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“The first queer spaces of the modern era were the dark alleys, unlit corners, and hidden rooms that queers found in the city itself. It was a space that could not be seen, had no contours, and never endured beyond the sexual act. Its order was and is that of gestures.”[1]
The two spaces which will be compared in this essay are the cruising routes in Phoenix Park, and the Boilerhouse, a gay sauna located in Dublin city. Both of these spaces are used for engaging in public or semi-public sexual encounters, providing a level of privacy and anonymity, while also exposing the cruiser to a group of people also seeking sexual encounters. It is between this duality of secrecy and community where these spaces are most interesting architecturally, and both spaces deal with these issues in unique ways.
The cruising routes of Phoenix Park are a leftover from historically queer spaces, where cities could provide invisible infrastructure that was simultaneously in plain view and hidden through a number of coded signals. Less widespread now, as queerness in Ireland has become more socially accepted, these routes have developed out of necessity; a need to queer existing city infrastructure to provide space for same-sex sexual encounters. These spaces were undefined architecturally but would often emerge with some shared characteristics. Parks in particular often offered all of the requirements for a thriving cruising culture to develop. Aaron Betsky defines four characteristics of cruising spaces. Firstly, it needs “conditions that in and of themselves dissolve walls and other constraints”; meaning that outdoor cruising typically takes place at night. Second, it needs a labyrinthine quality, deterring the use of the space for functions other than sex, and providing “multiple barriers to intervention or observation”. Third, that cruising takes place where the city breaks down, at its edge as a whole, or at the edges of buildings in the “stoops, porticos, windows and doorways”. Fourth, “cruising grounds have to parallel, but not be the same as, the public spaces of the city”, existing within the same space physically but separated by cultural differences and differing requirements of its occupants.
These routes have developed throughout Dublin city, and while many have faded out of use as the city changes, some remain active. In Phoenix Park, a popular cruising location has developed a community of men who often require anonymity. These cruisers might not be able to engage in same sex sexual activities at home, or might find gay saunas such as the Boilerhouse too prominent within the city centre. One cruiser, Peter, scribed the appeal of the cruising spot at Phoenix Park: “Gay men have this fascination of walking around because they're constantly on the hunt for something better – you know? – and they don't particularly like to stand still. They don't. So the park – that area of the park – is quite ideal because you've got lots of different trails and different routes that you can take.”[2]
Spatially, it conforms to all of Betsky’s characteristics of cruising spaces, though these are not always consistent. Peter describes how during winter many of the spots usually sheltered by leaves become much more visible, and that during rainy days some areas on sloped ground become too slippery to use. In these cases, people might have sex in a car park, or around the edge of an old sports changing room. In this way, the cruising spot is more transient, and changes even within yearly cycles and with the weather.
By contrast, the Boilerhouse remains mostly consistent, and despite being too prominent for some gay men, still engages with privacy and protection. Located on a quiet lane in Temple Bar, the front entrance is unassuming, with a nondescript sign and a foyer after the main door where you can wait before being buzzed in by an attendant in a small kiosk. The unassuming facade conceals the sexually liberated interior, where queer sexuality is allowed to be freed from social norms. Unlike the fully public cruising spaces in the city and in Phoenix Park, the Boilerhouse was designed specifically to be a space for sex a formalised version of traditional cruising, it mirrors the characteristics as described by Betsky. As with other shops and establishments, it is a private space which acts as an extension of the city when open and provides a semi-public environment where its patrons can cruise with more security and enclosure than in outdoor cruising routes. The bathhouse provides spaces to wander, to gather, and more reclusive rooms and cubicles to retreat into. In the Boilerhouse these areas are obviously defined; after the changing rooms and lockers, the ground floor is open with a bar in a large double-height space, visible from the walkways on the second floor. On each floor above, the spaces become more and more compartmentalised, offering varying levels of privacy and enclosure.
The building maintains its semi-public condition throughout, even in the more enclosed areas. Partition walls often don’t meet the floor, and mirrors above stall doors provide a level of engagement with the more open spaces of the building. Glory holes offer connections between rooms or cubicles and further blur the lines between private and semi-public space. This arrangement provides a level of community not found in the Phoenix Park, where communication between cruisers is limited, and often reduced to subtle signals or codes. In the Boilerhouse, communication is not about identifying other cruisers but conveying more nuanced sexual preferences or interest in a particular partner.
