In 2015, an estimated one million people entered Europe in search of a better life [1]. Driven by conflict and hardship in regions across Africa and the Middle East, refugees and migrants began establishing migratory routes, with many first arriving in southern European cities like Athens. I visited Athens in October 2015, when borders were still open, and the impact of the influx was palpable. Migrants gathered in public spaces across the city, waiting for the opportunity to continue northward. Nearly a decade later, Dublin has emerged as one of their chosen destinations.

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Smog regularly shrouds the identity of the city of Athens and, like the negated identity of the city, the migrant’s individualism is hidden within the general term of ‘refugee’ or ‘migrant’. Like migrants in Dublin, they are an overlooked presence in society. The vast numbers that appropriate the streets reach a saturation point, and their excessive visibility normalises their vulnerability; their neglected state goes unnoticed.

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The urban fabric of Athens is shaped by the polykatoikia, a residential typology that forms a homogenous concrete landscape symbolising structure and order. The ground floors of these buildings, often housing commercial shops, typically extend out toward the street, with storefronts showcasing goods to entice both locals and tourists. However, amid Greece's economic recession many of these commercial units were left vacant, creating spaces that had relinquished their original purpose, with residential space occupied above.

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In Dublin, the inverse is present – streets become inhabited, and homes fall to ruin. Buildings lie dormant, shops remain shuttered, and migrants occupy the space outside in public parks, neglected street corners, and undercrofts between city blocks. Deprived of formal spaces, they adapt – carving out niches within these leftover spaces. Here, new uses arise, as migrants imprint a new meaning onto these areas, illustrating de Certeau’s notion of space defined “by its users, not by its makers” [2]. These urban inversions reveal social functions, and the inequalities, embedded within the city’s structure.

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One can observe the migrant to be trapped, both literally and metaphorically, somewhere between their homeland and their future home, belonging to neither. For many, Athens is but a transitory stop en route to final destinations like Dublin. In both cities, the streets become waiting rooms, as migrants tend to slip into the interstitial spaces clustering together where the city is void of life. Since Covid, city centre occupation has been cast aside by Athenian and Dubliner, in favour of the suburbs and a working-from-home culture. This exodus has created ambiguous spaces that “belong to everybody and nobody” [3], allowing for alternative forms of occupation by those without other options. These spaces of leisure, such as city squares or pedestrian zones designed for strolling, dining, and sightseeing, juxtapose with migrants’ makeshift domestic activities – sleeping in public parks, bathing at public fountains, or scavenging for food. Migrants, like discarded objects, can become “matter out of place” [4], and in their new context they are overlooked because their new identity has yet to be defined. These “waiting rooms” underscore the migrants' vulnerability and the visible yet unnoticed aspect of their existence.

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In both Dublin and Athens, everyday life subtly reveals the social contrasts shaping these cities. Simple acts like airing laundry highlight the divisions within society. In more affluent areas of Athens and Dublin, laundry retracts internally, as some regard the obtrusive display of laundry as a marker of poverty and disorder. In the more affluent areas of Athens, the balcony is no longer associated with domestic chores but with leisure. The allocation of additional space internally and economic provision of dryers allows the task to be internalised. In contrast, the polykatoikia facades serve as supports for drying racks, with undergarments displayed unashamedly beside household linens, giving glimpses of the inhabitants’ lives. The facades of the polykatoikia recede, drawing focus to the laundry and blurring the boundary between public and private realms.

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For migrants, the technique of laundry is radically transformed, driven by their context and estranged from their origin. The lack of resources and mechanisms to launder obliges the migrant to forsake the clothes they choose so carefully for their journey. Their acceptance of donated clothing is an initial signifier of their acceptance, whether willing or not, of a new social identity in their host country. Once they find a stabilising presence, their clothes become suspended on incongruous objects that once restricted movement – such as chain-link fences. Like the migrant’s identity which has been altered, the chain-link fence is read anew, and hints at their creativity in repurposing their context.

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Whether the clothes are draped over a fence, or hung on balconies of the polykatoikia balconies, the smoggy air of Athens knows no boundaries and it subjects the migrant, the local, and the tourist to the same atmospheric conditions – creating an invisible platform of equivalence, curbing any difference previously uncovered through the indexical system of laundry. In Dublin, the same conditions must also emerge.

“Every city can choose to make different decisions and can choose to transform itself. The first step involves a candid conversation about where it is, and where it will end up if it doesn’t change course” [1].

– Brent Toderian, former chief planning officer of Vancouver

The city of Dublin is a continuous work in progress with no end to its development, no finish line at which to turn back and reflect upon a job well done, or otherwise. Yet if, as architect and writer Peter Carl suggests, “the city grants the possibility of profound understanding of one’s collective place in reality” [2], then we must stop to consider how it is being developed. Dublin’s present headlong, blinkered development has allowed capitalism, rather than a cohesive and considered planning model, to deliver our built environment. This has resulted in unsatisfactory districts inhabited behind fences and high walls, hollowed by corporate interest and abandoned beyond business hours. The prioritisation of foreign direct investment continues to segment large swathes of the city into streets of inappropriate, single use, and careless capital-driven development creating monocultured city districts which continue to ignore the needs of the city’s primary stakeholders: its inhabitants.

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This reckless acquiescence to the whims of capitalism has left, in particular, our expanding North and South Docklands and their environs devoid of civic values and social inclusion, with privatised central courtyards in place of public realm. An ideological bridge is needed between the material world of investment-driven construction and the socio-cultural world of active public participation and daily inhabitation. We must consider what mechanisms of planning control could enable our city and its people to develop in concert, and what a reconfiguration of civic ideals could look like.

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In his 2015 essay Civic Depth [3], urban and architectural theorist Peter Carl explores an idealistic, rather than capital-driven, city model for a renewed civic-oriented public realm. Predating urbanist Carlos Moreno’s 15-minute city, and championing many of the same basic principles, Carl expresses the idea that, in order for a city to fulfil the needs of its residents and foster a sense of community or identity, its districts must be composed of a range of distinct civic and programmatic functions. From a spatial point of view, this mix of programme is necessary “in order to ensure the presence of people who go outdoors on different schedules and are in a place for different reasons, but who are able to use many facilities in common”. In this instance, Carl uses the word civic not to refer to a use case necessarily, but to something which “orientates architecture towards the shared conditions of urbanity or common ground”. Civic depth suggests a participatory character in shaping not just the physical realm but one’s rights to it. Not to be simply interchanged with public space, civic ground is based on inclusive collective civic values and shared usage of space accommodating the multiplicity of potential needs within a community. Opposing the generally limited city planning view of “public” and “private” as the only two modalities, Carl lays a spectrum upon the modes which comprise the city and “the public situations that penetrate the whole of urban life”, from domestic to the most civic ceremonial and ritualistic spaces of law courts, religious settings etc. Carl’s theory follows from the well-established convergence of urban theorists such as Jane Jacobs, Leon Krier, Kevin Lynch, and Christopher Alexander, all of whom championed the need for resilient urban quarters to be formed of what Jacobs referred to as “combinations or mixtures of uses, not separate uses, as the essential phenomena” [4], inclusive of diverse peoples and purposes.

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This spectrum is the basis of civic depth: a lived, diverse, and shared city for and by its people. The city cannot exist as wholly public or private, our urban fabric must accommodate all shades of the two. It is the presence, co-existence, and intermingling of this civic depth which creates the intangible draw of cities. An overlapping common space promotes interaction between people who differ in their political convictions, their social, cultural, and economic backgrounds.

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An example of civic depth successfully enacted is Parisian mayor Anne Hidalgo’s creation of some fifty “15-minute cities” throughout Paris’s arrondissements during her tenure as city mayor. Hidalgo has been working continuously with urbanist Carlos Moreno, whose hugely influential 2021 article Introducing the “15-Minute City”: Sustainability, Resilience and Place Identity in Future Post-Pandemic Cities describes the attributes of a 15-minute city [5]. A fundamental tenet of the 15-minute city is that most daily necessities and services, such as work, shopping, education, healthcare, and leisure should be easily accessible by a 15-minute walk, bike ride, or journey on public transport. This has been pursued in Paris through the implementation of policy at all levels. In a 2024 interview on the success of the Paris’s urban transformation, Moreno stated “I said to Hidalgo, the 15-minute city is not an urban traffic plan. The 15-minute city is a radical change of our life” [6]. From a transport perspective, through-traffic has been phased out of the city. Pedestrians and cyclists now have priority in the city centre, which has transformed once heavily trafficked areas such as those along the Seine and at Rue du Rivoli [7]. Commercially, a two-hundred-million-euro subsidiary has been established to manage retail areas, with rates set below those of the speculative real estate market. The subsidiary specifically rents to small independent shops, artisans, bakeries, and bookstores because these, Moreno states, create “a more vibrant neighbourhood” [8].

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While the many changes implemented in the course of Paris’s metamorphosis have not been without difficulty or controversy, it is an example of civic depth successfully enacted: a model for Dublin in policy and ideology. It offers a route to resisting senseless monocultured development and establishing diverse, historically significant, and socially inclusive urban districts. We can choose to provide a critically caring social, economic, and cultural urban realm.

“There was originally a bench here”, we were told. We had brought our own bench, fabricated in a garden in Inchicore, made from fragments of marble from a gravestone mason in Shankill and metal from a scrapyard in Rathmines. The previous bench was significant to at least this one bypasser, who stopped to talk to us, remembering how she would sit there with her son. 

For a few minutes our replacement reintroduced a place to stop, to rest and to look, and whatever else you might do with a bench, on the banks of the Grand Canal. And then with its aluminium legs removed and carried on bungee cords, marble bench top tipped onto the caster wheel tucked beneath the seat, it was rolled away, cold autumn sun once again hitting the old bench’s phantom outline in the tarmac. Invited by the Irish Architecture Foundation to build a bench as part of Dublin’s Open House Festival, reflecting on Dublin’s approach to public infrastructure through the vehicle of a humble seat, we transported our bench from place to place and talked to those we met along the way, about public space, and about Dublin.

