Isabel Hayes is a journalist who returned to live in Ireland last year after seven years in Australia.
One of the things I love most about our new home is its proximity to the Dart line. Before we moved in to our new house, I had probably been on the Dart twice in my life. But now I’m discovering how handy it is and – contrary to Ireland’s reputation – how it’s mostly on time.
I hated going to town when we lived in our old home, as the bus route was so unreliable and circuitous. If it ever managed to turn up when the Dublin Bus app said it would (a 50/50 chance), it would then inevitably park in the middle of a housing estate for 10 minutes (reason: unknown). It would then wind its way around a hospital campus and another few housing estates, making what should have been a 20-minute trip to town last at least an hour.
So once the baby was born, I mostly avoided An Lar. When absolutely necessary, I drove in and paid through the nose for parking.
Dublin parking has yet to reach the crazy prices of Sydney CBD, but a four-hour stay would still set you back about €20. Then there were several hairy trips home when the traffic was mental and the baby was screaming in the back.
By contrast, the Dart is cheap and gets us into town in an incredible 10 minutes. More importantly it gets us home just as quickly – very handy when my son is done with this boring shopping business.
My one gripe with the Dart is the gap between the train and the platform. In Sydney when they said ‘Mind the gap’, what they really meant was, ‘Watch that 10cm crack because you might drop a coin or your train ticket down there.’ In Dublin they mean, ‘Mind the gap because if you’re not VERY BLOODY CAREFUL you may tip the front wheels of your buggy under the train. And possibly your child.’ So that’s been a learning curve.
Half-metre wide death traps aside, our regular train trips were going nicely until last week when I got on to find a man standing in the area reserved for wheelchairs, bikes and buggies. There was a cyclist in the other space, so I had to park the buggy rather close to this man whose body language was immediately hostile. He rather rudely asked me to move further away, to which I replied I couldn’t, as I’d be blocking the door. The train was more than half-empty, with lots of seats and standing space across the way. But this was the only area I could fit the buggy in. When I told him he was standing in the buggy space and that there was nowhere else I would fit, he told me I was a “mannerless f***ing cow”.
I was utterly taken aback by his venom. A few days previously, I had been yelled at by a junkie as I waited to meet a friend in town and I hadn’t turned a hair. I just kept my handbag close and my head down, waiting for him to move on. But – stupidly as it turned out – I hadn’t expected that kind of abuse from a well-dressed, well-spoken man in his forties.
I saw other passengers look up, and one older man in particular looked angry but no one said anything. For some reason (perhaps because my son was with me) I channelled my own mother and said, ‘I Beg Your Pardon’ very loudly before saying, ‘I think we all know who’s mannerless here.’
It was a pretty weak response but he said nothing more, thankfully, and got off at the next stop. I’d like to think he was a little ashamed but that’s probably wishful thinking.
What really took me by surprise was how affected I was by it. I was shaking and blinking back tears for the rest of the trip like an absolute wuss. And I couldn’t help but wish someone else on the train had intervened to help me out.
To be fair, maybe they would have if the altercation had gone on any longer. And of course I’m lucky that nothing more serious happened. All the same, it’s taken the shine off my Dart trips somewhat.