While the Boilerhouse and other saunas might be understood as a natural progression from cruising in public spaces, it remains inaccessible to some as a private establishment with opening hours, entry fees, and door policies. These spaces both represent physical manifestations of queer space. They are defined by sex, and while queer architectural theory has developed beyond synonymising queerness with homosexuality, it provides an insight into the development of queer culture and its place in the development of the city. These queer spaces for sex disrupt a traditional way of viewing public space, and the gradations of privacy typically understood, where sexual activities happen in the privacy of home. Public space within the city is nuanced, and not so easily defined when considering its multitude of users, and so an understanding of queer people’s existence within the city is imperative for its development.
Working Hard / Hardly Working is supported by the Arts Council through the Architecture Project Award Round 2 2022.
1. A. Betsky, Queer Space, Architecture and Same-Sex Desire, New York, William Morrow & Company, 1997.
2. Anonymous (Peter), interviewed by Nicolas Howden, 29 November 2022.
3. G. Chauncey, ‘Privacy Could Only Be Had in Public: Gay Uses of the Streets’, in Stud: Architecture of Masculinity, J. Sanders (ed.), New York, Princeton Architectural Press, 1996, p. 224.
Dancing at the crossroads and bothántaíocht, visiting neighbours; sharing news, music and lore were very much a part of Irish life not so long ago. Reliance on social interaction held a higher importance to people back then than it does today. Face to face interaction is becoming less and less of an occurrence, while interaction is still happening, only now, through our screens.
What does this mean for our public spaces? The way in which we occupy space has changed. Is this the reason that many of these public spaces scattered across our island aren't working as well as they could or once did? Or is it that we don’t value our public spaces like other European cities do? Is it the lack of marble sculptures and terrazzo tiled squares or the sunnier skies?
Despite the ever changing micro-climates in the west of Ireland, there are public spaces in towns, and villages that have important social spaces at the centre of their civic arrangements. Simultaneously, these towns have ample exterior spaces that are struggling to find their identity.
In the South West of Ireland, on the Dingle Peninsula, within the Gaeltacht of Chorca Dhuibhne, lies a small fishing town with a patchwork of coloured townhouses. The town follows the natural contours of land and sits steadily against the rising slope overlooking the bay. Dingle town, known and visited by many, is characterised by its cultural richness which is celebrated and shared through festivals and community events.
The town's openness and social personality creates a level of pressure on its public spaces to perform; these places have a certain responsibility to engage communities and enhance performance. In Dingle, there are three public spaces that interest me, each for varying reasons: An Díseart; a series of garden rooms, the Town Park - a struggling pocket longing to find its place at the heart of the town - and lastly the Mart, a vital gathering place for the agricultural community along with being a trading center.
I know these spaces well having grown up on the peninsula yet it's only now I find myself considering them differently, conducting a sort of analysis.
On Green Street within the grounds of St Mary's Church and the neo-gothic former convent, lies a series of garden rooms, each with their own personality. One enters through a gate within an opening in a stone wall, adjacent to the church and from there you are lead up and around winding paths, experiencing the circular patterns of the ground, mini mazes, a greenhouse, wild flowers, a willow tunnel, stone walls, the nuns graveyard guarded by two angel statues at the gate and enclosed by white iron railings, native trees planted by local families, places of rest, more in some rooms than others. It's an old stone wall that continuously wraps around these gardens that encloses the public space, while also providing protection for the plants on this wind swept peninsula.
This is a public space which is welcoming to all, enjoyed by many, respected by its visitors, and cared for by the community. A place of adaptability, having various events taking place here throughout the year; the sounds of ceol tradisiúnta coming from the wooden gazebo during the summer months, taispeántais ealaíne from local artists within the greenhouse or immersed within the gardens during Féile na Bealtaine or Other Voices and locals improving their planting skills through gardening courses during the off season months. To me it is a place that holds a certain sense of serenity, calmness, but most of all it's a place I feel I can connect with physically and mentally, a nurtured space for everyone.
Only a short stroll down Green street and down Greys Lane is another one of the town's public spaces. Looking back at the 1841 OS Map of the town, it is clear where the park derived from, simply the back of many of the townhouses which then formed a large green open space in the centre.
Dingles Town Park, despite the many attempts to reinvigorate this space for the town, its people and its visitor unfortunately remains somewhat of a struggling space. Nestled within the town's core centre its location is quite fortunate for an Irish town park. Its only entrance is located almost at the corner of where Greys Lane meets Dykegate Lane, the home of the Art Deco Facade of the Phoenix Cinema. The park doesn’t reveal itself at its entrance. Through a set of green metal gates one enters and then follows a hardened tarmacked path up to the right through what feels like an alleyway which then widens out to a large open space. A concrete paved path wraps around the perimeter, while more hard surfaced areas occupy the centre of the park, one tennis/basketball court enclosed by metal fencing and a smaller area, also enclosed by metal fencing which once housed a children's playground, now taken away. Green grassed areas take up the rest of the space with some trees and some scattered benches. This is a place that has been associated with antisocial behaviour, due to its impermeability.