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The bench has its own personality, made from bits of Dublin, yet looked quite at odds with everything around it. The seat consisted of three broken fragments of Carrara marble fastened to an armature of metal grating, laid on a pair of mismatched legs. The thing itself is quite different to what we sketched out when discussing what an object that embodies the character of Dublin might be. Yet somehow it must be a reflection of the city - it reveals another side, maybe an unexpected one, some hidden identity. Built through DIY methodologies, it was designed through the act of construction, in relation to the materials we found, the constraints of the city’s transport, and the skills we could learn from other friends here. The object manifests as an almost automatic response to that which was offered to us circumstantially, by the city; a reconstitution of ruined bits of urban waste, discarded things which nevertheless played some previous part in the grand narrative of Dublin. Breton described this as “the emergence of a solution, which, by its very nature, could not come to us along ordinary logical paths”, deciding that such spontaneously developed solutions are “always superior…rigorously fitting and yet somehow in excess of the need” [1].

This sense of excess is not something which could be ascribed to many public amenities in Dublin - the general discourse tends to be more one of lack, of exclusion. While excess is not an approach which should be generally applied to the city’s urban spaces in terms of material, there is definitely cause for more generosity of intention. In its excessive-ness the bench represents an attitude towards the shape and feel of our public spaces. It offers a portrait of a place which reveals itself rather than one which is preordained, a place which might offer many yet-unknown possibilities to the city’s inhabitants, which might embody its own value to our collective public life.

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The spaces around the Grand Canal in Portobello have already provided a case study for this accidental, or perhaps provoked, collective appropriation of public space. Earlier in the year, following the removal of an encampment of homeless people, many of whom were immigrants and asylum seekers, fencing was installed along the canal banks, displacing those living there, and excluding the public from a valued and diversely-used shared space. In response, a guerilla art installation was produced, led by Rank’n’File Collective, turning a physical marker of exclusion into a backdrop for works of protest, and expressions of disapproval from community members. 

“This fence is racist. This fence is anti-homeless. This fence is anti-community. This fence will be torn down” [2].

The fence became the framework for a public exhibition space, easy to hang works from, lined along a busy pedestrian path, an accidental design language for a public space of dissent, before being torn down by protesters and finally removed by Waterways Ireland and Dublin City Council. Lefebvre writes that “The street is disorder… This disorder is alive. It informs. It surprises” [3]. The design of public spaces is not a fixed production, but something which grows through occupation, formulating itself functionally and aesthetically through its unpredictable use and misuse.

This was not the first time this part of the city found itself at the centre of Dublin’s battle for non-commercial public space. Portobello Square has become emblematic of this tension, between the living city and the intense council oversight attempting to enforce both a public order and a fixed public aesthetic. 

The square was a popular social space and an important part of Dublin’s skate community, “a rare example of what can be on offer for anyone who wants a space to socialise in the city, without the need to pay for doing so” [4]. This was until its closure in 2021 to provide storage space for the construction of a new hotel, hoarding off a public amenity for the private use of a commercial entity, in return for the vague promise of future landscape redevelopment on the site. This came after a long period of protest and attempts by the square’s users to begin conversations around its development into a more sustainable public space through the provision of toilets and bins, actions which were returned with an increased Garda presence.

The harris fencing exhibition was an echo of a previous work by Reclaim Our Spaces, who pasted a participatory timeline on the sites surroundings in 2023, reflecting on the square’s value to the city and the implications of its redevelopment on local people. The fact that this redevelopment failed to reflect the character or use which the place previously embodied, in many ways actively suppressing those uses through the implementation of skate stopping furniture, shows the direct conflict of public infrastructure development with actual public sentiment. Between occupation, temporary closure, and potential formalisation, the square is in stasis.

The discourse around Dublin’s public spaces and infrastructures is a frequently negative one. As a symbolic object, the public bench represents many of Dubliners’ most deeply felt qualms with their city; homelessness, price inflations, diminishing cultural amenities, lack of non-commercial urban space. It embodies the idea of public infrastructure in general, as an object which invites anyone to stop and stay in a specific place, without cost or criteria. Public infrastructures are conduits for how we can interact with the city, as individuals and communities, and their presence implies a trust in the city’s inhabitants, simply to be and use their city as they see fit. As a designed, material object, a bench may proclaim the value we place on our shared urban fabric, on our city’s character. 

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Before arriving at the IAF’s exhibition space on Charlemont Walk, the bench travelled for one day around Dublin, hosting a series of discussions with local occupiers of public space and random passersby, who shared their time and views with us. What’s clear from these discussions is that, bench or not, people will find a place in the city to do what they want to. Yet a bench signifies a generosity, a shared amenity which somehow one expects as a right of the urban dweller, even for those who are less compelled or less able to carve out their place in the public realm through more unconventional means.

We are left to wonder - if so much happens in the absence of characterful, situated, or even basic infrastructure, what is possible if the public are supported in their inhabitation of our shared spaces?

The Irish Architecture Foundation commissioned rubble to make Benchmark on the occasion of Open House Dublin 2024. The commission is part of Rubble’s participation in GapLab, a programme of strategic mentoring and development for graduate architects to support and sustain risk and their critical practice in architecture.

Arguably one of the most novel features of the New European Bauhaus (NEB) is its inclusion of ‘beauty’ as a core value. In tying the concept of beauty to sustainability and problem-solving, the NEB is appealing for a new sensitivity in the built environment. This will have a significant impact on how we think about architecture. Few lament the late Hawkins House in Dublin, however, the loss of its predecessor: the art-deco Theatre Royal, is mourned to the present day. Beauty matters, and retaining old buildings will require a re-evaluation of their beauty, while new-builds embodying the NEB concept of beauty might encounter fewer calls for their demolition and replacement.

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The climate crisis has been addressed by the European Commission with the launch of the European Green Deal in 2019, an ambitious legislative agenda to create the world’s first carbon-neutral continent by 2050. This was followed by the NEB in 2020, a cultural programme intended to engender connections between citizens and the goals of the Green Deal and enable the scaling up of effective local actions taking place across the EU.

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The NEB is structured around three core values: sustainability, inclusion, and beauty, arguing that combining a deep consideration of each of these values generates the maximum social and environmental benefit from any deployment of resources. The NEB promotes a revolution in mindsets, envisaging greater sensitivity to limiting resource use while achieving social justice, thereby ensuring a desirable, sustainable future for citizens.

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By centring the plan around beauty, the NEB recognises that part of communicating a more hopeful future is to offer a more beautiful alternative vision. The NEB does not advocate for any specific architectural aesthetic. While borrowing the name of the historical Bauhaus school, it does not endorse the modernist style associated with the movement. The name instead echoes the aims of the historical Bauhaus: to address the pressing crises of the times through design and innovative thinking. The NEB defines beauty as a rich emotional and sensual experience, brought about by the application of “sensitivity, intelligence, and competences” into the fashioning of satisfying experiences for people [1].

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The NEB offers guidance for those designing projects (including building projects/services/ products/community events etc.) on how to evoke the quality of beauty as understood by the initiative. It defines three levels of ambition, paraphrased here from the NEB Compass document [1]. First, projects should aspire to (re)activate the qualities of a site/context while promoting physical and mental well-being. Second, projects should seek to offer opportunities for connection between people, places, and the non-human world, fostering “a sense of belonging through meaningful collective experiences”. Finally, the highest ambition involves offering opportunities for new creative, social, and cultural currents to emerge/coalesce through the project. By considering each of these factors in relation to a project and tying them in with the values of sustainability and inclusion described elsewhere by the NEB, actors can optimise the benefits of their project and demonstrate the desirability of an NEB-aligned future.

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Since the advent of modernism, beauty has often been side-lined as an aspiration in architectural design, viewed with suspicion as a reactionary bourgeois value [2], or a relic of the clash of historical styles of the nineteenth century [3]. Modernists like Bauhaus director Hannes Meyer embraced functionalism, a rational approach to form and expression, denying the role of “art” in construction [4]. Functionalism found favour as an inexpensive and ideologically credible approach to building, which in less talented hands has resulted in an aesthetically impoverished built environment. The technical limitations of modernism for much of its history have resulted in a legacy of inefficient buildings, which has led to wholesale demolition in Dublin and elsewhere. The aesthetic and energy limitations of modern architecture have gained pertinence through the reconsideration of these buildings in terms of their embodied carbon and the consequent necessity to retain them.  

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The nature of architecture as a public art, with an involuntary relationship between the public and their exposure to architectural designs, has been argued to place an ethical duty on architects to strive for beauty in their work [5]. In a world where the demolition of buildings will become increasingly rare and perhaps exceptional, this ethical consideration becomes heightened. The lifespan of buildings and building envelopes will inevitably expand as carbon budgets shrink. The public acceptance of the retention of buildings can be influenced by the perceived presence of beauty. The NEB argues that public buy-in for a resource-restricted future will depend on selling it as a lifestyle improvement on the status quo. If buildings are to be retained indefinitely, they should embody the qualities the NEB seeks to imbue: a sensitive, intelligent reading of physical and social context, a compassionate appeal to our senses and emotional well-being, and the opportunity for connection and new social dynamics through thoughtful design. Whether the current crop of speculative developments achieves these goals is questionable; however, with the ever-increasing urgency of the climate crisis, building in the absence of these values may soon become unjustifiable.

Irish vernacular architecture, characterised by its thoughtful integration with the landscape, offers more than just aesthetic value; it embodies a philosophy of living that is both environmentally sustainable and culturally meaningful. As contemporary society increasingly prioritises sustainability and the preservation of cultural identity, these traditional practices provide essential insights that can inform modern architectural approaches.

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Vernacular dwellings, which are often overlooked as outdated, are in fact sophisticated examples of sustainable design and construction. These structures were carefully crafted using locally sourced materials, such as stone, wood, and thatch – chosen not only for their ready availability but also for their ability to harmonise with the surrounding environment. The design of these buildings was inherently responsive to the local climate and cultural context, while features like thick stone walls provided natural insulation and thatched roofs offered superior thermal performance and ventilation. Despite their historical significance and environmental value, many of these buildings have been neglected as rural areas have faced depopulation, and modern construction methods have become the norm.

