Before all the new buildings went up around the Dublin Docklands, back when the streets were still dusty and hard-hat dangerous, hoardings erected around the building sites told us what us what to expect. "Soon these streets will have a new story to tell," they promised.
I've been cycling around the Docklands for a while now looking for old stories. I met Bert on Clarion Quay. He walked with me down the road to the corner where Byrne's pub used to stand. He told me about a man who back in the day was known as John Wayne because of his cowboy walk.
"And one day," said Bert, "John Wayne rode right into Byrne's pub on the back of the horse. Everyone collapsed laughing and for years when they saw him they'd say, how'ya John, where's your horse?"
I picked Lilly up from her home in Ringsend before morning Mass and brought her down in a taxi to the quays. She stood where the Jeanie Johnston Famine ship is docked near Jury's Inn and remembered her father bringing her here to board a ship to Glasgow. She was eight years old and frightened. "There were cattle on the boat and I could hear them mooing. My father took me up on deck and put his arms around me and told me not to be scared. We sailed off down the river and ended up on the Clyde. We had to let the cattle off along the way. I can still see them mooing down the gangplank," she said.
After her keep-fit class was over, octogenarian Nancy told me about her honeymoon to the Isle of Man which "back then was abroad". Everything she and her husband wore was brand new. They stood on the deck, side by side, trying to pretend they knew each other better than they did. "Even his shoes were squeaking," she laughed.
They stood looking out at the quayside where their friends had gathered to throw confetti. As the boat passed Goulding's, the fertiliser company where they both worked at the time, something on the top of the roof caught their eye. "There were two men we worked with up there waving flags but they weren't really flags - they were giant pairs of women's knickers tied to poles," she said. "They were calling our names and we were so embarrassed." They spent the next few minutes of their honeymoon looking at their shiny shoes trying to pretend they didn't know the men on the roof or each other.
As new stories are written - about penthouse living, about conference centres and late-night supermarkets - it felt good to be gathering old stories. I was collecting them for Murmur, an archival audio collection of stories about the Docklands, told by the Dubliners who were there. At each of the chosen locations, a green ear sign will mark where the stories are available. By using a mobile phone, callers will be able to listen to the story of that place.
The Age and Opportunity project will be run as part of the older people's festival Bealtaine in association with the Docklands. When you call the number on the green ear it will be as though the likes of Bert and Lilly and Nancy are talking directly to you. Or Robert. He told me about the Dubliner who filled his pockets with nuts and bolts he'd stolen from a ship and how he sank to the bottom when he accidentally fell into the water. His rescuers were baffled about his sinking until they got him safely onto the quay and emptied his pockets.
Tilly brought me down to the Point in Ringsend. The real Point does not play host to Dolly Parton, the real Point is a piece of land on the other side of the river where a ferry used to bring dockers over from Ringsend. Tilly told me about the time the Guinness boat sank and all the men ran out to get the barrels. Then all the women ran out with receptacles, everything from saucepans to chamber pots, to hold the precious drink.
Bridget told me about her father working on the docks and how she'd bring the dinner over every day for him on the ferry. A bowl full of cabbage and bacon, or maybe a pig's cheek, would be brought over, covered with a tea towel, and there'd be billy cans full of tea. "They worked hard," she said. "They kept the place going."
Jimmy remembered fishing for Joeys, small whiting, in wartime and how the US coal ships would sail down the river. "The sailors would throw chewing gum and sometimes cigarettes. One time, I'll never forget, I caught a pack in my hand and my Da had fags for a week."
Inevitably, the Docklands appear different to me now. Behind all that shiny glass I can see the ghosts of the dockers, hear the clank of the diving bell, taste the bananas from the tropical fruit company, smell the cattle and the coal dust. In time, these new streets too will have old stories to tell. roisiningle@irish-times.ie
Murmur will run as part of Bealtaine from May until September