I spent some time analysing the park with help of the creative minds of the 2023-2024 Transition year students in Pobalscoil Chorca Dhuibhne while taking part in the IFI Architecture in Schools programme. Together with the local students new designs and interventions were developed through drawings, discussions and model making to enhance and improve what could be the future of the park.
Interesting ideas included adding a second entrance through the historical wall at Orchard Lane at the north eastern side. Dingle was once a walled town and this stretch of stone wall is the remnants that once enclosed the town. Creating an entrance here could be a way to celebrate the historic wall while giving it a new life and providing a functional access route from one side of the town to the other. This could become part of the daily routes taken by the town users. Other interventions equally as interesting and important focused on the recreational aspect; market stalls, sports zones, children's play areas, and practical elements; seating, lighting, security while other students emphasized redesigning the layout of the park. These are all elements that would add to the place allowing one to connect with it in one way or another.
The Dingle Mart is a cornerstone of rural life on the Peninsula, combining its practical function as a livestock trading center with its cultural role as a community gathering point. Its multifunctional setting, which consists of a large open hard surfaced area and the mart building itself which contains the teared ring room where the selling happens, a canteen and shed space toward the rear with pens for the animals. The large open space outside occupies a carpark for most of the time and then on Saturdays the mart place, a tradition that has been taking place for many years and is a vital part of the lives of so many who live on the peninsula and in many Irish towns across the country. The mart is host to the sale of sheep and cattle usually, but once a year events like The Scotch Ram judging and Agricultural Show take place.
Benjamin Gault (1858 - 1942) was an American conservationist and ornithologist, who captured vital moments of life in Dingle and its surrounding while visiting the west of Ireland in the mid 1920’s, circa 100 years ago. This footage was only recently found with the help of a local farmer, Micheál Ó Mainnín from Baile an Fheirtéaraigh. I find it fascinating to use these images to compare how these spaces were once occupied and used compared to today.
Each space described belongs to Dingle town and are a part of the town's fabric, they each serve a separate purpose. They are places of social interaction, where people connect with public space. I think that perhaps these spaces should work together and integrate with their surrounding context to provide flow throughout the town. I think as architects there is a need to listen to locals more closely, at the end of the day, they are the ones who know these spaces and places the best, they are the users of the space.
We have to look to the future of the town and think how these exterior rooms can be an integral part of the town's system, pockets of public space which enhance the towns sociality, cad atá i ndán dóibh, what future do these spaces hold? As Dingle continues to evolve, preserving these spaces is crucial. Public spaces like these deserve our attention and respect, for they form the backbone of the community.
These spaces are inherently different, spaces of leisure and trade don't seem connected at first, but they are the cores of this town, without them Dingle loses all character, all space to breathe. They are not just physical locations but embodiments of the town’s spirit, reflecting its history, culture, and resilience. In the face of changing times, Dingle’s public spaces remind us of the importance of thoughtful design and shared stewardship. Whether through festivals in the park, quiet reflection in the Díseart gardens, or the enduring traditions of the Mart, these spaces connect the past with the present, ensuring that Dingle remains a vibrant hub for generations to come.
Tara Nic Gearailt reflects on how changing social habits affect our use of public space. Focusing on Dingle, she highlights the need to preserve and adapt shared spaces to sustain community life.
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“My second body came to find my first body when the river flooded my house… the river was in my house but my house was also in the river.”
Excerpt from The Second Body by Daisy Hildyard
The River Farset, which gave Belfast its name – Béal Feirste, meaning ‘Mouth of the Farset’ – was consumed by the city’s underbelly in 1848. Undone by the river’s own achievements in industrialising the Victorian town, this Venetian-style ferrier, cum public dumping ground, was shoved and rerouted into subterranean hollows. These sewer pipes forged new confluences between the Farset and its beneficiary, the River Lagan, who would accompany Belfast into its cityhood in 1888 only to be reacquainted with the dreary descendants of its donor’s builders in the twenty-first century.
