Where Or When: a long day's journey

It's a strange thing but none of the Dublin statues of James Joyce depicts him as a young man. Age bestows gravitas, it seems. A trifle short on gravitas myself, and nursing no expectation of a sudden change, I accept my fate. No furrowed brow, no world-weary acceptance of life's vicissitudes, no statue.

Anyway, there he is, the great man, on St Stephen's Green and between concrete buildings in University College and outside the Café Kylemore on North Earl Street, a writer d'un certain age who has seen all things in life and found most of them unexceptional. Of course, those of us cracking on a bit are happy enough to see the mature Joyce, although he didn't live in Dublin beyond the age of 22 and never returned after 30.

There is relatively little time to ponder these things before the first day at Punchestown, although the 747 bus from the airport takes its time getting to Heuston station and I have an hour before the train leaves for Sallins.