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The recent revival of interest in vernacular architecture presents a unique opportunity for architects to explore and reimagine sustainable practices grounded in local traditions. By preserving and adapting these traditional structures, architects can address pressing issues such as the erosion of local cultures, the need for sustainable building practices, and the challenge of integrating new construction into historically and environmentally sensitive areas along with delivering much needed development to rural regions of the country. These buildings serve as living examples of how architecture can be both functional and reflective of a community’s identity, providing models for how contemporary design can engage with historical context in a meaningful way.

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The preservation and study of Ireland’s vernacular buildings offer significant lessons for both renovation and new construction. These structures should not be seen as relics of the past, but rather should become deeply embedded in the cultural and environmental fabric of the landscape. They represent a way of building that is resourceful, respectful of the natural world, and intimately connected to the land. The durability and effectiveness of local materials which have been proven through their long-standing use could be embraced and their use supported, with stone walls, thatched roofs, and lime plasters stand as both functional and aesthetically compelling construction elements.

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Vernacular construction methods can also be seen to inform modern architectural practices. For example, an emphasis on using locally sourced materials can reduce the environmental footprint of construction projects, whilst also supporting local economies and fostering a sense of community. This approach encourages a rethinking of contemporary building practices, moving away from the reliance on generic, mass-produced materials toward those that are contextually appropriate and environmentally sustainable. The RIAI Guidelines for the Conservation of Buildings [1] offers practical guidelines on how architects can achieve this balance between creating modern homes, and preserving both the heritage and character of these buildings.

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For architects, the study and application of vernacular buildings offers a profound opportunity to engage with issues of sustainability, cultural preservation, and environmental stewardship. The principles of vernacular architecture provide a valuable framework for re-thinking the relationship between the built environment and the natural world. The revival of traditional practices should not simply an exercise in historical preservation; it should be a forward-looking strategy that can inform the development of buildings and communities that are resilient, sustainable, and culturally resonant.

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As Ireland continues to navigate the challenges of introducing advanced construction methodologies, the need to balance progress with preservation has become increasingly critical. Guides like Caring for our Vernacular Heritage [2] offers a model for achieving this balance, providing a blueprint for creating buildings that are sustainable, culturally significant, and connected to the their place. By embracing these principles, the architectural community in Ireland and beyond can foster the development of homes and communities that are not only functional, but also living embodiments of the landscape and culture from which they emerge.

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The exploration of vernacular architecture should not merely be academic exercise, but should form a vital practice, significantly informing the ‘making’ of architecture. These traditional methods, rooted in a deep understanding of the environment and culture, offer invaluable lessons for contemporary architecture. Traditional skills are required to achieve this type of architecture, and these skills should be fostered through apprenticeship programmes, and the development of guideline documents such as the RIAI Skills Matrix for Conservation Projects. As we look to the future, drawing on this rich heritage will be essential in creating buildings and communities that are sustainable, culturally rich, and deeply connected to the natural world. Through reimagining the principles of the past, as architects, we can build a present that honours and preserves Ireland’s architectural legacy, ensuring that it remains a living, breathing part of the landscape for generations to come.

There are almost 30,000 preschool children living in Dublin City [1], but a brief stroll with a toddler in hand can be a perilous journey. You clutch that hand tightly for fear of traffic trundling past, sometimes having to step out onto the road to bypass cars parked on the footpath. These safety concerns are compounded by the trip hazards of poorly maintained footpaths, which can lead to cut little knees and lots of tears. Research shows that the views of young children and their caregivers are rarely considered in urban planning and design decisions [2]. Meanwhile caregivers living in Dublin City report that environmental hazards often leave them with little choice but to drive, even short distances, rather than walking [3].  

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However, short walks through and around their local neighbourhood are of significant developmental value to young children [4]. Each excursion is a potential world of wonder and amazement for a toddler, whether they’re watching the slow meandering of a snail across a footpath, or a truck driver unloading a delivery. Along the way there might be small chats with neighbours, one or two steep steps to climb, or maybe a puddle to splash in. These encounters and experiences support children’s social, physical, and cognitive development.

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Urban95, a global programme funded by the Bernard Van Leer Foundation [5], is advocating for cities where preschoolers can thrive, by posing the question: “If you could experience your city from 95cm — the height of a three-year-old — what would you change”?

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Urban95 works with LSE Cities (at the London School of Economics) to explore this question, offering the Urban95 Academy, an educational initiative where city leaders can learn to plan and design cities that address the needs of toddlers and their caregivers. Through the Urban95 Academy, a delegation from Dublin City Council, including Liz Coman, DCC’s Assistant Arts Officer and Cllr Cat O’Driscoll, Chairperson of the Arts, Culture, Leisure and Community SPC [6], has been exploring the possibility of a city designed with young children in mind.  

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This exploration has resulted in the Dublin Urban95 Pilot Project, an innovative art-based project seeking to raise awareness within DCC of how the city is experienced by young children and their caregivers. Four artists were supported to creatively engage directly with children and create work in response to that engagement. O’Driscoll describes the project as a unique opportunity to access the views of preschool children. “Young children are a voiceless group on urban planning and design, but so good at showing what they like,” she says.

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For Coman, using creative practices to engage with children was key. “We knew we would get very rich data if we worked with artists to explore the city from the perspective of young children, and we are in a very unique situation to have a number of artists in Dublin whose whole practice involves working with young children,” she explains.

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The project focussed on the theme of mobility. With that in mind, Lucy Hill, one of the participating artists, explored comfort objects children take with them on trips they make in the city [7]. Comfort objects shared with Hill include: a hand-knit teddy; a little blue torch decorated with embossed love hearts; cars and dollies; and of course, some much loved soothers. These precious items support what Hill describes as “a feeling of ease and belonging” for young children as they venture out into the city.

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The three other artists involved in the project were Michelle Browne, Helen Barry, and Órla Kelly. Browne curated three geolocated audio essays developed by three writers, each of whom explored the adult experience of moving through the city with small children in tow.

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Helen Barry created Sculptunes in the Park, a multisensory sound installation made both for and with children to support curiosity and play. Órla Kelly developed Mapping My City with a group of young children attending an urban preschool. The children mapped out their everyday walks, identifying hazards such as broken glass and dog waste on the paths. They also mapped a parallel imaginative experience which included encounters with a tiger, witches’ hats, and doors where zombies hide.

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Together the various artworks shed valuable light on the everyday experience of young children in our urban environment. To enrich the qualitative data gathered through this project, the council issued a survey [8] on young children and mobility. The responses show a pattern of difficulties with cars blocking footpaths, dog waste, and poorly maintained footpaths. Using these data sets, O’Driscoll says the next step is to develop a toddler manifesto for Dublin, which is an “articulation of the needs of babies and toddlers” in the city. She says she is committed to advocating for this manifesto to be resourced and fully implemented.

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The Urban95 programme describes the presence of children as “a measure of a city’s vibrancy and dynamism” [9]. This is supported by research from Arup which identifies the presence of children in the urban public realm as an indicator of how well a city is performing [10]. DCC’s work in exploring preschool children’s views and experiences through the Dublin Urban95 Pilot Project is a positive step toward ensuring the city meets their needs. In turn, an increased presence of young children in the urban public realm will foster a more vibrant, dynamic Dublin City.

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A report of the Dublin Urban95 Pilot Project and its findings will be available on the DCC website in the coming months.

You’ll eventually ruin a good thing if you’re always questioning it.

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Growing up in Longford you are conscious of the identity of this small town. A town which was stretched like a cloth in many ways and was never certain of what it wants to be. The Main Street, the Train Station, the Market Square and the Cathedral, each of the town's main focal points and civic centres all detached, becoming islands in their own right, separated by tarmac streams and rivers. 

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The rambling Park Road becomes Earl Street as it meets the station, then Ballymahon Street as it strides past the Market Square, and before you know it you are on Main Street with little give away that there has been any change at all; bar the street signs high on the corner buildings edges. As this long stretch of street intersects with the river Camlin it becomes Bridge Street, previously the gateway to the rest of the town, when Longford's centre was perched on the north embankment.

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A path taken by many crossing Ireland along the Slighe Assail, an ancient highway running East to West from the Drogheda area, upon which the urban centre of Longphort is believed to date from. Born around the fifteenth century with its inception as a Gaelic market settlement, Longford once trickled parallel to the north bank of the River Camlin. The original town ‘square’ or trapezoid was capped by a market house, flanked to the west by O’ Farrell’s castle and St John’s Church to the East. This square, unnamed, was once the epicentre of the ‘old town’, yet now it's little more than a chicaned byroad and car parking for the solicitors and dentists which occupy the grandest buildings sitting nearby. Contrary to its place of origin, along the clay banks of the river, Longford never intended to interact with the river so intensely – it was always about overcoming an obstacle, acting as a resting stop, halfway across Ireland. A town of streets, an arguably linear settlement with unrhythmic public space due to its origination as that of a road, uncertain what its hierarchical formation is.

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The development of the cavalry barracks in the early eighteenth century pushed public life south of the river, with industry and manufacturing happening along the south bank with businesses – such as a distillery, corn mill and tannery – making use of the fast flowing Camlin. But, as described in the Historic Towns Atlas of Longford, the greatest boost to the towns economic life  came with the Royal Canal in 1830; in part due to plans for the canal to pass only eight kilometres from the town and local traders successfully convincing the canal company to build a harbour in Longford town. With this significant investment of infrastructure, many large-scale buildings began to pop up around the town. A new market hall, a market square adjacent and, of course, storehouses and warehouses. This area to the south of the town had at this stage totally taken over the old town as the commercial centre, as larger institutional buildings and residences were built to the north. It is these two spaces that act as the focus to this discussion, as one playfully juxtaposes the other. 

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The town, in many ways, is a town of urban iconography. Upon the sports shirts and school crests sits the cathedral; at the end of the main street stretch sits the Barracks wall’s and gate’s; while the market building stands free in the largest open ‘square’. Everyone knows these icons, yet rarely interacts with them, only in a way akin to how you might interact with a ruin that you might spot as you pass by. This iconography is personified by St Mel’s Cathedral, which was described as ‘an act of faith in stone’, or as I like to think of it, a cathedral at the junction of four roads. The fabric as I said is stretched, it doesn’t have a coherent pattern, perhaps why the town has behemoths like St Mel’s, the Market Square and Connolly Barracks; landmarks with such purpose that it didn’t matter where they rooted as long as they are seen to be there.

