Truly it was a day for shaving in the great outdoors. Sandycove in Dublin shimmered in hazy sunshine, the sea calm and inviting. Buck Mulligan could have stood on the roof of his tower, poised to acknowledge his public, the mythic yellow dressing-gown ungirdled, "sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air" - had he found any space.
There's not even standing room as Bloomsday pilgrims listen in silence to passages from the Hades sequence of Ulysses. Relaxed Edwardian is the dominant fashion statement. At the door of the tower, Paddy Dignam's widow discusses the family finances. Commiserations are on offer. "Poor Paddy was a grand man, don't you know."
Under jauntily-angled straw boaters, two rival James Joyces exchange competitive glances. One offers a compliment of sorts, the other replies: "I can't say the same for you."
Lovingly-tended period cars are parked with care. Meanwhile, another Joyce look-alike, accompanied by Nora Barnacle, departs in a carriage drawn by a docile cob. It is the couple's first date. The jarvey's expression is mild, his passengers nod benignly.
Race back to the city, through a festive Glasthule, past the ladies strolling in long dresses, to secure the necessary cake of lemon soap in Sweny's Chemist. The sun is getting hotter. Not the best sort of weather for carrying oozing kidneys in your pocket.
Three men pass, one bows from the waist. A double-decker lurches by. It might be a trick of the light - or of the day - but the sign on its side announces: "Sober Hearse Drivers A Speciality".
It's a bit tricky over at St Stephen's Green. All the messenger boys are off on their bikes and a rowdy lot they are, upsetting the horses. "But where did they come from?" wonders Mr Bloom, "They're not in the book."
Wander down Grafton Street, more men wearing boaters.
Daniel O'Connell oversees his bridge, his expression less indifferent than usual. The route is leading up to the James Joyce Centre at 35 North Great George's Street. More ladies in fine dress. Ken Monaghan, the great man's nephew, wearing a splendid brocade waistcoat, is preparing to speak about his family.
It's back to Davy Byrne's for a Gorgonzola sandwich. Don't forget to buy a copy of Sweets of Sin.
Margo Huggard is from Montreal. "Why are so many people all dressed up?" It's Bloomsday. "What's that? A garden festival? Something to do with flowers?" Not exactly. It's to do with a novel. "Oh, I don't read fiction, it's so trite. It doesn't have anything to do with real life."
The listening Joycean, hands smelling of lemon soap, gasps.
