Sign up to The Irish Times Archive (1859 - 2008)My Account »

The texture of Dublin would be nothing without the people who inhabit its history, from Viking traders to Dean Swift and the thousands whose names are lost, writes Neil Hegarty.

A few weeks ago, I was booked on to a flight from Dublin to Toulouse. It was one of these hellish early morning departures: at 5am, Dublin airport was fairly crackling with aggression and frustration. The flight left on time, though, and as if to make reparation for such traumas at cockcrow, I was treated to one of the best views of Dublin I have ever had. The plane banked west of the city and flew low across its length before climbing and turning its nose south in the crystalline October air; and I could see the extravagant expanse of the Phoenix Park, the Liffey and Grand Canal making their angular journeys towards the sea, the sweeping bend of the bay itself. The whole of the Irish Sea seemed set out for my benefit: the Irish coast and the Isle of Man to the north, the hills of the Lake District of England on the farthest horizon; the pincer arms of the harbour at Holyhead to the east and the peak of Snowdon beyond. A map of the world, with all roads leading back to Dublin. It lasted only a few short seconds, and then the plane turned south, and the map vanished.