The part of Dublin I live in – Kilmainham – is not just extraordinarily rich in history. It also has more dramatic juxtapositions per square metre than any other part of Ireland I know.
Take, for example, the unintentionally witty arrangement whereby Kilmainham Gaol, long a place of accommodation, albeit for unwilling guests, is now located just across the (Inchicore) road from a Hilton Hotel.
These days, like the hotel, the Gaol is mainly involved in tourism, as visitors flock to follow in the footsteps of Robert Emmet, the Invincibles, and the men of 1916. The same buses often stop at both buildings. But last Saturday, I noted an unusual coach, decked out with red rosettes, outside the hotel. And upon learning that the Hilton’s inmates included the Welsh rugby team, I had a powerful premonition – one I should have backed with Paddy Power – that these were latter-day Invincibles, enjoying their last breakfast, as condemned men.
The Gaol is located just west of the South Circular Road. So it is also more-or-less opposite the rear entrance of the Royal Hospital Kilmainham, which abuts the SCR from the east.
Thus the two sides of modern Irish history – a prison synonymous with republican rebels and a retirement home for wounded British war veterans – are connected by a pedestrian crossing, jointly policed by green and red men.
The RHK is these days a place of great dramatic tension. With the war veterans long gone, except perhaps in spirit, the hospital now houses the Irish Museum of Modern Art. And a more complete change of use could hardly be imagined. If there any one-legged ghosts in red uniforms still limping around the place, you have to wonder what they’d make of such current residents as the semi-abstract bronze snowman. I suspect the latter has been assaulted with a bayonet once or twice, although his armour is a strong one. Even the name of the place is now a conflict zone. It’s still the RHK, but it’s also IMMA, and sometimes it’s “IMMA at the RHK”. I’ve long grown used to the sight of confused tourists at the main entrance, and usually answer their questions before they even ask.
Often, it’s neither the hospital nor the art galleries they’re looking for, it’s the Gaol. Even so, I always make a point of directing them to the latter via the former. I’ve sent more people to jail over the years than most judges, but at least I always insist they take the scenic route.
The clash of art and military history continues into the RHK’s formal gardens, which include the graves of a fictional artist and an actual horse. The horse, Vonolel, was a war hero, surviving the Second Anglo-Afghan campaign (1878-80), among others, to earn medals from Queen Victoria and a military pension in oats.
But it was probably only his high service connections that secured him a grave in the RHK’s walled, Italianate garden. His owner was Field Marshall Roberts, Kipling’s favourite soldier, who was master of the hospital when his beloved horse died, and had him buried in the middle of the garden (not where the stone now stands), so that he could see the grave from his rooms.
As for the fictional artist, Patrick Ireland (alter ego of the real-life, and still living, Brian O’Doherty), he had to settle for a slightly less-honoured place, on the terrace above the gardens.
Those graves apart, the RHK has three different cemeteries. And it’s a comment on Victorian values that the horse’s headstone, which includes a poem expressing his owner’s hope that they will meet again in Heaven, is rather larger than any of the stones marking the graves of regular soldiers.
Then again, Vonolel may have been considered officer material, and officers not only merited bigger headstones, they also had a separate cemetery. You couldn’t have them mixing with the ordinary ranks, even in death.
The two military graveyards are not immediately juxtaposed, as it happens. In between is the much greater expanse of the third cemetery, Bully’s Acre, for many centuries a public burial ground, especially for the anonymous poor.
Its more famous residents included Robert Emmet, buried here briefly before removal to a secret location. And according to tradition, a son and grandson of Brian Boru were both temporary and long-term guests. The Irish army is said to have camped at this location on the night before the Battle of Clontarf, and the two aforementioned returned to Bully’s Acre afterwards, posthumously, where they remain camped today.
fmcnally@irishtimes.com
@FrankmcnallyIT