How many anniversaries of first dates are as widely celebrated as that of Jim and Nora? Probably none, writes Eileen Battersby, Literary Correspondent.
And here we go again, all a bit older, a bit shakier. After all, it is 99 years today since the restless and ambitious young James Joyce walked out with that most practical of women, Nora Barnacle, creating for evermore what we know as Bloomsday.
The happy couple themselves would be forgiven for being less jaunty than they once were, habit tends to dilute romance. But Joyceans, serious scholars as well as the one-day-a-year-and-still-haven't-read-the-book fans, all enjoy dressing up, reading passages aloud and watching various re-enacted episodes including yet another attractively dishevelled Molly, recalling how it all began.
As history and just about everyone with an interest in books and/or Dublin is aware, the event that initiated the union that became Jim and Nora is immortalised with Homeric deliberation in a rich, fat epic called Ulysses.
Bloomsday is a ritual based on history, close attention to detail, a sense of fun and some access to Edwardian dress. Your morning no doubt began earlier with an interlude on the roof of the Martello Tower at Sandycove, Co Dublin. There, clutching a copy of the book, preferably one well worn, closely read and marked by life's experience, you will have gazed out over the snotgreen sea and imagined "stately, plump Buck Mulligan" waddling up the steps, dressing gown adrift with shaving bowl held high as if it were a sacred vessel.
Rain or sun, it is the defining moment. Did the old woman arrive on time with the breakfast milk or was she this time delayed by the traffic? It is always a good beginning; early morning faces directed at a reader's voice competing with a passing seagull or two. Far tougher is the traditional breakfast.
Away from the bracing sea air, experience the swamp conditions of a kitchen where Joycean purists consume "the inner organs of beasts and fowls". Should "thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, and fried hencods' roes" leave your digestion intact, the compulsory "grilled mutton kidneys" complete with "a fine tang of faintly scented urine" might challenge even the strongest constitution.
Far more pleasant is the genteel purchase of lemon soap. If the breakfast has left you queasily desperate for the sanctuary of the nearest bathroom, spare a thought for poor Paddy Dignam as dead as Hamlet's aul fella.
Travelling over to Glasnevin cemetery could take hours thanks to traffic congestion Joyce never encountered. But it is still possible to retrace Bloom's perambulation about the city. The geography prevails although negotiating the traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, is far more threatening. People no longer stroll, they march, shopping bags and briefcases have become weapons of mass destruction. Mobile phone users increase the danger of becoming trampled by engaging in particularly riveting conversations. Still the dastardly Blazes Boylan, racing off to another secret rendezvous, exhibits all the brazen abandon of a Fianna Fáil politician and could easily knock you over.
Elsewhere a wistful Gerty MacDowell may be found on Dollymount Strand, while there are sufficient angry young men about to create an army of characters fit to play Stephen Dedalus at his most restless.
Philosopher, dreamer and loser, Leopold Bloom continues to patrol the city, he still ponders life's meaning. No doubt prior to wandering over to salivate furtively at the Sirens doubling as barmaids, he will peruse the new James Joyce Bridge, designed by Dr Santiago Caletrava Vallas, and formally opened today at noon.
At 15 Ushers Island, the setting for the The Dead, the large whale skeleton-like structure is far removed from the Dublin Joyce immortalised. Our thoughtful Poldy will nod sagely, be impressed and mutter quietly to himself, "Now that's a quare-looking thing. I've never seen the like."
