Waiting for the daisies to grow, or the Muses to chime in or perhaps Kingdom Come, I have been unable to proceed on my tale of our Fall Trip to Europe. The reason? I have come to realize there was something curiously unsettling for me about our trip to Dublin.

I suppose I wasn't ready to leave Belfast, let alone Northern Ireland. The Giant's Causeway, Falls Road and Shankill, Lough Neah, Derry, Rathlin Island, all unseen, all unlived, all tugged at me as we rode out of town heading South.

Perhaps it is because Dublin is a much larger city than Belfast and feels so.

Maybe it was because I was actually in the Republic of Ireland, the first "new country" for me in years. If you are one of the three people in the universe that don't know about my many visits to the UK, then you wouldn't know how many times I sat in a London Underground train and saw the sign "Dublin, £69 Return" and yet I never went. And here I was, in Dublin, a rich city frosted with traveler's praise whenever serious traveler's gather.

Then again, there was a lot of tension in Dublin.

The Anglo-Irish Bank was having massive problems. The papers were full of the details. A taxi driver gave us an earful.

The "Celtic Miracle" which had transformed Ireland with huge infusions of investment capital, resulting in the simple fact that the Irish, the young, university-educated group could stay home and work in their own country had dimmed a bit. A lot really.

Could it be that somehow I tapped into the tension that seems to be Irish in nature, incorporated into the works of James Joyce, Oscar Wilde or even the works of Leon Uris. A tension that the world saw in the ruthless struggle between the IRA, the UDA, the British; IRA sympathy ending (for me) at Warrington near Manchester where IRA bombers killed some kids.

I can’t ignore the differences between the way normal people travel, to see things, to experience the destination; and the way I have traveled for years, alone, walking fast, less interested in places than I am a busy street, a crowded lunch place, the smells, the roar of traffic, the license plates, a fire engine racing to a fire, all the things that make a life for the people at the destination. And me, endlessly skulking though back streets, down alleys, sometimes stopping to enquire about this or that, always watching. . . These differences began to emerge early in the trip, in Dublin, and I could not help myself.

So, enough mumbling and to the task at hand. Let me present a few of the things we saw in this whirlwind visit to the capital of the Irish Republic.

Best to begin with the first and that was our hotel. The Le Circ Hotel, 34 Dame Street, strategically positioned between Christ Church Cathedral and Trinity College, home of the Book of Kells, an illuminated manuscript from the Middle Ages. Hard to find, the taxi driver had to circle around. And then, once found, proved to be less than imposing. A red door, Reception on the 2nd floor, rooms on the fifth. The Le Circ was remarkably narrow, wedged between larger buildings. Cheap (my motto), the rooms were remarkably nice. I had bought the Irish breakfast for the following morning so we felt safe and secure.

We had lunch at Salamanca on Dame Street, feasting on tapas. Then onto Christ Church Cathedral, a magnificent old pile that the rest of the family assured me was wonderful. I didn’t go, preferring to watch the people, read the signs, watch a fire engine come screaming up the wrong side of the road, see the blue and red doors and look at paving stones. Go figure.

Walking on the other side of the River Liffey brought us through crowds to the imposing O'Connell Street, full of nice shops and department stores.

Continuing on we made a visit to the GPO, the General Post Office, where in 1916 Irish Republican patriots held off the British for days, then were hung for their trouble. This incident, deplored at first, gradually inflamed the Irish people leading to the creation of the Irish Republic. The GPO on O’Connell Street is carefully preserved, complete with bullet holes from British guns.

After a while, I wandered off on one of my endless walks, following the River Liffey. The Liffey flows through Dublin in a straight jacket, almost dared to overflow. But on the other side of town, the Liffey gradually broadens, merging with the sea at the Port of Dublin. I walked past the Jeanie Johnston, a carefully preserved “famine ship”, one of a fleet that seeded the world with starving Irishmen.

The Customs House, a large British-built pile graced the far side of the river. I crossed the Liffey on a beautiful modern bridge, talked to a bus driver about things, not hard to get a conversation going with an Irishmen, especially when it is so evident that I am from out of town every time I open my mouth.

I walked alone that night, up Grafton Street where a small group had gathered to see a couple of guitar players do their thing. They were representative of a class - music is everywhere in Ireland.  "Harry and Alfie" were entertaining and I continued to Temple Bar where the young hip crowd went to fascinate each other.

The next day brought some serious sightseeing. The Book of Kells at Trinity College proved to be everything promised. An imposing exhibit, it described life at the time and difficulties of production of the book and its preservation. Then up Dame Street to Dublin Castle.

Dublin Castle doesn’t fit the picture of a castle. A walled compound really, designed to separate the British from the “colonials” and from which Britain ruled Ireland for several centuries. Now little more than government offices, it does have a lovely chapel.

And so it went, wandering here and there until the time came to collect our luggage left at the hotel and to catch a cab for the ferry to Wales.

Of course our brief visit is at fault here, but as the cab negotiated the traffic and the intricate byways of the Port of Dublin, I began to feel, and continue to feel as I write this, a bit cheated. Cheated by Dublin? No – cheated by my tight scheduling.