground.

Oh, did you think I was joking about Enya’s castle?  No.  She lives in a legit castle and we walk past it when we’re going to the beach.  We pass under this arch and there it is:

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I really, really love that I have to walk under a castle archway to get to the beach. I have a medieval moment.

Bono lives next door (to Enya, not to us.  I like to think of him popping over the fence every now and then for a cuppa and a bit of a jam session) and apparently is seen occasionally in our local pub, The Druid’s Chair.  I haven’t bumped into him yet but I’ll keep you posted.

Anyhoo.  Back to Killiney Hill.  The first time we went there the view of the Wicklow hills to the south looked like this:

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which had Noah and Cassia clamouring to go skiing.  Another time, maybe.

So you tear yourself away from the views, which are said to include Wales on a clear day (I couldn’t understand why Cassia was so disappointed about not seeing it the first couple of times until she said ‘Well what about dolphins then?  Can we see dolphins instead?’) and come across some rocks – there’s a path, but why would you? – which take you to the obelisk.

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It was built in 1742 as a relief project to help people suffering from the 1741-42 famine, caused by weather so severe that small boats on the River Liffey were crushed by ice.  The land was owned at the time by a wealthy guy called John Mapas who commissioned the obelisk and walking paths to provide employment.  The park as a whole was made public and dedicated to Queen Victoria by Prince Albert to commemorate her 50th jubilee in 1887 and was re-named Victoria Hill.

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From the summit you can see all over Dublin and the bay, and can climb on a variety of follies and monuments.  Here is Dalkey Island, which has quite a lot of history for such a small place.

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Wales is there somewhere

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next you clamber over more stones because following the path is too easy

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Until you come to the quarry.  Killiney Hill used to be bigger but they used some of it to make Dun Laoghaire harbour.

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If you look very carefully you can see people rock climbing.  Daniel’s class came here and did this last term.  How cool is it that we can live in this big city and he can still do authentic outdoors rock climbing within walking distance of school?

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You go down through the quarry and some forest and come out at this lovely wooden playground:
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Once you’ve exhausted yourself watching the kids zoom around you wander along a path through more trees and past another castle

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The tea shop has a dog park

Once more past Daedalus (‘Don’t you think he wished he’d listened to his parents? I bet he really really wished he had’)

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And then you go home and think how great it is that you live right next to a place with all these running-around and climbing opportunities.

The next outing was to the local town of Dun Laoghaire.  We’d had to give the rental car back by then so we took the bus from outside our house.  It hadn’t occurred to me until we got on that none of the kids had been on a double-decker bus before and I tell you, the excitement was extreme.

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Even our bus route has a sea view.

Luckily it’s a fairly sparsely used route, especially on a weekday during term time, because they all went up the front on the top deck and quickly discovered that if you jump at the right moment as the bus goes over a speed bump you can defy gravity.  There are many speed bumps on our bus route.

There was only one other passenger on the top deck, an elderly lady sitting a few rows behind us, and eventually I felt the need to apologise to her for the noise.  It wasn’t a problem, she assured me; she’d recently been on a double-decker train for the first time and had the same reaction.  Not quite the same, I’d be willing to bet – I didn’t peg her as the jumping up and down screeching with excitement type –  but she was very kind about it anyway.  Cheap thrills, I thought, mentally bookmarking bus-riding as a handy wet-weekend activity.

Dun Laoghaire is a town of two parts, I’ve decided.  The main street and shopping area are old and tired with quite a few empty shops and things falling apart.  The sea front, though, is beautiful.  That’s where the council’s been investing their development money I’d say.

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The enormous Royal Marine Hotel, overlooking the harbour since 1863.

There’s the harbour with two piers you can walk along – one even has an ice cream kiosk at the sea end – and all the little sailing boats and big ships to watch.  There are plenty of walkways and cycleways along the waterfront that connect the harbour with the local beaches, and plenty of green areas around them.  There are cafés and restaurants and the lovely new library complex with its glass sea-frontage.  There’s a theatre, sculptures, several huge old churches,  the Maritime Museum and lots of benches and tables with umbrellas and places to sit and enjoy the view.  There are flowers all over the place and two playgrounds, one on the waterfront:

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and one in the People’s Park:

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Seeing it was such a nice day the kids explored along the water’s edge

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while I amused myself by saying ‘Be careful!  Don’t fall in!’ over and over, which is what we mothers like to do on these occasions.

Our next stop was Bray Beach.  Killiney Beach is closer, just a short walk past Enya’s and Bono’s places and down Vico Road, but it was winter when we arrived and Killiney Beach only has the beach whereas Bray has the aquarium and playground and various other things to do in the cold and places to warm up afterwards.

We liked the aquarium.  It wasn’t new or flash or full of interactive technology but it had lots of sea creatures looked after by people with an obvious passion for conservation.  We watched the octopus being fed and the kids loved the stories the keeper told of the mischief of various types that these incredibly intelligent creatures have been known to get up to.  They are sneaky.

We liked the beach too.  Like most around here it’s long and wide and very beachy.

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As always, we had to carry fifteen tonnes of interesting stones and shells home.  I was as fascinated as anyone by the fact that Irish stones are completely different colours than New Zealand ones but that didn’t extend to feeling the need to transfer half the beach to our back garden.  Somehow it always happens, though, doesn’t it?

