The Tower that is no more

It was Halloween, but don’t let that fool you — this is not another ghost story.

Autumn had bloomed. The city was soaked in shades of amber and smelled of pumpkin-spiced lattes carried by bundled-up Fall enthusiasts.

We visited St Audoen’s Church, which had opened its doors for the first time since the pandemic. Inside, the cold stone space felt timeless. Weathered. Venerable. Austere.

The guide was talkative, perhaps because we were among the first people to be let inside since everything had reopened. His words echoed off the medieval walls. I tried to remember everything.

Then P. mentioned to the guide the strange dreams I’d been having about the church.

“What kind of dreams?” the guide asked.

“Well, I dreamt that I lived here, but there was a hidden passage leading to a tower in the garden. I could go there whenever I didn’t want to be bothered by anyone,” I said.

“Oh, and there was about to be some kind of party in that tower,” I added.

The guide asked where the tower from my dream had been. I pointed to an empty space near the wall, where there were only a few trees, weeds and some wildflowers.

He raised his eyebrows.

“There was a tower there many, many years ago. Maybe you read about it?”

But I hadn’t read anything about it. I had only dreamt of it.

The guide looked at me for a moment.

“Well, it’s weird ground,” he said. “We’re literally walking on a cemetery here.”

And then he started telling us stories about an old prison, death, and all the other things Halloween seems to call for.

Except these weren’t tales from the crypt.

They were real stories about Dublin.