This is where I begin to wonder if it is Longford's relationship to modernity that caused the urban downfall of both the ‘old’ town square in the north and the new market square to the south. The market square could be looked at as a piece of pre-modernist planning, with the aim of creating a societal appreciation for the town's fabric through the creation of a larger, more accessible space focused on access; facilitated by barge, cart, and automobiles. It is through the use of the public infrastructure network surrounding the market square that the space thrives. Yet, it is these factors that have created its ‘island’ issue. 

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When I return to Longford and I walk between the Market Square and Church Street, I now realise that neither of these spaces are really working hard for the town; it is the icons that occupy them that are working hard for themselves while it is everything that connects them that is hardly working. A town born on the side of the road lost its identity somewhere along the way, and now in its hopeful adolescence, I hope these spaces can be seen, reimagined as possible palazzos, surrounded by institutions that beam the richness of the town's history. If we stop looking at these squares from the seats of our cars and occupy the street, we might really begin to understand what needs to change to allow the town to hardly work for its appreciation again.

Recent developments in urban design discourse in Ireland include an Urban Design Symposium at UCD in 2023 [1], during which proposals to pursue an accreditation for urban designers within the RIAI were discussed. While the Symposium’s published proceedings highlight Irish architecture’s broad professional commitments, any meaningful engagement with environmental or climate adaptation issues were glaringly absent.

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While it is too easy to point fingers and add to the rhetoric and calls for further expansion to the architect’s professional activities, the issue as I see it is rather that the profession of landscape architecture within Ireland remains critically underdeveloped. Elsewhere landscape architects are leading on large-scale urban adaptation projects and clearly articulating their role in the compounding climate and biodiversity crises. The urgent need for such professionals has led some of the western world’s most prized schools of architecture – the Bartlett School of Architecture, UCL; ETH Zurich; Pratt Institute – to inaugurate new professional programmes in landscape architecture in the past six years. To highlight the excitement and optimism that exists amongst its practitioners, Belgian landscape architect Bas Smets recently said that he was drawn to the field because “there’s still so many things to be invented" [2]. Landscape architecture, in other words, is finally having its moment.

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In this regard I wish to discuss the disciplinary formations and practices of landscape architecture which are relevant to the development of urban design in Ireland. I frame landscape architecture here in its most ambitious form as it intersects with processes of urbanisation and as it emerges as a field uniquely equipped to take on a diverse range of issues at the intersection of living systems, public space, and social injustices. I also argue that the landscape architect has as much of a claim today to lead on urban design projects as the architect, and that ongoing considerations to accredit architects as urban designers by the RIAI may end up excluding landscape architects from their work to adapt the city to the environmental and social challenges of the twenty-first century.

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Greater cultural awareness of the climate and ecological crises alongside an emerging consciousness of spatial injustices has positioned landscape architects as primary agents in the design of the built environment. This has perhaps been best articulated by Charles Waldheim in his 2016 publication Landscape as Urbanism, where he argues that traditional urban planning and design strategies – allied with the field of architecture – are incapable of reconciling with the pace and scale of urban change caused by both deindustrialization and market-driven urbanisation. As industry recedes from urban centres it is typically met with an inflow of global capital to capture opportunities for the making of buildings as financial machines. When the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey announced the sale of Brooklyn’s abandoned waterfront piers in the 1980s, plans to occupy the 1.3-mile waterfront with fourteen-storey apartment buildings quickly emerged, but community groups challenged such developments and mobilised political and financial support for the project that would become Brooklyn Bridge Park. Over twenty years, the planning and design of the 85-acre park was led by landscape architects Michael Van Valkenburgh Associates (MVVA), and since 2021 has provided contact with the waterfront, access to an array of outdoor programming from sports fields to moments of solitude, offered open space to diverse communities, and acts as a bulwark to worsening storm surges. Brooklyn Bridge Park is a masterful choreography of expansive and intimate public space, curated views, play opportunities, and a thickening weave of volumetric plant and landscape material that is everywhere missing from cities.

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While urban design and development typically limits the biophysical world to remaining parcels of open space, at Brooklyn Bridge Park this pattern is overturned. MVVA worked with economic planners to calculate the annual maintenance costs for the landscape – providing the logic for the volume of building development along its edges that would directly finance the park through property taxes. The subversion of architecture to landscape architecture in this case of urban development is instructive in longstanding debates over which design disciplines have the authority to guide decisions on the formation of the city. Yet the moment we find ourselves in – global heating, ecosystem devastation, landscape contamination, coastal vulnerability, stormwater pollutants, spatialised social inequities – requires a new kind of design intelligence led by the logic of landscape. While disciplinary formation in the design and planning professions mean that landscape architecture enjoys little public awareness or professional authority in Ireland, across the world landscape architects are leading on infrastructural urban design projects that are absorbing the shocks of these crises at the intersection of urban and living systems.

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An unspoken premise within urban design discourse is often that the work of landscape architects is responsible for unmooring architectural quality from urban space. To be sure, there are endless examples of poorly executed work by landscape architects, just as there are from architects. Yet for prominent architect and urban designer Vittorio Magnago Lampugnani, the emergence of landscape architecture in recent decades from within parks and gardens – at least where he is looking – into streets and the rest of the urban fabric has resulted in his call for a total abandonment of landscape in the city: “If we want to respect and preserve nature, we must not confuse it or mix it up with the city … The city must withdraw into its own space, develop distinct boundaries and concentrate on itself, becoming dense, solid and as hard as stone" [3]. Lampugnani’s admiration for the historic Italianate urban fabric and the writings of Aldo Rossi have caused conceptual upset and led to the reasoning that denser and harder cities mean more space for nature in the hinterlands. But cities are not closed systems. 

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Landscape urbanism is being internationally embraced in the discourse of urban design to organise the urban fabric around biophysical systems. Yet discursive formations of urban design in Ireland, at least as suggested by the recent Research, Discipline, and Practice: UCD Urban Design Symposium 2023 seem to consider landscape only in its pictorial dimension. For example, in the symposium’s published proceedings the only engagement with a landscape framework is by Finola O’Kane. Here it is engaged as a “landscape perspective” (or viewshed) comparison of Irish town squares using late nineteenth century photography with more recent equivalents. O’Kane’s lesson is that both incidental developments that have taken place in town squares – such as at Moville, Co. Donegal – and deliberate design attempts – such as at Eyre Square in Galway – are both responsible for “the loss of significance in urban space" [4]. The historical photographs certainly attest to the existence of a kind of character which Irish architects are perennially preoccupied with. Yet these historical examples show either acres of sealed ground or lawn with trees as framing mechanisms. In other words, these spaces are highly impoverished biophysically, and while this may seem to be less of a concern in very small rural towns where opportunities may be more widely available to slow down and remediate surface water pollutants and capture airborne particulates through green infrastructure – these areas are increasingly inundated with water from more frequent storm surges and fewer opportunities to slow and absorb water upstream. These examples may be even less appropriate as visions for our urban future in Ireland’s larger towns and expanding cities.

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The project of the city in the twenty-first century will need to reformulate urban conceptions of character and aesthetics to grapple with compounding environmental and social pressures. Core to this project will require engaging plant and landscape material as figures in the urban fabric as they encounter and mobilize landscapes’ logic. Such a reorientation however is likely to prove challenging as they have historically featured as backdrop, framing, or embellishment to architectural logic and form. Compounding this challenge is the identification in recent decades of the complex phenomenon of “plant blindness” in Western society - that is the failure to notice or account for plants in daily life [5]. Although there are many theories that aim to account for landscape architecture’s inferior position in the design and planning fields, perhaps its association with plants which evolved to “avoid recognition” is perhaps one of the more compelling versions. Yet the collaborative endeavour with plants, soils, and water, mark landscape architects as the primary design experts working at the intersection of the built environment and living systems and such professional commitments are a critical contribution to leading the development of the twenty-first century city.

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I am sometimes asked whether architects can also do landscape architecture. Can landscape architects also make buildings? Prominent American landscape architect James Rose did design both gardens and houses for his clients. And if trained architects seek to become landscape architects through practice, then more power to them. But as design professionals operate in increasingly complex global conditions, I think we need to clarify the core knowledge of our fields and the relative value of those contributions to the built and unbuilt environment. Current discussions to provide an urban design accreditation for architects calls for broader conversations about what constitutes expertise in urban design, and how such accreditation would affect other built environment professionals who have as much of a claim to this work as architects. While the proceedings to the UCD Urban Design Symposium showed balanced views on who should be involved in urban design projects, some fervently advocated for this role to be led by architects. From where I stand, urban design constitutes a broadly interdisciplinary domain – it is hubris to suggest that the range of challenges which emerge here could only be uniquely led by architects. If the end goal is to design environmentally resilient, socially just, and beautiful Irish towns and cities – rather than to, as Matthew Carmona argues in the Symposium’s proceedings, “grab the territory professionally and define its limits through accreditation” [6] – then interdisciplinary venues to advance this project should be pursued. As landscape architecture slowly emerges as a profession and area of intellectual enquiry in Ireland, architects should embrace its possibilities for Irish cities, work to include landscape architects in urban design’s discursive developments, and support its emergence in the academy.

As I watched the incredible spectacle of the Olympics opening ceremony in Paris this summer, a city that has been at the forefront of traffic reduction, I wondered whether we in Ireland would have the courage and the sense of pride in our capital city to put it on display to the world like that.

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Considering cities like Paris’ transformative ambition for traffic reduction, the initial stages of the Dublin City Transport Plan have experienced disproportionate media coverage relative to their gentle impact on the everyday lives of citizens. While I acknowledge that this article contributes to that volume of coverage, I think it is worth looking at the issue with a wider lens.

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In his recent book, The City of Today is a Dying Thing, Des Fitzgerald comes to the realisation that the consistent objective of town and city planning in the twentieth century, from Ebenezer Howard’s Garden Cities to Le Corbusier’s Plan Voisin was “not really an attempt to transform urban space. Rather, it was an attempt to do away with the lively, messy, unpredictable city altogether” [1]. The title of Fitzgerald’s book comes from Le Corbusier’s 1929 work Urbanisme, which was feted on its publication as a solution to the “problem of the city” [2].

