Dublin in September feels like a story told in watercolor — everything blurred, softened, alive.
The rain doesn’t chase you inside; it walks with you, friendly, familiar, turning every streetlight into a small sun.

I stayed by the sea, where Fitzpatrick Castle sits above Dún Laoghaire’s coast — part story, part sanctuary, watching the tide with the calm of something that’s seen many beginnings.
Each morning, the DART hummed along the edge of the sea, carrying me toward the city. Through fogged windows, I watched gulls tilt through silver air, the world rinsed clean before it began again.

And then — Dublin.
A city that wears its heart on every brick.
Even in rain, it glows.
Doors painted blue, red, and green — colors so vivid they seem to hum beneath the grey sky.
The cobblestones hold stories; the air carries a low thrum of music that feels older than sound.

In the evenings, warmth gathered in unexpected corners — a firelit table, a pint poured with care, a song that began at one table and was quickly joined by another.
There were no stages, no microphones — just voices rising because silence was too small to hold them.
A woman sang about Molly Malone, and for a moment, everyone belonged to the same melody.

That’s what Dublin does — it folds you in.
It lets you be part of the rain, the laughter, the aching beauty of ordinary people keeping time with music and memory.

And when night falls, the city doesn’t grow dark.
It simply dims — like a candle cupped in careful hands — waiting for the next song, the next morning, the next soft rain.