It was only by chance that I found out about the last No 8 bus to Dalkey. It is not that Dublin Bus was keeping it a secret. One Saturday, it had a friendly man in a blazer at the bus stop on Eden Quay, handing out leaflets and talking about the "improvements in service". Basically, the last No 8 bus was to leave for Dalkey at 11.30 p.m. on Saturday, July 14th.
I have a vague childhood memory of my father bringing me on the last tram through D·n Laoghaire. He did so because he was a great man for wanting to witness moments of history, and it was a good excuse for a drink. So I felt I had to travel on the last No 8 bus three weeks ago - for much the same reasons.
The No 8 line to Dalkey has a history. It was one of the original lines of the Dublin United Tramways Company. The trams began in 1896 with a dozen or so destinations, radiating out from Nelson's Pillar. By Bloomsday, 10 years later, they were an important part of the city's infrastructure, and the trams clatter and clang their way right through Joyce's Ulysses. At Nelson's Pillar at noon on that day, the voice of the Dublin United Tramways timekeeper bawls out the destinations, including "Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey". There was a Dublin expression used in our family when you were moving something heavy and wanted everyone to lift together. You said: "Now, Dalkey." It was apparently based on an ould snot of an inspector in O'Connell Street who would stand eyeing his watch, and when the appointed time for departure came, would slap the side of the tram with his fist and roar: "Now, Dalkey."
The tramyard in Dalkey is an imposing structure that has only recently been swallowed up by the changing times. In poorer days, a job in the tramyard brought undreamed-of security. I had an in-law who grew up in the gate lodge of the tramyard. His father, as far as I could gather, spent a lifetime counting the trams in and out. There's responsibility for you!
If the No 8 line had had a guest book over the years, it would make impressive reading. I was told that Lennox Robinson, on his way into the Abbey Theatre one summer's morning, went mad chasing around the interior of the tram. On being questioned by the conductor, he explained that he was trying to catch a trapped butterfly in order to release it. "Because", he exclaimed, "how would you like to spend a greater part of your brief life on the number eight tram"? Since that is precisely what the conductor was doing for a living, there is no record of his reply.
More than other routes, the No 8 to Dalkey always seemed to be a definite journey, a real moving from A to B. I have not travelled on it much in recent years. We have the DART, and even the sardine-can conditions on the rush-hour DART are preferable to the traffic on the Merrion Road. Maybe that is a reason why the No 8 is no more. Even the last bus had few enough passengers.
On Eden Quay on the big day, there were a few people taking photos of the bus. When we left, at exactly 11.30, there were just 11 people sitting upstairs. Most of them were photographers, but there were also two Spaniards and two African women. I was going to start telling them about it being the last No 8, but decided they were probably getting enough hassle in today's Dublin without that. I sat in the front seat staring out the window and, although the journey was uneventful, I seemed to travel through a lifetime. The new bus seemed to be an image of the new city, gleaming, bright, powerful, and impersonal.
Because of roadworks in D·n Laoghaire, the bus took a detour down by the harbour. I thought it was like the way a hearse takes a detour to pass a favourite place of the deceased. I decided I was getting morbid. We passed the "other" last No 8 heading into Dublin, and soon the bus hissed to a halt at its terminus in Dalkey.
I delayed long enough to be the last off the bus and shook hands with the driver. The few photographers set up their cameras, and we watched as the driver switched off the inside lights, and then turned the destination sign until it read "Out of Service". A handful of people came out of McDonagh's to watch the darkened bus circle the roundabout, and slip off into the warm summer night. There was no fuss.
In those vague childhood memories of the last tram, I seem to remember lots of people along the route, waving farewell to it. It was as if they were saying goodbye to a part of their lives.
But, people had less to do in those days.