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This idea of cities as problems to be solved may explain some of the attitudes towards progress in our own capital city. In his seminal book on transport in Dublin, James Wickham reports that one of the reasons that people use cars in cities is to protect themselves from threats of violence, real or perceived, coming from outside the car [3]. In this context there is an obvious attraction to being able to drive from your safe, leafy suburb into a city-centre multi-storey car park, from where you can directly access the shops you wish to visit. You can be in the city without ever having to engage with the city.

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And perhaps there is good reason to view Dublin as a dangerous place, best avoided. The riots in Dublin city late last year and attacks on tourists have fed a narrative that the city centre is in decline and that people don’t want to go there. This narrative is not borne out by the reality.

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People still want to visit Dublin city and to spend their money there. Dublin City Council’s most recent Canal Cordon Count, from 2022, records that close to 180,000 people enter the city centre each day at the morning peak period. Of those entering the city only 28% do so by private car [4]. The latest report from the Dublin Economic Monitor records a continuing upward trajectory in retail spending going back to 2018. Even the impact of the Covid lockdown, which saw a dip in retail spending for quarter two of 2020, saw a return to the upward trajectory by quarter four of the same year. The biggest increases in spending have been in overseas visitors and in the entertainment sector [5].

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Therefore, the predicted negative impacts of the reduction in private cars in the city centre appear to be at best, exaggerated, while the benefits have perhaps been undersold. Recent supportive commentary on the Dublin City Centre Transport Plan has focussed on the need to reduce congestion and improve reliability of the bus network, the benefits of which are self-evident. Separately, the recent publication of a Noise Action Plan for Dublin has identified the Transport Plan as an important measure to “provide significant indirect noise reduction benefits” for the city centre [6]. The memory of the idyllic, quieter urban environment that prevailed during Covid lockdown still lingers, but we now know that reducing noise pollution is as much a public health issue as it is an aesthetic consideration [7].

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Amid the recent debates about the alarming increase in road deaths there has been little discussion about the direct relationship between the number of vehicles on the road and the number of traffic-related deaths and serious injuries. Reducing car traffic will make our cities safer for all, including car drivers.

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But perhaps the least discussed and the most important benefit that can accrue from a reduction in cars is the impact it has on social cohesion and community wellbeing. It is over fifty years since Don Appleyard first drew the connection between how heavily trafficked a street is and how well people know their neighbours [8]. He found that the isolation caused by heavy traffic was particularly acute for children and older people. This lack of a sense of community on heavily trafficked streets, he found, was tolerated by those who treated the street as a transient residence. Those who found it intolerable, especially families with children, moved elsewhere if they could. Those who were too poor to move, or too old, were left living in conditions they found intolerable. This is evidently not a good recipe for a strong and resilient urban community [9].

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A recent study found that Ireland has the highest levels of loneliness in Europe [10]. Ireland also has the second highest level of car-dependency in Europe [11]. This is no coincidence – the correlation between car-dependency and social isolation is well documented.

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Two and half weeks after the Olympic games first put Paris on display, we saw 20,000 people gather on the magnificent urban stage that is O’Connell Street in Dublin, to welcome home our Olympian heroes. Seeing this spectacle of young and old celebrating on the street gives me hope. perhaps we can learn to love the “lively, messy, unpredictable city” that is our capital, and that we can have the courage to make the decisions that will deliver a healthier, more attractive, and more liveable city.

During the past thirty years, the systems established by the Building Control Act 1992 have failed to prevent widespread significant defects in Irish housing, particularly apartments. The 2022 Report of the Working Group to Examine Defects in Housing found that 40-70% of all apartments built between 1991 and 2014 were likely affected by fire safety defects, and 50%-80% might be affected by one or more of fire safety, structural safety, or water ingress [1]. In this context, the announcement in June 2024 that a national Building Regulator is to be established is most welcome – but will it be sufficient to change a building and compliance culture established over decades?

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The creation of a regulator is an objective of the current Programme for Government and was recommended by the Building Standards Regulator Steering Group report of June 2024, which envisages an independent central competent authority with the powers of a national building control authority (“BCA”) and to ensure the adequate and consistent delivery of building control services, inspection and enforcement, to coordinate and provide support services to local authorities, and to ensure adequate inspection and enforcement of market surveillance of construction products [2]. The regulator is also intended to act as a repository of best practice – driving, promoting, and fostering compliance competency, and consistency, and building control.

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When I appeared before the Oireachtas housing committee in 2017, I advocated for the creation of such a body with those powers, and emphasised in particular the need for local building control bodies to be overseen by a national regulator; the resulting committee report recommended creation of a regulator in almost identical terms to that now proposed [3].

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I found in the course of my PhD research that enforcement activity by building control authorities nationally was sparse to non-existent, that there was no central repository of enforcement activity, and that most building control authorities were simply not resourced to carry out the level of inspections and enforcement needed for the system to be effective.

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I had found no evidence of any prosecutions ever being brought under the Building Control Act during the course of my PhD. Since then, I note that in the 2022 annual report for Dublin City Council that two prosecutions were initiated by that authority in 2022. I do not equate prosecution with effectiveness, but all of the international models and Irish models in other regulated industries show that effective and visible enforcement is an essential part of any regulated system.

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A fundamental requirement for the effectiveness of the regulator will be to ensure that it is resourced and staffed appropriately. The steering group report notes that in April 2023 there were fifty-eight full-time equivalent building control officers nationally, while suggesting that the new regulatory body will need around five-hundred staff. The steering group noted that 27% of new buildings were inspected in 2021. This means that the vast majority of new buildings are being inspected only by individuals who are appointed, and paid for, by owner/developers.

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The findings and recommendations of the Hackitt reports [4] and the Grenfell Tower Inquiry [5] have led to dramatic changes to the organisation of building control in the UK. The Hackitt report of May 2018 found that the current regulatory system for ensuring fire safety in high-rise and complex buildings was not fit for purpose both during construction and occupation, due to the culture of the industry and effectiveness of regulators. A new regulatory framework was recommended to cover fire and structural safety for the life-cycle of a building recorded in a digital record, focusing on the building as a system and analysing risk accordingly.

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The UK Building Safety Act 2022 creates the new statutory role of building regulator, establishes a regime for higher risk buildings, provides an extensive regime for remediation of defects, establishes a New Homes Ombudsman, and deals with regulation of construction products and regulation of inspectors. The Act incorporates governance of the building life cycle in into three gateways, including planning and design, construction, and occupation, thereby adopting the recommendation of the Hackitt report that a “golden thread” of information relation to building safety should be created and maintained, and should inform all future interventions in that building.

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It is surprising that the Irish Steering Group report does not refer to the Hackitt and Grenfell reports and the comprehensive overhaul of UK building regulation that led to the Building Safety Act 2022.  

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The Phase 2 (and final) report of the Grenfell Tower Inquiry was published in September 2024. Amongst its many recommendations are that the Government appoint an independent panel to consider whether it is in the public interest for building control functions to be performed by those who have a commercial interest in the process; this issue is also raised in the Hackitt reports. The Building Control (Amendment) Regulations system introduced in Ireland in 2014, often presented as the turning-point for cultural change in Irish building regulation, is designed to operate on this basis; designers and certifiers are appointed and paid for by developers and building owners themselves.

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It is vital that the regulatory model put in place should be informed by our recent history, international models for effective building regulation, and of the lessons learned elsewhere. Lives have been destroyed by building defects in Ireland. It is time to recognise the scale of what is required, and to apply ourselves to designing an effective model that will meet the enormous demand for new homes into the future.

“You can pass through streets almost every day of your life and hardly notice the changes that are taking place until one day, suddenly you realise that everything is different… It’s quite irrational but you do get the feeling of being dispossessed. In that warren of streets behind the quays you were safe from the world” [1].

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Elizabeth Leslie’s words from her 1965 Irish Times article "A northsider’s lament" demonstrate a dejection and a disillusionment among city dwellers with the mass urbanisation projects of their day. Dublin of the sixties was indeed a city in flux: a potent mix of crumbling tenements and newfound free-trade prosperity had gifted Sean Lemass’s government with the opportunity to raze 1,200 Georgian terraced houses in just eighteen months between ‘63 and ‘64 and ship the residents to peripheral suburbs, leading to an estimated reduction of 10,000 in the number of people living between the canals [2]. The Georgian city’s ‘warren’ of mews lanes was disappearing as the country sought to rid itself of the remnants of its colonial past and rebuild under the influence of new capital.

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Almost sixty years on from Leslie’s unanswered lament, not much has changed. Dublin’s built environment has grown ever more in service of the international market rather than its people, fostering a paradoxical city in which technocratic fantasies of steel and glass shroud realities of vacancy and vagrancy. The forgotten urban lanes embody this modern economic disparity. To many in power, the inner-city lanes are fetid spaces of dereliction, detritus, and drug use that offer no value within the urban system. This is reflected in Dublin City Council’s recent decision to close Harbour Court off Abbey Street [3], an unsatisfying "out of sight, out of mind" move that fails to address the underlying issue of disuse. Not only is this a crudely reductionist approach to a deeper systemic issue, but it comes in the wake of a 2018 laneway improvement strategy, Reimagining Dublin One Laneways, developed by Sean Harrington Architects for DCC [4], which has been woefully underutilised since its publication [5]. While the plan’s proposals to ameliorate blank facades and low footfall by improving surfacing and lighting remain relevant, it makes little reference to resolving the source of these blights: vacancy.

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In autumn 2023, Aisling Ward and Sophie Reid, two architecture master’s students at UCD, conducted an exercise in vacancy mapping of the Dublin 1 area that showed a high concentration of dereliction in three local lanes: Charles Lane, Grenville Lane, and Rutland Place (figure 1). Judging by a 1985 photograph (main image) of the house on the corner of Grenville Lane, some of these buildings have been slipping into ruin for almost forty years. Without meaningful intervention, the lanes’ dysfunction will only deepen, leaving them vulnerable to becoming what urban theorists call “terrain vague”: unproductive, unsafe, and uninhabitable voids alienated from the city around them. However, as architect Ignasi de Solà-Morales declared in his 1995 essay, Terrain Vague, the void can represent absence, but also hope: “the space of the possible, of expectation” [6]. While these lanes clearly expose the symptoms of negligent ownership and property speculation under capitalism, they also offer fertile testing grounds for the potential reclamation of abandoned city space. Applying the logic of Solà-Morales, the lanes’ absence of utilisation is what now makes them spaces of opportunity, opportunity that may flourish with a change of use and a change of ownership.