I have lived with the River Lagan, and all that comes with it, for some time now; the viridescent shopping trolley stench of low tide; midwinter starling murmurations; gaudy, palm tree shaped wayfinding; and Buckfast bottles on the towpath tongue tied by adolescents asking what music I am listening to – Chappell Roan is always the right wrong answer. Together we are residents of the timeless ‘Climate Change Floodplain’ marked by the Department of Infrastructure’s (DfI) ‘Flood Maps NI’ that brings the river into my house and suspends my rental bed in the public riverbeds of the Lagan.
I enjoy my current proximity to the river but I am reminded of these perils when they reposition the ‘Flood Defence Works’ blockades on what has become a bi-monthly basis. I am always reassured, however, by DfI’s efforts proudly cable-tied to silver trespass-friendly hoarding that reads: “£18m Belfast Tidal Flood Alleviation Scheme (BTFAS): Delivering a scheme of works that will provide a long term approach to tidal flood risk management for over 1500 properties in Belfast.”
‘BTFAS’ represents an imperative and decisive need to once again reconsider and reconfigure our relationship with the city’s arterial waterways. The scheme’s single-solution intervention, however, unfortunately speaks of a form of urbanism not unknown to Belfast. Offering a discontinuous, tunnel-visioned wall, this ‘Flood Defence Barrier’ ties together binary conceptions of climate challenges facing the city with the very attitudes and approaches that built the Farset’s tunnels - all put in motion by a quick unlearning of what it means to build walls and barriers in Belfast.
Elsewhere in Europe, cities are dismantling such infrastructure in favour of diversified nature-based solutions while we are reminded that our new £18m brick-clad concrete wall only grants us a false sense of built security until 2080, at best. One might forgive this ‘necessary evil’ should its offering to the public realm and towpath be marked by generosity, a seat here and there perhaps, yet even the steeply pitched coping slabs prohibit the pleasures of sitting down.
The decision to mirror the brick of my home – and the 1500 others like it – in its public facing facade is an interesting one: simultaneously working to flatten city-river relations through what now feels like a privatised throughway, while also suggesting a sense of always having been there, alongside the compendium of bodies that shape our shared material milieu.
I am sure these deliberations have concrete answers, but sometimes when I traverse the sections of the wall that lie underground, perforations permitting pitiful access to the river, I wonder who might raise these occlusions should the tide swim up to meet us. Has the nursery 200m from my doorstep been granted the agency to act on this suggested inevitability, or must it await the department's designated keyholder coming up the Lagan in a bubble?
I am relieved to have been asked better, muddier questions by an assemblage of steel staging and rope drifting up the Lagan on a floating public pavilion. Designed by architects OGU and MMAS in collaboration with sound artist Matilde Meireles, DRIFT asks how dissolving the neat boundaries we draw around ourselves, and the city, might better deal with the complexity of living with, and on, the water.
Funded through cultural channels not typically reserved for advancing architectural production in the city as part of ‘Belfast 2024’, this project is not bound to offering the bricky certainty of our Flood Defence Barrier; rather, it takes form through knots and scaffold couplers, held together by that which remains uncertain: our right to be on, in, beside, and with the River Lagan. Unlike its £18m peer, however, DRIFT mirrors the river’s temporality to grant its waters – and those it sustains – agency in responding to such rhetoric.
Re-presenting the Lagan’s undulating surface as site, the project rests on a system of three pontoons that unfasten the city’s quays from the water’s edge. In its counterweighted greys and blues, DRIFT resists visual and ideological camouflage, instead inhabiting the complex material interdependencies and vulnerabilities between the river and its receding urban peripheries.
I once fell into the River Lagan – before its banks were fenced off – when I spotted a harbour seal by the Weir Bridge. It was then, as Daisy Hildyard puts it, that my second body came to meet my first, reacquainting me with the waters that quenched my thirst, washed my feet and dishes, flushed the sewers, and returned to wet my waist. Towed downstream to inhabit such tidal ecologies, DRIFT’s pontoons invite us to experience these private and public lives of the Lagan, and their entanglement with our own – Meireles’ collaged soundscapes unfolding beneath folded white linens sparing us the niceties of embodied submersion.
Now disassembled, it is these curated temporal intimacies that continue to ripple and breed new forms of publicness in the city; watery writing groups and kinetic kiosks that have emerged in its wake to turn toward the river and explore its duality as both site and more-than-human subjectivity.
In this sense, DRIFT punctuates its cladded-concrete counterpart with leaky perforations that mirror its own. In the end, neither contains nor resolves. What the Lagan’s walls present as a unidirectional, government-led prerogative, however, DRIFT quietly renders everybody’s business. It is this collectivising – this knotting of the individual with the natural, socio-cultural, and built bodies of the river – that sets vital terms and conditions. For these troubled waters demand an architectural climate praxis better attuned to the coalescing boundaries, interdependencies, and agencies that allow, limit, and negotiate change.
