Lie of the landscape? Frank McNally on trying to put himself in the picture

You have to make your own entertainment during lockdown, Netflix notwithstanding. And so it was that I spent an afternoon recently trying to recreate a masterpiece of 18th-century Irish landscape art, via iPhone camera.

In case anyone’s checking, the panorama of William Ashford’s A View of Dublin from Chapelizod (circa 1797) resides entirely within my approved 5km roaming radius. Indeed, when I moved to Kilmainham in the 1990s, one of the first things I did was buy a framed print of Ashford’s painting from the National Gallery, which now hangs over my fireplace.

On countless occasions since, I have run, cycled, or walked around the neighbourhood he depicted, much of it in Phoenix Park, his viewing point. But where exactly Ashford stood I had never yet worked out, so the other day I finally tried to solve the puzzle, using the painted co-ordinates.

Many more building booms have since intervened – most of them less inspired – and it's hard to find Ashford's view through the clutter

From left to right, his composition spans the Magazine Fort, the river Liffey at Islandbridge, the old Royal Hospital, and Kilmainham Gaol. Uncluttered as his canvas seems, clearly Dublin was undergoing a construction boom then. The jail was only just built. So was the Royal Military Infirmary in the middle distance.

Forbidding Fruit – Frank McNally on two great but lesser-known Irish exports: St Piran and the Cockagee apple

---

Word Up – Frank McNally with a further (but not farther) reading from the Stylebook of Leviticus

---

Game, Set, Mismatch – Frank McNally on journalism’s favourite word, Billy Brennan revisited, and a tale of two Zoom events

---

Ahead of his time – Frank McNally on the day Eamonn Breslin shocked Croke Park

---

Another James Gandon classic, the Four Courts, was still to be completed, although you can see its dome in the background.

Many more building booms have since intervened – most of them less inspired – and it’s hard to find Ashford’s view through the clutter now. The Liffey weir and Sarah’s Bridge have largely disappeared behind apartment blocks. So, more recently, has most of the Royal Hospital: only its chapel tower is now visible behind some ugly new boxes at the top of St John’s Road.

Then again, some obstructions are nearly as old as the painting. Two centuries before Johnny Ronan's plans to disturb the Dublin skyline, Sir Robert Smirke was designing a one-finger salute to Ashford's panorama. The Wellington Monument (begun 1817) wiped out his view of the Royal Infirmary.

It must also be said that there are far more trees in the way now. These do not include the one leaning jauntily into his painting. I suspect that was fictional and possibly imported from France, via Claude Lorrain, an obvious influence. If it was real, it has long gone the way of the British cavalry seen riding along the road behind it. That road looks like one the switchbacks with which Phoenix Park runners will be painfully familiar. But I found that from the Chapelizod side of those, most of Ashford's composition disappears behind natural contours. The nearest I got to reconstructing it was from the Islandbridge side, where benches have been supplied for modern-day viewers. But that could hardly be called Chapelizod.

One of the benches is itself a sad landmark. According to the plaque, it commemorates another William, a “beloved” young man who died nearby in 2013. Alas, I remember the occasion all too well. It was the Dublin half-marathon and I was one of 5,000 taking part. By the time I struggled up the hill at Military Road, the 11-mile mark, ambulance volunteers were there, doing what they could. The bench is now one of the park’s more poignant monuments.

To quote my children, this is the coolest thing I have ever done, albeit accidentally

I suspect Ashford’s true location when painting his picture was a studio, where the outdoor sketches could be edited and perspectives adjusted. Either that, or he was up a tree somewhere. In any case, I had to concede defeat in locating his viewpoint.

This is in contrast with a similar, previous exercise, which if I may say so was a spectacular success. One day a few years ago I was cycling into the city along the quays as the Liffey Swim unfolded. I stopped to take pictures, then wondered if I could find Jack B Yeats’s vantage point for the painting that won him a silver medal in sports-related art at the 1924 Olympics.

When I found the spot, I also managed to catch a few spectators in headwear that vaguely echoed the original’s flat caps. My then-and-now Twitter pics went mildly viral.

More recently, the National Gallery got in touch to ask – gasp – if they could use it in an interactive exhibition. The idea, apparently, is that (post-pandemic) viewers will see the original on a screen, then “swipe” it to reveal the same spectacle a century later.

To quote my children, this is the coolest thing I have ever done, albeit accidentally.

If only the 2024 Olympics had a section for sports-related iPhone pics, I might be in with an outside shot of a medal.