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Of the estimated eight vacant commercial properties sitting immediately on these three lanes, only one at Rutland Place is listed on the Vacant Site Register and therefore subject to the vacant site levy [7], a tax that has been widely ignored by property owners who owe up to €50 million across the country in unpaid levies [8]. In the context of the climate emergency and current housing exigencies, the council should – instead of maintaining a cycle of negligence based on the unwavering sanctity of private property ownership – take real action and start issuing Compulsory Purchase Orders (CPO) to vacant properties that have eluded taxation over the course of at least two years, which is the minimum period a building must be vacant for to be exempt from planning permission for a change into residential use [9]. Purchased properties could then be redeveloped by the council or an Approved Housing Body (AHB) for social and affordable housing schemes that will return much needed density and human activity into the abandoned lanes, in turn improving the permeability and spatial diversity of the surrounding communities.

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In the inevitably long period between purchase and redevelopment, the council could invoke a “meanwhile use” mechanism that gives temporary guardianship of properties to grassroots organisations like community groups or artists collectives. Meanwhile use is a loose designation for activities that occupy empty space, while waiting for another activity on site. These are usually cheaply produced events like markets, exhibitions, or installations that exist on an ephemeral basis. It is an alternative city-making solution that has enjoyed much success in similarly priced cities abroad like London, which boasts a thriving pop-up economy and many temporary-turned-permanent spaces such as the Young Vic theatre and Gabriel’s Wharf market in Southbank [10]. If a truly inclusive development process is devised to create a similar variety of programmes and uses, the impacts of footfall and activity would immediately breathe new life and identity into the lanes.  

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In the imagined future of unlocked laneways, the role of the architect as a collaborative agent is imperative. Many laneways are home to older buildings, suffering from structural insecurities and lack of servicing. In the case of meanwhile use, the architect(s) can envisage interpretive and playful site-specific building systems designed for easy assembly – and equally, disassembly – by the groups transforming these spaces into viable loci of non-market activity (figure 2). In the long-term vision of providing housing on the lanes, architects must equally play a pivotal role in navigating the challenges of adaptive reuse. However arduous these processes of transformation may be, it is clear that the lanes offer small slices of enormous possibility for the making of a radically different city – one whose “warren of streets behind the canals” no longer speaks of vacancy, but of vibrancy and culture. Perhaps hope for change can be offered to us, and posthumously to Elizabeth Leslie, by the late David Graeber, who succinctly claimed that: “the ultimate, hidden truth of the world is that it is something that we make, and could just as easily make differently” [11].

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The living room
When speaking against mono-functional public space, Jan Gehl, architect and urban design author, suggested that the private living room provided a successful example of a space that allows for an independent yet connected experience: “in the living room all members of the family can be occupied with various activities at the same time, but individual activities and people can also function together”.¹ Here Gehl’s metaphor captures part of the intuitive draw of public space, which can be considered more broadly in typologies such as public libraries and museums, where cognitive engagement oscillates between the individual mind and communal room.

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Through the example of an historical landscape in Glasgow and one in Dublin, this article proposes a new type of outdoor ‘living room’: the Victorian Garden Cemetery. Inspired by their origin, this piece contemporises these spaces by making the argument that through collaboration and creative intervention, these spaces can offer a multifunctional experience that brings together open greenery, cultural engagement, and socialisation.

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Garden oases
During the first half of the nineteenth century, the population of cities across the UK and Ireland boomed due to industrialisation. Consequently, deaths rose, and small burial grounds, often attached to modest churches, became overcrowded and unsanitary. The garden cemetery, an idea produced to cope with this rising demand, allowed dedicated burial landscapes to be built on the periphery of urban centres, providing a solution to concerns around air pollution and the inhumation of bodies, while offering spaces for recreation and peace segregated from growing working towns.

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Le Père Lachaise Cemetery (Paris) opened for burials in 1804 and provided a blueprint for those that followed. Winding paths with picturesque backdrops of designed landscapes, and protruding monuments of architectural and artistic merit littered these new grounds. Beyond providing safer and healthier outdoor space, these gardens aimed to inspire contemplation and reflection. In 1843, John Claudius Loudon, the author of On the Laying Out, Planting and Managing of Cemeteries, stated: “Churchyard and cemeteries are scenes not only calculated to improve the morals, the taste and, by their botanical richness, the intellect, but they also serve as historical records”. ²

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Glasgow Necropolis
Ideas behind the garden cemetery movement are potent in Glasgow Necropolis, the first of its kind in Scotland. Its 50,000 burials and 3,500 monuments sit upon a prominent hill, north-east of the city’s cathedral. Victorian families with financial wealth could afford plots and the commissioning of tombs, gravestones, and memorial monuments were often used to reflect social status. Consequently, the necropolis is today an open-air exhibition of architectural follies reflecting examples of Classicism, the Gothic, the Romanesque, and Renaissance styles. The site is currently maintained by the charity Friends of Glasgow Necropolis, who graciously volunteer to preserve the grounds and share knowledge to visitors through guided tours and publications. The grounds are otherwise used predominantly as a thoroughfare and for general park activities.

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Strolling through the winding pathways, surrounded by greenery and pockets of architectural and social history, provides a similar experience to other cultural typologies. Yet, historical assets like the necropolis have potential to be elevated and provide more diversity among people’s choice of public urban space; to inwardly reflect and respectfully socialise in outdoor recreation. Instead of remaining as a static remnant of Glasgow’s past, a layer of contemporary intervention would reinvigorate the necropolis to encourage this, which can be achieved through forms of artistic collaboration.

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Goldenbridge Cemetery
Located in Dublin, Goldenbridge Cemetery was, like the necropolis, inspired by Le Père Lachaise Cemetery. Established in 1828 by Daniel O’ Connell, Irish political leader and activist, it was Ireland’s first non-denominational burial grounds since the century Reformation. Though just  acres, it is anchored by a large neo-classical mortuary chapel, surrounded by mature yew, oak and cypress trees. Despite its small scale, local initiatives have innovated the cemetery’s use, pushing it to provide a more multifunctional experience for the public.

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Common Ground, a community arts organisation, moved into the cemetery’s lodge in 2016, and now use the building as workspace and to house artist studios. The organisation offers artist residencies where creatives are invited to respond to the cemetery and local area. Other community groups and artists now activate the burial space through creative intervention, welcoming introspective socialisation into the grounds where the public can perambulate individually and engage in the work collectively. For example, in 2020, the mortuary chapel was used as the stage for two musicians in the making of a film, by the Family Resource Centre, to raise awareness around violence against women. In the same year, artist Kate O’Shea exhibited a print installation of her collaborative work that called attention to spatial injustice in relation to gentrification.

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Goldenbridge’s creative engagement offers a precedent for cemeteries across Ireland and the United Kingdom. By developing a programme of considered, artistic interventions to unused garden cemeteries, an outdoor multifunctional experience of Jan Gehl’s living room would be available to the public; a space where people can fluctuate between internal contemplation and cultural participation in outdoor recreation.

In Donnybrook, an inner suburb of Dublin, the studio complex of Raidió Teilifís Éireann (RTÉ), the Irish national broadcaster, is dominated by five buildings that exemplify late modern architecture in Ireland. The masterplan for their strictly rectilinear combinations of concrete, steel, and glass was laid out by the architect Ronnie Tallon in 1960, following which Scott Tallon Walker (STW) designed the various buildings in the subsequent twenty years. When first opened, they were celebrated for their cutting-edge aesthetics and engineering, combining functionality and beauty on an integrated campus that advertised Ireland’s modernity [1]. Today the buildings are under-appreciated, though they were added to the Register of Protected Structures (RPS) in 2019 [2].

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Recent controversy has once again put a spotlight on the future of RTÉ, including its campus architecture. Twelve months on, the organisation may now be recovering, with a ‘New Direction’ strategic plan and several reports on its governance and finances providing a roadmap for reform [3]. The Irish government provided the national broadcaster with €56m of emergency funding in November 2023, but this is a small fraction of RTÉ’s needs. It has a long way to go to persuade a doubtful public and politicians of its sustainability, and future funding has been made contingent on organisational changes that may or may not work, including a 20% reduction in the broadcaster’s workforce, a redistribution of some activity to smaller studios in Limerick and Cork, and increased outsourcing of its productions to independent companies.

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Though downplaying it, the strategic report keeps open the possibility of a partial or total sale of RTÉ’s studios to improve the company’s finances and its corporate size and shape. It calls for “a streamlined RTÉ … operating on a smaller footprint within the Donnybrook site and with more modern facilities that require less maintenance … enable modern working and production practices and meet regulations, compliance requirements and sustainability targets”. It admits that “relocating RTÉ off the current Donnybrook site … does not appear to be economically viable” but it remains open to “exploring options for the vacated areas or land sale”. Politicians and independent media producers have often asked if we might ‘lift and shift’ RTÉ’s headquarters to a less prominent location, and in 2017 RTÉ sold 8.64 acres of its Donnybrook site for €107m as a temporary solution to its long-running cashflow crisis. Its latest plan notes that its remaining 24 acres are currently valued at only €100m due to challenging conditions in commercial real estate and the addition of RTÉ’s most important buildings to the RPS, but the possibility is left open that a higher price might be achieved in the future.

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Of course, in a capitalist economy, most properties are disposable, and our built environment rapidly changes. Nonetheless, further sale of RTÉ’s lands would be a bad idea. Its Donnybrook base is not only a group of world-class buildings but an internationally important centre of cultural production. Elsewhere, similar studios are accepted for their specialised engineering, their need for frequent capital investment, and their skilled workforce that cannot be easily replaced. Some major studios have been repurposed – for example, the recent conversion to apartments of the former BBC Television Centre in London’s Shepherd’s Bush. But the BBC has been under siege from private media conglomerates and frequently hostile governments for forty years. In other cities, especially in the EU, public service broadcasters have kept studios running, modernising in situ, sometimes with nearby additions. Hence, the longevity of the Maison de la Radio in Paris, the RBB Television Centre in Berlin, and the Via Teulada studios of RAI in Rome, all originating in the 1930s-60s and transformed for the digital age.

