People love the idea of the Liffey. Postcard shots. Reflections. Bridges lit up at night. Looks lovely when you’re walking beside it and don’t have to think about what’s actually in it.
Locals know better. It’s not a river you swim in. It’s not a river you write poems about unless you’re being sarcastic. And it’s definitely not a river you fall into — which is why every single railing is wrapped in signs and rescue rings and bits of faded plastic that say Danger: Do Not Be That Eejit.
Still, it’s ours.
When you live here long enough, you stop seeing it as a body of water and start seeing it as a kind of moat. It separates the north side from the south. Same city, different energies. Same traffic, different grudges.
I’ve seen people cross the Ha’penny and actually say, “it feels different over here.” I say, “yeah, that’s because rent’s gone up 40% in one direction and the seagulls on this side don’t share chips.”
Tourists like to ask, “Is it always this colour?” Meaning brown. Meaning, is it supposed to look like overbrewed tea? The answer is yes. That’s normal. It’s not polluted, just silt and peat and a general sense of tiredness. Think of it as character.
You wouldn’t want to drink it, but you don’t need to panic if a drop splashes your shoe. I’ve had worse things land on me from third-storey windows on Moore Street.
Once during a tour, we were on the Millennium Bridge when a kid pointed and said, “Is that a shopping trolley?” I looked down and sure enough, there it was, gleaming in the afternoon sun, like some kind of metal sea creature rising from the deep.
Later that week it was gone. Replaced by a traffic cone. Then two. I once counted four in a row, spaced out like someone was marking a slalom course for fish.
You’ll also find:
- A pair of jeans (no legs inside, hopefully)
- A suitcase (don’t open it)
- At least one bike, upside down
- And the occasional Christmas tree, usually in March
There are boats on the Liffey now. Tours. Paddleboards. I even saw a man kayaking near the IFSC once, looking serene and definitely middle-class. He waved. I waved back, then watched a pigeon nearly drop something directly into his path. Welcome to Dublin.
I’ve nothing against using the river. Just feels strange, like walking through your own bathroom with a camera crew. The Liffey’s not a performance space. It’s a tired, working river. Let it be.
Some days, I stop and lean on one of the bridges. Not because it’s beautiful — though sometimes it is — but because it’s there. Same as it was before all the vape shops and the overpriced breakfast rolls. It doesn’t change much. It doesn’t want to.
That counts for something now.
Tourists still take selfies with it behind them, all smiles and Spire in the background. Then they ask me where to get the best view of it. I say, “Any bridge that’s not too crowded and doesn’t smell like bin juice.”
They laugh. I’m not joking.
