I’m not sure I enjoy being a tourist any more. I’m not convinced by waxwork figures and unknown actors pretending to be people from the past. And there’s something a little depressing about the lack of convincing information that most exhibitions give.
The imagination fires up and away we go.
I’m in Limerick, the Republic of Ireland at the moment. It’s a pleasant enough place. The way two rivers meet is rather dramatic, yet the town centre is depressingly similar to any other town centre with the same chain stores we see everywhere. Even though this is a different country where they have a different currency. Still, the gentle Irish accent takes the edge off.
The ideas come. There used to be two towns – an Irish one and an English one. That is food for thought.
Then there is the Art Gallery in the park which just teems with pictures you could get ideas from. There was also a film showing a writer meeting his future self in a dream. A fascinating concept.
But here I am now, in my hotel room, very content to be writing. It’s raining outside and people are going home form work.
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