However, one Sunday a couple of weeks ago, I managed to drag myself out of the house on a typical bleak mid-winters day to go on the first outing of Peter‘s band of merry men, aka The Garden Group. And I was really glad I did as well.

The Garden Group’s inaugural trip was to the National War Memorial Gardens in Islandbridge. A genuine hidden treasure, it’s a really lovely place, which I had no idea even existed (which is the way with hidden treasures); overshadowed as it is by Phoenix Park, which is directly opposite, across the Liffey.

We were given a really inciteful tour around the entire park & gardens by the lovely, and might I add ca-yute, Craig. This is what made the whole trip really interesting, to my mind anyway (the incites people, not Craig!). I’m a bit of a history geek and I’ll happily admit to having somewhat of a nerd-on throughout the visit.

For such a tucked-away, almost secret, and comparably small park, there was so much to take in, I was really bowled over. The design of the park is symmetrical throughout, right down to how the roses are planted in the sunken gardens and the various paths, or more accurately, the avenues.

The highlight for me was learning all about the symbolism that was weaved into the design of the park, from the water fountains which look almost like candles and sit either side of a large stone “alter”. One of the things that I really loved was the trees planted along the main avenue which represented the foot soldiers of the 16th Irish Division – 8 lime trees planted either side, making 16 in total; which are overlooked by 8 holly trees, representing the Generals, standing a tier above.

I could go on and on about it all day (and indeed did at one point… this post was going to be about 17 times the length it is) as there was a story to every area of the park, which fascinated me.

One thing that was disappointing though was that it was February and therefore there wasn’t much colour in the park – not the park’s fault, but the climate really. What it does mean though is that I will definitely be going back to check out the huge range of cherry trees when they bloom in a few weeks and then again in June/July to check out the sunken rose gardens in all their glory.

I loved finding this little pocket of greenery so close to the city centre and it is officially going to be my picnic spot of choice from now on. I’m also seriously looking forward to what the next Garden Group outing might be. Rumour has it the next one’s going to be a corker!

Have a nosey for yourself if you get chance. In the meantime here are some pics that Peter took, which frankly do it infinitely more justice than I was able to do with my crappy iPhone camera. And there are also some extra special ones over on Jenny’s blog too.

oh yeah, here’s one of Craig, for the ladies

Oh yeah… here’s a picture of Peter (that John took) as well. He’s also cute!

Roide!

Wetter than my pocket? No way man, it's beyond comprehension!

So the country’s pretty much under water today and poor Cork’s closed after serious flooding. I hope everyone’s OK and safe and that nobody develops trench foot. Or gills. Or webbed feet. Though the ability to breathe underwater is always good to have

These guys might have the right idea though. Put a roof on the gaff.

I’ve got my own thoughts about God(s), Religion and the like. Mainly that I’m about as Godless as they come. But I respect people’s right to their Faith, whichever denomination they chose to affiliate themselves with. Me, I’m in “The Church of Making the Most of Now as it Could All Be Over Tomorrow”.

But I remembered this poem last night, one that I always really liked. Partially because like me Philip Larkin, was a cynic which lead to becoming an atheist. And party because even though I’m a non-believer I, like Mr Larkin can appreciate the allure of the symbolism found in a church and Man’s need to seek answers to the “serious” questions.

Whether you’re a believer or not, it’s a poem that can get a person thinking anyway.

Once I am sure there’s nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don’t.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
“Here endeth” much more loudly than I’d meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation — marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these — for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I’ve no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.