Sandymount has a lot going for it – but why the mystic bond between classiness and the last even number before 5?
I GOT A message recently which said that Dublin isn’t the centre of the universe. Gee, thanks Copernicus, I never would have figured that out! Nevertheless, I got my astrolabe out from under the bed and did my sums just to be sure. I am safe in the knowledge that the planets are aligned with us in the Lucan of the Milky Way.
For all of this, Dublin and its natives have little tics which I’ve become aware of as we go from house to house, looking for the right place to buy. Dubliners, for instance, have a charming disregard for red lights on pedestrian crossings, which tourists then copy as a rite of passage. Dubliners are also commonly assumed to be cocky. I myself often use the term “as cold as a south Dublin welcome”, to illustrate a seemingly snooty attitude pervasive in the Big Smoke. Most outsiders, however, don’t realise that what they see as bravado is in fact self-hatred. Like an obese person munching on Ben and Jerry’s, crying at the same time, Dubs in particular gorged themselves on high property prices to hide the fact that, if truth be told, Dublin’s okay, but it’s no great shakes.
Take Sandymount as an example, Dublin 4. Nothing amuses me more than the notion of a mystic bond between classiness and the last even number before 5. Prices in this “sought after” neighbourhood soared during the boom, index-linked to the increasing stench from the nearby sewage treatment plant. The olfactory equivalent of the Birdie Song playing on a loop was nestling in our nostrils when we looked at a house in this salubrious area. Asking price? 500k.
The agent who looked after us was a very nice girl from the estate agent cloning programme, extremely polite and quiet and dressed efficiently, as if she might have a funeral to attend at any minute.
With an offer of 430k ringing in our ears, we had a nose around this three-bed terraced house, which we really liked. The best thing was the view out the back, looking over green gardens towards St Matthew’s church at the crossroads between Sandymount and Ringsend. One of the bedrooms was big enough, we thought, though totally unfurnished, and the bathroom was the kind used as a crime scene in The Sweeney.
For some reason, though, the wrongs conspired into a delightful right. We loved it, even if it was compact and bijou. It was cosy, and cute; a gorgeous front garden and a back yard which had potential for a modern, Cubist extension.
For me, it had a sentimental quality as well: my late dad had lived a few doors down on another road, which coloured my view of the street. Location wise, it was a colossal one minute commute to the beach. Ideal for stress release after a hard day. We went home and persuaded my father-in-law to come up to Dublin and have a look before we made an offer. He’s a home bird, and a combination of John Wayne and Professor Dumbledore. If he says something, you tend to listen. And with houses, it’s easy to get lots of advice, but often harder to get good advice.
His first piece of advice was that the on-street parking was a deal breaker in the future. Imagine screaming kids and a heap of shopping with that set-up. A second look also showed that bedroom number three was miniscule and that mouse droppings punctuated the back bedroom. “And no back garden. Are ye mad?”
Probably. It was a nice house. But we got a serious reality check. It plainly wasn’t a practical option, even with the sea and a school on our doorstep: you could easily sink 70k and still feel cramped. We even considered the illusion of mirrored tiles. But it was more a delusion than illusion. It was a no go. Crestfallen, we drove out of town and turned a corner. My father-in-law noticed a solid semi-d with a driveway. “That’s your house,” he said. I picked up the phone and rang the estate agent. It was sale agreed.
“That’ll come back to you, just wait,” says the father-in-law . . .
