Why is it that we tend to pack the best version of ourselves when we go on holiday? When we’re on holiday we’re more curious; more likely to try new things. As Alain de Botton suggests in The Art of Travel, “the pleasure we derive from journeys is perhaps dependent more on the mindset with which we travel than on the destination we travel to.”
Five years ago I left our fair capital for the mysterious and distant Wicklow Town, returning only a handful of times. How much has the city changed in the last half-decade? With de Botton’s words in mind I decided to be my best holiday-self and spend two days exploring Dublin as if I was a tourist visiting for the first time.
Day one
Aloft Dublin is arguably the best-located hotel in the city. Sitting on the corner of Mill Street, just behind the Fumbally cafe, it’s a short walk to the city centre, yet far enough to offer respite from the action. The rooms are clean and comfortable, with one standout feature: floor-to-ceiling windows offering magnificent views of the city.
Pearse Lyons Distillery, housed in the restored St James’s Church in the Liberties, offers an hour-long tour and tasting, which is the perfect way to kick off a weekend in Dublin. The tour begins outside the church, where it is revealed that this small graveyard holds the remains of 100,000 people. It seems impossible, but the dead stack up quicker than you might think. It’s a sobering thought, standing on all these bones. As the tour guide speaks, my mind wanders. I don’t want to be buried with thousands of other bodies. I want to be cremated and left on the mantelpiece in our livingroom. Before these thoughts get out of hand the tour moves into the distillery proper.
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The process of distillation is explained with great enthusiasm and many jars of powerful liquids are passed around to sniff and swirl. By the end of the sampling my mouth is numb and I can no longer tell the difference between any of the different types of whiskeys. I am certain of one thing, however: they are all delicious.
With a warm belly and a very agreeable buzz, I head back out to the bright winter sun. I take a different route back to the hotel, this time down Meath Street. After a number of afternoon whiskeys the urge to lie down is considerable, but that is a dangerous game. I could easily fall into a deep sleep and wake up seven hours later in a different dimension. Instead, it’s time to head out for an early dinner.
Hawksmoor, a steak restaurant on College Green, is a real treat. Housed in the former National Bank, the main diningroom is an opulent, spacious setting; the kind of place you could imagine Patrick Bateman enjoying a meal at before a very normal night out with his chainsaw.
Despite being seated at half five, the place was already packed. The atmosphere was great, the staff friendly and attentive. However, these restaurants live and die by the quality of their steaks. Luckily this is the kind of place where it’s impossible not to whisper “Jesus Christ” after every bite.
After the meal we walk back to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for a special after-dark concert. I have to confess I have never been inside the cathedral. I lived for many years a stone’s throw from its hallowed walls, yet never crossed the threshold. I wonder why that is. Maybe we’re afflicted with a certain cultural blindness when it comes to things we see every day. When I’m in a foreign city I can’t help but visit cathedrals, and yet I walk past the one on my doorstep hundreds of times without ever really seeing it. I’ve taken pictures of it. I’ve sat in its garden and drank coffee on a sunny day. But the curiosity that I take with me on holiday has, when it comes to this particular cathedral, repeatedly deserted me. But that was the old me. The new me sits in wonder, mouth agape, at the colossal medieval splendour.
Day two
Early the next morning I visit the National Gallery to see its latest exhibition, Picasso: From the Studio. As the name suggests there is a clear focus on Picasso’s life through the studios he lived and worked in. So what we’re seeing here are pieces he didn’t want to sell. Having this sort of thematic clarity makes exploring these works so much more enjoyable for a Picasso-novice like me.
I take my time walking through the rooms and feel surprised by how moved I become looking at some of the paintings. I lean in close, privileged to see these brushstrokes in such detail. There are a lot of young families here, and I wonder if any of the children are right now forming core memories. Maybe when they’re older they will have a hazy memory of one of these strange paintings and wonder if it was a dream. The exhibition runs until February 2026, and I highly recommend it.
Afterwards I wander the streets and let what I have just seen percolate my brain. Soon, though, I become distracted by the blisters forming on my feet. Dublin is a walkable city, and so I walk. There will be no buses, trains or taxis this weekend. I make my way back to the hotel, kick off my shoes and lie on the bed. These quiet moments are perhaps my favourite part of staying in a hotel. Such stillness in the middle of the day feels almost too luxurious. Should I be feeling guilty about this? I read for a bit, flick through the channels on the TV (they’ve got quite a selection), before it’s time to head back out.
I have a walking tour booked in Stephen’s Green and despite having the whole afternoon to get there on time, I’m five minutes late. I make my way to the meeting place by the Robert Emmet statue, but there’s nobody there. I look at the statue and try to muster a memory. What do I know about this man? He led a failed rebellion and was captured in Harold’s Cross. That’s it. I really need this walking tour. I double-check the ticket on my phone and realise I’m at the wrong place. The tour starts from the Wolfe Tone statue.
I start running to the Wolfe Tone statue before realising I don’t know where it is. Now I really do feel like a tourist – lost, confused and really sweaty. It’s not a big park, I’ll find it sooner or later. But I don’t, for a very obvious reason: the statue is outside the park. By the time I finally figure that out, the tour has well and truly moved on. To where, I have no idea, but I hope they had fun.
Before another pit stop in the hotel, it’s time for Saturday night in the big smoke – and it happens to be a big one. Walking down Dame Street during the Dublin by Night Fest fills you with optimism for the city’s future. Thousands of people (over 80,000 in total) fill the temporarily pedestrianised streets listening to live music, eating food and browsing stalls. Who needs to go abroad to have a holiday? Here are throngs of people delighted to bring their best selves out for a night.
Before dinner we head to The Long Hall for a pint. For people born in the last century these old pubs are appreciated as museums you can drink in. Sipping a Guinness in the warm Victorian glow of a packed bar filled with chatter and laughter, it’s not hard to imagine why people fly half the world away to experience it.
Another reason Dublin is better in winter: the food. That is to say, Irish food is better in winter than in summer. There’s nothing wrong with a Greek salad on a fine day, but root vegetables and slow-cooked food is in our DNA. It speaks to our souls. This is something we have in common with the French, so there’s no better place to go on a crisp winter night than Pichet on Trinity Street. From the cured salmon on home-made crumpets to the wild Wicklow venison, every bite is a little taste of seasonal perfection.
Dublin makes it easy to be a tourist. There is so much more to see and do than you might think, especially in winter. If you’re looking for something special to do in the capital next month, check out the New Year’s Festival – three days of fireworks, concerts, light shows and family events.
For more information on where to visit, eat and stay this winter visit www.visitdublin.com. Darragh Geraghty was a guest of Fáilte Ireland