This article looks at how we build with, against, despite, and in spite of the tide, as walls rise and waters swell, and an assemblage of flood defence barriers and a floating pavilion appear on Belfast’s River Lagan.
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Bloom Lane, situated off Ormond Quay and near the Jervis Shopping Centre, is Dublin City's unofficial Italian district. A perfect example of a previously ignored alleyway working hard to reinvent its function and impact on the surrounding urban landscape, Bloom Lane is pedestrianised, with properties on both sides. Bloom Lane is an excellent example of an alleyway that has transformed from a practical passageway into a dynamic public space with a cultural appeal.
The 'Italian Quarter', was originally designed as part of an urban regeneration project on the 'decaying northern quays'. The development maintained the facade of an older building while the frontage was cut through to construct a pedestrian access route running from the Millennium Bridge through the Italian Quarter to a zebra crossing that connects to the rest of the Millennium Walkway and the Jervis stop on The Luas Red Line. Bloom Lane has been revitalised through the use of public art, careful lighting, and clever design.
Today, the lane stands out as a creative area in the city thanks to its vivid street artwork and colourful paintings. In addition to making the neighbourhood more attractive, these artistic features give it a distinct personality that draws people on foot and promotes exploration. The installation of expansive murals and public art, which gives the area vitality, marked the beginning of Bloom's Lane's makeover. These vibrant, eye-catching pieces of art transform the alley into an outdoor gallery, providing local artists with a platform and visual stimulation for onlookers. By giving the alley a unique character, the artwork transforms it from a plain backstreet into a renowned example of urban inventiveness, that draws both locals and tourists to the area, making it a destination rather than just a shortcut.
Bloom Lane highlights how, with the proper interventions, even modest, underutilised places in congested urban settings can be transformed into assets that work hard and add to the city's cultural and visual appeal. Bloom Lane thrives because it strikes a balance between aesthetics, usefulness, and community interaction. This transformation of an ordinary alley into an inspirational location demonstrates how small-scale urban interventions can have a big impact. Imaginative design can make even the most ignored streets work hard for the city and its residents.
On the other hand, across the Liffey, Exchange Street Lower, near Temple Bar and Essex Quay/Wood Quay in Dublin's city centre, is a public place that falls short of its potential, despite its prominent location, and the cultural and historical value of its surroundings. The street is disappointing due to poor design, neglect, and missed opportunities. This alleyway lacks individuality, with a dreary and utilitarian style that fails to capture the liveliness of its surroundings. Compared to the bustling and distinct atmosphere of adjacent districts, it feels generic, with no unique features or undefined architectural elements to catch attention or engage passersby.
Adjacent restaurants attempt to activate the route's courtyard with outdoor seating. The courtyard, a hidden space with potential, remains disconnected and underutilised, further emphasising the need for cohesive planning. Other efforts such as The Báite Viking longboat – a unique feature that hints at the potential for the street to connect more deeply with Dublin’s rich history and culture, via an artistic installation that draws upon the city’s Viking heritage – remains a point of pride and intrigue for both locals and tourists. However, much like the street itself, the longboat fails to engage its surroundings or the fleeting glances of those who wander.
Despite its high traffic volume, Exchange Street Lower is hardly working, offering little to encourage visitors to stop and interact. The lack of greenery, benches, or other pedestrian-friendly amenities restricts its function to that of a shortcut rather than a destination. Exchange Street Lower represents a missed opportunity to connect key cultural landmarks in Dublin.
Exchange Street Lower and Bloom Lane are both instances of Dublin's tiny urban areas. Bloom Lane demonstrates how small-scale, smart interventions – such as decent lighting, regular maintenance, and the introduction of public art – can transform an alley into a dynamic and engaging location. In contrast, Exchange Street Lower exemplifies the dangers of neglect and a lack of purpose, even in a desirable location. The striking contrasts between the two demonstrates the transformative power of design and investment in urban settings. Where Bloom Lane works hard to create value for the city, Exchange Street Lower rarely works, and remains an untapped asset waiting to be realised. Bloom Lane demonstrates how intelligent interventions may transform a space into a dynamic and engaging environment, while Exchange Street Lower is emblematic of neglect and wasted opportunities.
Examining Dublin's unofficial Italian quarter, Bloom Lane, in contrast with Exchange Street Lower, an area that suffers from neglect, poor design, and missed opportunities, Sarah Adekoya highlights the importance of purposeful interventions in urban development.
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