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Even in Los Angeles, the famous CBS Television City, designed by William Pereira, continues to grow in studio buildings first opened in 1952, while Sony, Fox, and Paramount operate studios that were founded in the 1910s and 1920s, with many of the original buildings still in use today. Los Angeles has less prominent public service media and more property speculation than most cities, but its studios remain central – economically, culturally, and geographically – while modernising, densifying, and diversifying. Unfortunately, RTÉ has been caught in an unproductive financial tug of war in which citizens and public representatives praise its work but question its value for money. Competing private sector media companies naturally call for the state broadcaster to be restructured. However, the international history of studios should encourage us to protect not only RTÉ’s buildings but its Donnybrook site as a whole – an invaluable concentration of talent, expertise, equipment, and services that is in prime metropolitan real estate for good reason.

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The economic geographer Allen J. Scott highlights the distinctive ‘clustering’ of media industries around dense networks of specialised facilities, skilled workers, and suppliers that are often unique in a given region or country. Scott’s influential analysis of Hollywood emphasises the long-term benefits of integrating media industries in large cities – as does the recent PwC report The Role of the BBC in Creative Clusters (2022) [4]. Relocating RTÉ would run counter to their findings, dispersing a cluster instead of consolidating it. In Ireland, we have relocated large public facilities – moving UCD to Belfield in the 1960s, moving TU Dublin to Grangegorman – but those moves centralised disparate units. Efforts to decentralise – for example, government departments – have proven much more controversial. The high value of RTÉ’s estate is sometimes cited to argue for its sale, but this misunderstands the industry. Media studios are not like other manufacturers for whom large amounts of mass-produced inventory account for much of their total value. RTÉ’s physical estate makes up a greater proportion of its worth because the commodities it produces are relatively small, unique, and transient: digital images and sound, not objects made of metal, plastic, or timber.

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Several film and television studios now operate outside of Dublin – Ardmore Studios in Wicklow, Troy Studios in Limerick, Titanic Studios in Belfast – and new studio construction has been having a moment worldwide, driven by demand for new product from streaming media services, government incentives, and institutional investors looking for new opportunities at a time when other kinds of commercial real estate are in difficulty. But reports suggest the trend may be slowing; the most recent new studio planned for Ireland – Hackman Capital Partners’ Greystones Media Campus – has been delayed by the recent actors’ and writers’ strike in Hollywood [5]. So new studio construction does not always go smoothly. And all of these are private sector companies mostly making movies or television dramas, often for overseas clients, frequently subject to seasonal or economic fluctuations in activity and not heavily involved in broadcasting, news gathering, or live entertainment – so not directly comparable with a public service broadcaster like RTÉ.

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RTÉ did have an ambitious investment plan for Donnybrook, Project 2025, but it was shelved during the financial crisis circa 2010 [6]. It would have provided a large integrated multi-functional studio facility with state-of-the-art technology, greater floorspace and production capacity, and a better environmental rating. However, shockingly, it would have required demolition of most of STW’s original buildings which, it was claimed, could not be modernised or upgraded to the standards required by digital media – an unconvincing claim given comparable developments in other countries (eventually RTÉ did manage a relatively modest but effective upgrade of its Studio 3 building for television news in 2019). A substantial revision of the Project 2025 plan now could strike a better balance between innovation and preservation while serving the needs of RTÉ and the Irish public. Reduction or closure of the site should be ruled out, and the studio buildings should be renewed. Though still photogenic, they are not in good condition. RTÉ’s small but elegant modernist canteen was closed several times last year by rat infestations and its other buildings also need repair. This costs money but would give the country a flagship media facility of enduring value.

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To this end, RTÉ would do well to make its Donnybrook site more approachable, and this might aid the company’s PR. Studios are usually secure and secluded from the public – to protect their intellectual property, for the privacy of celebrities, and to encourage a sense of mystery and audience anticipation. Nevertheless, comparable studios run popular studio tours, on-site physical archives, and performance venues. Some of these were anticipated by Project 2025. Adding them now – as well as, say, a museum and educational centre – could enhance public understanding of RTÉ, improve media literacy, and protect RTÉ’s campus and buildings for successive generations to enjoy. Ancillary benefits might include independent media companies leasing some of RTÉ’s site but maintaining the media cluster, and improved pedestrian street life between Donnybrook village and UCD, which have densified over the years. Relevant international comparisons suggest we should double down on RTÉ’s Donnybrook site rather than reduce or vacate it.

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This would also serve environmental priorities. It is increasingly recognised that the ecological cost of growth is often high. To ‘lift and shift’ RTÉ to a new location, rather than update and expand its current facilities, would consume a lot of building materials and energy while disrupting supply routes and workers’ commutes, increasing RTÉ’s carbon footprint. This would contradict its sustainability goals, which include a 50% reduction in carbon emissions by 2030. Since Project 2025 was launched, the tide of international opinion has turned against demolition, as adaptive reuse initiatives such as House Europe and the New European Bauhaus demonstrate [7]. RTÉ’s sustainability goals could be better achieved by maximising its options in situ. Another way the state might do this would be to buy back the portion of RTÉ’s campus that was sold to a private company for residential development. The state often buys land for strategic infrastructure, and the land that was sold has been idle since 2017. That sale was first proposed in 2002 at the height of the Celtic Tiger property boom and it would arguably never have happened if RTÉ had been properly funded in the first place. Instead, its revenue shortfalls, which have now been constant for twenty years, were a function of neoliberal trends towards deregulation and privatisation that have since come in for scrutiny in Ireland and worldwide. We now have a chance to address these for the good of our media and built environment alike. Even Tánaiste Micheál Martin recently opined that RTÉ should not rush into further land sales because “very often selling land is something you will regret later” [8]. This is not to argue for a state monopoly – Ireland needs a thriving, diverse, creative, and entrepreneurial media sector. But it also needs vibrant public service media anchored in vibrant public places.

Space-heating accounts for 35% of total energy-related emissions in Ireland today. As one key component of its response to the National Climate Action Plan, South Dublin County Council (SDCC) committed to the decarbonisation of its county-town, Tallaght. Nationally, decarbonisation will rely on increasing renewable generation assets – wind and solar – on the grid to a target of 85% by 2030. This will enable significant carbon-savings through the widespread electrification of the heat and transport sectors.

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The Tallaght District-Heating (DH) Scheme was identified as a pilot project to promote this switch to low-carbon, renewable heating. 70% of the Dublin region is suitable for adaptation to DH (increasing to 86% in the city centre). There are sufficient waste heat sources in Dublin to service the equivalent of 1.6 million homes; DH can recycle and harness this waste heat as a low-carbon resource for space-heating.

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In 2016, as part of a five-city EU Inter-Reg programme to foster DH technology in northern Europe, €950,000 was made available (including €347,000 from SDCC resources) to underwrite initial work on the Tallaght DH network. This seed-funding allowed the formation of South Dublin District-Heating Company – Ireland’s first not-for-profit, publicly-owned heat utility, now trading as ‘Heat Works’.

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The DH network was envisioned, championed, and project managed by the SDCC Architects Department, building on experience installing CHP, solar arrays, heat pumps, and bio-mass boilers in public buildings over a twenty-year period. The DH scheme was a collaboration between SDCC, Amazon, Fortum (the contractor), and the Dublin energy agency Codema, which has provided a low-carbon solution, optimising the potential of recyclable heat combined with innovative heat-pump technology. Heat Works is set up to act as an exemplar heat-network business in Ireland, delivering economic, environmental, and social benefits for residents and businesses while supporting the local and national climate action plans by reducing our carbon footprint.

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Heat Source

At this time, Amazon Web Services (AWS) were planning a large data centre in Tallaght. As part of pre-planning discussions with SDCC, AWS agreed to collect and make available waste-heat from the data-centre’s cooling-system to the DH network. As part of this agreement, waste-heat collection equipment and ongoing heat delivery to Heat Works will be at the expense of AWS in line with their company commitment to global carbon-reduction. The Tallaght DH network is the first scheme in Ireland to capture and efficiently re-use waste heat from a large-scale data centre using bespoke 4G district-heating technology. 10MW of waste-heat is available for use in the Tallaght network on this basis.

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It is currently estimated that by 2028 data centres may be using up to 29% of the national grid, and by 2030 will have added 13% to carbon-emissions on the grid. While not eliminating all primary energy use, DH can seriously offset the generation of both heat and carbon for space-heating required by DH customers and greatly reduce carbon emissions discharging energy-intensive waste-heat from cooling systems in data centres.

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The Energy Centre and Pipe-Network

To utilise the waste-heat generated by AWS, a distinctive zinc-clad Energy Centre was constructed adjoining the data centre to collect, consolidate, and distribute hot-water to the DH network. The hot air from AWS is collected and run through a heat-pump to raise the temperature of water to 25-27°C. This water is then transferred to the Heat Works Energy Centre building where the temperature is raised again through bespoke centralised large-scale heat pumps to 85°C and sent through the pipe network. In turn, the servers in the data centre are provided with cool air as a by-product from the Energy Centre. The Energy Centre also includes full peak load back-up via a 3MW electric boiler to ensure heat supply to the network can be met at all times. The scheme is fully electric with no on-site combustion resulting in the elimination of particle emissions. In addition, the carbon content of the heat will continue to reduce over time in line with the decarbonisation of the national grid through increased deployment of renewable sources, e.g. onshore / offshore windfarms, solar power, etc [1].

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This Tallaght DH scheme is currently providing both space-heating to buildings on the DH network and cooling to the data centre [2]. The scheme currently has planning permission for 400m³ of thermal water-storage. In time, this will enable greater flexibility and utilisation of off-peak electricity, which will increasingly enable the DH network to support the grid by providing greater demand-side response services to regulate large fluctuations associated with wind-power generation. The initial pipe network measures 1.6km in length, utilising different sizes of pre-insulated pipes to ensure minimal thermal losses. Hot water is distributed to customer buildings through the pipe network from the Energy Centre. Heat exchanger substations are located within the customer buildings with an indirect system (the network water crosses and heats the customers’ water, but they do not mix). Energy meters measure the amount of thermal energy used by the customer for heating spaces, HVAC systems, and sanitary hot water.