Then we were cold so we headed for the nearest eating establishment which turned out to be an Italian café/restaurant/pub thing with vintage posters on the walls, vintage wine on little shelves and just the right amount of cosy gloominess.  We had very good pizza and calzone and finished it off with these gorgeous little biscuits in all different shapes which were so cheap that I found myself saying ‘Have another one!  Pick three or four, we can take them home for later!’ which are words hitherto completely foreign to my lips, at least in the context of paying for four children in a café.  Needless to say, we have fond memories of the day we visited Bray and ate all the biscuits.

By the time Josh finished his two weeks’ work in Seattle and arrived at his new home the rest of us were like fourth-generation locals except probably with way more photos.  We knew the bus routes, the train stations, and the playgrounds.  We knew where to go for views, paddling, rock- and tree-climbing, and restorative hot soup.  We had officially moved in.

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The Myth of the Loving Killer

Just two months ago the HerNameWasClodagh hashtag was trending on social media after Clodagh Hawe was brutally killed, along with her three sons, by her husband.  Nobody who knew the family saw this coming; their community was shocked and stunned.  Her murderer was portrayed as a respected man who was as a teacher, a sports coach, a loving husband and father, an all-round good guy.  What terrible suffering must he have been going through, people asked, that he would feel he had no option but to end it like this?  Are there enough services out there for men who need a bit of help?  For a week the front page of all the papers told us about his life and his tragic death.

Then came the funeral coverage.  The loving family: father, mother and three boys, farewelled and buried together.

Then came the backlash.  It was pointed out that almost all the media coverage was focused on the killer with Clodagh barely mentioned and then usually only as ‘his wife’.  He was eulogised; she was ignored.  They were buried together, with the consent of both families, because – well – surely they loved each other really, and that’s what you do.  You keep families together.

Now, in the last week, it’s happened again.  A 75-year-old man in County Mayo beat his 72-year-old wife to death and tried to do the same to his 37-year-old son before killing himself.  The son survived.

The community is even more shocked and stunned this time because this couple had been pillars of the community for decades.  They – jointly -have been described as ‘saint-like’.  The killer was a former town councillor, was involved in local sports, worked as a painter with his son, was involved in the dramatic society and was a devout church-goer.  His wife sang in the choir.

She died of blunt-instrument head wounds.  Yesterday they were farewelled at a joint funeral and buried together.

We are so quick to forgive, aren’t we?  Sure, he beat her to death, but he was such a great person and they’d been happily married for decades so we’ll overlook that one mistake and focus on all the positives.  Of course she’d want to be buried with him.  He’s her husband!

This disturbs me on several levels.  Here’s one: do we really believe that someone who could beat his wife to death – deliberately end her life in a terrifying and painful way – had treated her only with love and gentleness up until then?  Because I call bullshit on that.  If he beat her to death that time, he’d beaten her before.  Maybe for decades.  Is it possible for a kind, gentle person who’s never hurt a living thing to suddenly snap and keep on beating as his wife cowers, screams, pleads, bleeds, dies?  Yes, I’m sure it’s possible.  Is it probable?  Is it likely?  Of course it’s not.  Would I put money on the fact that he’d hit her before?  Without a moment’s hesitation.

Here’s another: do we forgive all murderers, focusing on what a great soccer coach they were and how they did a fine job running the church jumble sale, skimming over that unfortunate part at the end where they viciously assaulted two people until one was dead and one almost, and assume that their victims would want to spend eternity buried with them?  No.  Just the ones who kill people who loved and trusted them.

I’m sure that both of these killers did good things in their lives.  I’m sure they had good intentions towards their families over the years, at least some of the time.  I’m sure they suffered unenviable mental turmoil in some way leading up to the end.

But let’s be clear and let’s be honest.  If you love someone you do not beat them to death.  If you are a good parent you do not put your child in intensive care.  If you have done these things you are not ‘saint-like’ and ‘tragic’.  You are a vicious killer.

I think we can assume fairly safely that both of these women were abused before they were killed and that they kept it secret for the reasons that domestic abuse victims usually do: shame, fear, love, hope that it will get better, reluctance to break up their family or upset anyone, fear of not being believed or taken seriously.  And by farewelling and burying them together with their killers we are absolutely complicit in perpetuating the conditions which caused them to keep the secrets which ultimately killed them.

We are saying that the violence can be overlooked because it’s outweighed by all the good stuff.  That the family should stay together because that’s what families do.  That appearances are more important than truth and that not upsetting anyone is more important than someone’s life.

I’m sure that the families of the killers in these two cases are as devastated and grief-stricken as the families of the victims.  In the case of the older couple most of the remaining relatives will be related to both killer and victim.  And yes, facing the fact that your son/brother/uncle/father was a brutal killer is a horrific thing.  But not facing it helps nobody.

I think these communities have reacted this way because we all want to believe the best of people.  If we see a friendly man who’s active in the community and is always there to lend a helping hand to those in need and who’s in church every Sunday we want to believe that what you see is what you get.  We want to believe that we can recognise a good person.  We want to believe that we can identify a bad person, too.  Surely they look dodgy, or kick kittens, or are mean to people, or…well…something.

So the idea that someone with the potential to beat a 72-year-old woman or a six-year-old child to death can live among us for years without ever giving a sign that they’re not the all-round good bloke they appear to be is deeply disturbing.  And so it should be.

The truth is, we can’t know who has this potential.  But somebody can.  The spouse and children who spend every day with them, they are the ones who could recognise danger signals ahead of time if any are there to be seen.  Quite possibly Clodagh Hawe and Kitty Fitzgerald did.  But they never told anyone.

And until we stop farewelling brutal murderers as decent, good, loving fathers and husbands countless vulnerable men, women and children who find themselves in dangerous situations never will.

 

 

 

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