The bard once famously wrote: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." What is in a name? Would Ferraris be as beloved if the company was founded by a man named Enzo O'Toole?
Would the world's greatest secret agent have survived this long named Dónal or Barney Bond? Or would you call your child Montgomery or Dilbert? Or Adolf?
What about place names? Would two towns with the same name some 5,000 miles bear any resemblances to one another? Or would one smell sweeter than the other? Time to drive the world's best-selling vehicle, Ford's F-150 pick-up truck, all the way to Dublin to find out. Dublin Texas, that is, just south-west of Dallas in the heart of the Lone Star state.
The F-150 is a fitting vehicle for such a venture not because it's designed for long journeys per se, but it is America's favourite vehicle. They buy upward of three quarters of a million of them each year and this all-new model, introduced last September, improves on the old model in every conceivable way. It's bigger, more powerful, more refined, better looking and with a bigger range than ever. I won't bore you with the combinations of cabs, wheelbases, bed sizes and styles, suffice to say there's an F-150 for everyone. Even me.
Possibly because I'm "European", Ford sent me the sporty FX4 crew cab with some amusing options. I got leather captains chairs in place of front bench seat for fear I slide clean out the passenger door during some enthusiastic cornering, a standard automatic transmission shifter in place of the usual columns stalk so I wouldn't stick it in reverse at 60 mph when the first drops of rain fell and rear parking sensors to prevent me from reversing it into someone's living room. The last option is particularly useful as I'm not used to mooring such a vast vessel. And to make sure I fit right in with all the other Texans, a 260 bhp, 5.4-litre V8 was fitted, along with 18" wheels and all-terrain tyres. With its colossal fuel tank topped up with petrol costing only 36 cent/litre, it was time to point her northwards, co-ordinates set for Dublin.
The 160 odd miles to Austin serves not only to demonstrate how serenely the F-150 cruises along Texas' mind-numbingly straight highways, but also just how enormous Texas is. I pull out my roadmap after three hours of driving expecting to cover vast tracts of America's largest state in black marker, but I'm appalled to discover can only put a small dot on the page. More alarmingly, I'm not even half way there and my tank is half empty. At least as Route 281 become narrower, the reasonably direct steering makes it easy to keep this big truck from wandering around and prevents the journey from becoming an exhausting arm-twirling affair. While not of much practical use in Ireland, cruise control also serves to keep over zealous troopers at bay and keep the fuel consumption hovering around the 20 mpg mark.
Just before a town called Olin the first sign indicating "Dublin" even exists emerges. I feel a giddy sense of accomplishment having found our capital's namesake in the middle of Texas, though the 18 cups of coffee I'd consumed en route might have heightened that sensation. Even so, I swear the terrain has gotten greener and, shockingly, the final few miles are along tight, winding roads not dissimilar to the roads though Kildare and not at all like the roads normally found in this vast place.
The F-150 does an admirable job of holding the road, though its height and bulk mean it's not a particularly enjoyable machine to throw around. The four-speed auto slurs throttle responses, too, so before long you adopt the Texan style of draping a hand over the steering and letting the torque do the rest. Finally, we pass Dublin airport just outside the town, but there's not a single taxi to be found. Or a single plane. Or much of a runway, either. It's all locked up and there are no more flights until next year, by the looks of it.
Dublin, Texas looks more like a post-apocalyptic Charleville than the Dublin I'm used to. I'm itching to find a pub so I can be greeted like a local hero and have drinks bought for me all night, but I fail to find a single one. Not even on the main thoroughfare, Patrick's Street! Perhaps they introduced a smoking ban here, too. Or maybe there's nobody left to drink in them. Dublin is a bleak and desolate town with a museum to the long-closed Dr. Pepper bottling plant being the only landmark of note. Hard to believe it's less than an hour from where I watched JR Ewing do his evil deeds as a child.
Frankly, I'm crushed. We're greeted in the local store, not with "Hello", but with "Where are y'all from?" There might be the odd token shamrock here and there, but it's obvious I'm the stranger in this Dublin. After driving eight hours to get here, I could cry.
So I guess Shakespeare was right. There is nothing in a name. This Dublin has none of the energy, hustle-bustle, rain, congestion and life of the city I'm familiar with. Their only common trait is that I still can't get in anywhere for a drink on a Saturday night.