The Winding Stair is an historic bookshop in Dublin, Ireland. It has long been a place for writers to convene. The building was built in 1875. It is yellow and stands beside the river Liffey and the Ha’penny bridge. The book shop opened in 1982, named for its winding staircase, and in tribute to W.B. Yeats, after his poem The Winding Stair.
In the late ’90s, I attended a poetry reading there by Seamus Heaney and Donald Hall, two of the most celebrated poets of the 20th century. For both poets, themes of memory and place were deeply important. Until about 2005, readings were held on the second floor (what Americans call the third floor). You got up there by navigating the creaky, wooden, winding steps in the dim light, and ducking around each curve under the low ceiling. Upstairs, if you were lucky, you could find a folding chair. Otherwise, you could stand anywhere you could fit, among the books and dozens of other people.
Heaney had recently won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Hall would go on to become the U.S. Poet Laureate. The small room got warm. As each of the great poets stood to read, I wondered how many of us contemplated our luck to be here in this place and at this time. I know I did.
Today the book shop is open during the day, but it only occupies the ground floor. In the evening, you can still take the winding stairs, but for the past twenty years they have led to The Winding Stair Restaurant. I have been to Dublin many times since that poetry reading, but I had not had a chance to visit The Winding Stair as a restaurant until last week. I was in Dublin with my husband and son, enjoying the company of the two people I love most. I had the excellent fish plate and then frozen vanilla yogurt with rhubarb sauce.
Some of the windows are new. The smooth glass gives a clear view of a lovely and fine place to look. But, if you look out another window, you might notice that the glass looks different, special. I read that these panes are original—more than 150 years old. There is something magical about the wavy glass, the way it makes the river Liffey and the city sparkle. Having dinner with my family, and remembering the reading by Heaney and Hall, I thought of the last two lines of the Yeats poem:
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.
