An Irishman's Diary

In the beginning, there was Lorraine Keane of AA Roadwatch, telling us "it's bomper to bomper on the Rock Road". Single-occupant cars crawled through the city's arteries and He couldn't get His Ford Fiesta out of the driveway.

Then there was darkness and it was separated from the light, and the darkness was called "night" and the light "rush hour". (However, the two did overlap from time to time.) Evening passed and still He sat in His car, pledging to take the bus to work in future. That was the first day.

On the second day, a report was published and it promised light rail and tunnels and cycle lanes and quality bus corridors. And it was not done.

Instead, more roads were built and He was still stuck in traffic, only now on the misty, perspiration-filled upper deck of a 46A, as its quality bus corridor merged into the other lanes just after Stillorgan, more than three miles from the city centre.

Then traffic-calming measures were introduced as frustration grew in suburbia over the shortcuts taken by equally frustrated rat-runners. The Yield sign at the end of His road became a traffic light and through roads to local amenities became cul-de-sacs.

Journey times doubled as a simple trip to the supermarket meant weaving through a series of chicanes, circumnavigating a roundabout or two, overcoming some rumble strips and conquering a variety of experimental speed bumps. At last, He knew what road rage felt like. That was the third day.

Multi-storey car parks

On the fourth day, car parks were built - enormous, overpriced, multi-storey complexes - as the city's planners decided if they couldn't keep motorists out they may as well make some cash as gridlock reigned.

They introduced fancy new ticket machines, increased the price of on-street parking and replaced the metered spaces opposite the Department of Foreign Affairs at St Stephen's Green with on-street crash barriers. And they called it Operation Freeflow.

Then public transport's reputation received another blow as bus drivers became targeted by thieves. The drivers said, "Let there be protective screens", and there were screens. They said, "Let there be exact-fare cash machines", and they did appear.

Services withdrawn

They said, "Let all buses work on a pre-paid ticket only basis"; but, alas, they were told commuters couldn't handle it. Instead, services were withdrawn where attacks continued, with buses to parts of Tallaght the first to go.

Gradually, services to other outlying areas, socio-economically a million miles from the Rock Road (where commuters still refused to get out of their cars and walk 100 yards to the local DART station) were phased out. That was the fifth day.

On the sixth day, He was ready to throw his hat, sell his Ford Fiesta and move to Tokyo or Athens where He was convinced the traffic couldn't be as bad, no matter what they said on Wish You Were Here.

Then suddenly, a grand plan gave Him hope: Luas. It promised to overcome the single greatest obstacle to all previous public transportation initiatives: we wouldn't have to pay for it, or most of it anyway.

Plans were drawn up and submitted. Residents complained their front gardens would be destroyed. Retailers said their shops would be dug up. The Irish Times Letters page was flooded with humorous suggestions about what Luas might stand for. It was all quite exciting, really.

Like many, He didn't care if it was going to reduce traffic in the city by just 1 per cent or if it would travel at the same speed as a milk float on its delivery round. At least it would be done.

Or would it? Soon, it was growing tentacles. It was going underground and overground, to the Airport and Sandyford. It was bold, it was brash. It would never happen in His lifetime.

On the seventh day, the Tour de France came to town. The city traders weren't happy, which is always a good sign.

O'Connell Street, College Green, Westmoreland Street, Dawson Street and other prime city-centre thoroughfares, whose beauty was normally clouded by car fumes and engine noise, were pedestrianised. Thousands of cars, motorbikes and trucks which unnecessarily passed through the city centre each day were at last forced to take a minor diversion and spare pedestrians presence. The city finally looked human.

Bus corridors

Shuttle buses ran from park-and-ride locations in the suburbs. They flew along genuine quality bus corridors, brought about by accident as cars stayed off the roads. DART trains ran more frequently and, for once, local commuters put their snobbery to one side and used the service.

As the close-down continued, He drove His Ford Fiesta around the outskirts of the city. To His surprise, traffic moved just as quickly as on normal weekends. He drove on the M50. He drove down Gardiner Street, onto which north-bound traffic had been diverted. He drove through Donnybrook and Templeogue and Tallaght and there were no traffic jams. The prophets of doom had been proved wrong.

Back in the vehicle-free city, thousands of people were realising - like infants finding their feet for the first time - that they could travel between Grafton Street and the GPO without having to use car-parks. They shopped and walked and looked altogether happier and healthier.

It reminded Him of Hanover, a beautiful, modern city which pedestrianised its central streets long ago.

Walking home, back to His pick-up-point outside the cordoned area, He passed street after street empty of vehicles, moving or parked. And He was pleased with what He saw.

He had seen the future and it was good.