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Overall, the Tallaght DH Scheme produces CO₂ savings of 1500 tonnes per annum in the first phase of the scheme along with a reduction of 528kg in nitrogen oxide emissions. This will increase as the scheme expands and the input of renewably-generated electricity increases. In effect, fossil-fuel usage will be reduced by 100% as the grid is made fully renewable. The lack of combustion onsite eliminates particulates and provides cleaner air for Tallaght town centre.

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In addition to road testing DH generation and control technologies in Ireland, the Tallaght scheme was set up to trial the legal, financial, procurement, and governance structures required for a heating network in Ireland. A series of innovative contract types had to be developed for the project carried out under the skilful direction and experience of Philip Lee and Associates Solicitors. The fledgling company required an experienced energy-supply company (ESCO) to design, construct, and operate the DH network. This role was tendered across the whole of the EU using the OJEU process. The tender was arranged as a ‘Competitive Dialogue’ in three stages culminating in the submission of a final design and financial bid. This included the design of the Energy Centre and the distribution pipe network. The preferred bidder was Fortum, a multi-national ESCO based in Finland with extensive experience in DH across the Nordic countries and Eastern Europe.

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Procurement Models

A Local Energy-Supply Contract (Design, Build, Operate, & Maintain – DBOM) between the ESCO and Heat Works was agreed. This contract is divided in two phases – Construction Phase (Design & Build), and Operation Phase (Operate & Maintain). Heat Works buys the heat produced from the ESCO based on a fixed operational carbon-efficiency figure. The manner in which this heat is produced, and the risks associated with its production is the responsibility and risk of the ESCO, and the cost of electrical supply is at the risk of Heat Works. A separate new contract had to be developed and agreed to address the transfer of waste heat from AWS to Heat Works, and the return of lower-temperature water from the DH network to AWS to assist in cooling within the data centre.

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A customer-contract was also required addressing the sale of heat from Heat Works to each customer. Heat Works are responsible for customer relations and calculation of customer bills. Monthly customer bills include fixed components (two standing charges for administration and network maintenance), and a variable charge for quantity of heat supplied. The initial customers are SDCC (County Hall and Library, the Innovation Centre, and two-hundred affordable apartments) and TUD Tallaght (main campus building, SSRH sports building, and the North Block Catering College). To date, 70,000m² of space are connected to the Tallaght network, and total investment stands at €8 million [3].

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The contract for Design, Build, Operate, and Maintenance was signed in October 2020 and works commenced in 2021. Works were directly affected by COVID-19 government-imposed site closures. Testing began on the plant and network during October, November, and December 2022. Heat was delivered to first customers from 19 January 2023 with Substantial Completion achieved in July 2023. Since then, the district-heating scheme has been in its Operation and Maintenance phase.

This case study maps the route from Pearse Street train station to St Stephen’s Green. This is a well-walked city journey with ample architectural and historical features; passing Leinster House, the National Library, and Trinity College Dublin. It features bustling cafés which spill onto the street and a plethora of office buildings. Embarking from a main commuter station, it is a route travelled equally by locals and tourists.

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The choice of this route was personal in origin. I left my office on Molesworth Street one evening, hoping to board the Dart at Pearse Station within ten minutes. En route, I grabbed a pear. Ripe and juicy, it was a quick snack to placate a familiar after-work hunger. What started as a carefree nibble would soon motivate my reevaluation of Dublin’s inner-city street infrastructure. Along my 700m route in the heart of this European capital city, I did not pass a single bin on my footpath in which to dispose of the pear remnants. Vexed by my sticky hands and a fruit core that had abandoned all its structural integrity, I could only expel the smushed remnants once I had crossed Westland Row and reached Pearse St Station.

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As indicated on the map below, the only two public bins to be found on either side of my route, this main city artery, were outside the National Gallery on Clare Street and St Andrew Church on Westland Row (both of which are on the easterly side of the street). Typically, city infrastructure is almost invisible to me, only noticed when it obstructs a footpath or disrupts a vista. However, when critically assessed, the traffic lights, electricity boxes, bus stops, waste bins, street lamps, make up a substantial jumble of street-junk. The lack of aesthetic consideration and coordinated layout for these components belies the strategic vision of the Dublin City Development Plan to create: “a connected, legible and liveable city with a distinctive sense of place, based on active streets, quality public spaces and adequate community and civic infrastructure… ensuring quality architecture, urban design and green spaces to provide quality of life and good health and wellbeing for all” [1].

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This map was made to record the contemporary urban condition by honestly depicting all the city infrastructure and footpath interruptions, with particular focus on public refuse and pedestrian crossings. It also notes the street lamps, bus stops, bollards, and bicycle parking along this route.

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Approximately 900m lie between Pearse Station and the gate to St Stephen’s Green from Kildare St. Along this route there are twelve pedestrian crossings managed by traffic lights. To travel this journey, the minimum number of road-crossings is four and the (most reasonably direct) maximum number of crossings is seven.

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Following the route from Pearse St Station to St. Stephen’s Green, the westerly path is 925m. It immediately crosses Westland Row from the station, and travels along the path hugging Trinity College Dublin. From Nassau Street, and onto Kildare Street it crosses Setanta Place, Molesworth St, and Schoolhouse Lane before reaching St Stephen’s Green. A point at which the urban infrastructure feels congested is the pedestrian island at the south of Kildare Street (marked location A). Here you will find a street barrier, sign posts, traffic lights, bicycle parking, electricity boxes and a reflective traffic bollard. Along this route there are no public bins.

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The length of the route walked along the easterly path is 920m long. Turning left onto the path on Westland Row leaving Pearse Street station, it travels along the street before using the traffic island to cross onto Lincoln Place. Continuing along the bollard-lined curve to Clare Street, the third pedestrian crossing of this route brings you to Nassau Street. After rounding the corner to Kildare Street, it is a straight 260m to the Shelbourne Hotel, where you find yourself crossing to the westerly path to reach the Green. A point along this side of the street at which the urban infrastructure feels crowded is at the south corner of the National Museum of Ireland on Kildare Street (marked location B). Beside a grid of established trees around a statue of William Conyngham Plunket, there are two postboxes straddling an electricity box, several bus stops, signposts, and bollards. Leaving the station on Westland Row, along this route you pass three bins. The first two are clustered at the station, and the third can be found at the National Gallery. This confirms that from St Andrew’s Church to the Shelbourne Hotel, there is only a single public rubbish bin.

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By recording the erratic distribution of street infrastructure, this map also highlights that simply providing physical infrastructure is not sufficient when aiming to protect and enliven urban character. While the DCC Development Plan states “The preservation of the built heritage and archaeology of the city that makes a positive contribution to the character, appearance, and quality of local streetscapes and the sustainable development of the city” [2], this is not reflected in the layered mess of electricity boxes, sign posts, and bollards. It is important to acknowledge the architectural richness and quality of the street in this case study, and that this issue of street-junk is just as evident throughout the city, on streets such as Camden Street, Church Street, and Frederick Street.

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In its endeavour to foster “a distinctive sense of place” in this area of the city, DCC has been successful. However, while the overriding impression is a civic character envisioned by the Georgians and Victorians, it is hard to ignore the layers of haphazard and visually disruptive infrastructure that have been added in recent times.

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There is an understandable conflict between the provision of urban services and the maintenance of our architectural heritage. Yet, looking at previous generations of lamp posts, manhole covers, and paving, this wasn’t always the case. In The Ancient Pavement: An Illustrated Guide to Dublin’s Street Furniture, O’Connell explains that the nineteenth-century street lighting would have begun as traditional oil lamps, before being modernised to gas, and then, in the 1890s, electricity. While this resulted in the preservation of traditional infrastructure, the decision to adapt the existing lamps would have been an economic one: “During times when many other cities introduced more modern lighting schemes Dublin, through economic necessity, was often forced to adapt such new fittings to older lamp-posts” [3]. The more frugal decision at the time has unconsciously allowed the preservation of beautiful nineteenth-century lighting street infrastructure, including manhole covers, bollards, and railings: “Street objects were accidentally preserved from many eras to produce what is now one of the most unique city collections of street furniture in Europe”. Kildare Street still acts today as a palimpsest of Dublin ironmongery. The ornamentation of earlier interventions reflect a dedication to both place making and necessary modernisation.

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Working in the relatively well-preserved Georgian core of south Dublin city is a privilege – today’s converted office buildings, galleries, and cafés are identifiable in the terraces of Smith’s 1846 map of Dublin, first published by the Illustrated London News. In addition to the red brick and sash windows, the architectural character of the small city blocks are defined by granite curbs that have been smoothened by thousands of footsteps, railing-lined light wells, and generously proportioned streets. This emphasises that fostering a sense of place does not solely depend on the buildings, but how they touch our public space.

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This case study concludes that in order to achieve a vibrant urban realm, more thoughtful, place-specific, infrastructural design is needed. And some more bins for a pear. 

In the privileged and privately owned site of the Pumphouse in Dublin Port, architectural students spent a week thinking about alternative means of building public space through appropriation, without the limitations of traditional building and material supply chains.

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The Pumphouse sits in the Alexandra Basin within Dublin Port, a space offering residencies and opportunities for cultural and public events. A large, mostly empty, pseudo-public space left over from the remnants of a filled-in graving dock, the site consists of a historic industrial structure and an open paved area, under the shadow of vast infrastructural elements, cranes, silos, and passing ships. It was once a site of maintenance and repair for ships coming to and from Dublin Port. The pump houses, after which the nascent cultural space is now named, would drain and refill the water from graving docks to allow workers to access below the hulls of ships. The older pump house of the two, where our workshop took place, is now considered a site of historical interest, while the other remains a concrete remnant, inaccessible to the public, perhaps also quietly waiting to be granted historical significance.

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The week's workshop however, could be indiscriminate – with an arsenal of temporary paints, and a collection of borrowed, rented, and waste materials from sites around the city, we could occupy the site as we pleased, with the understanding that everything could be taken away shortly after, leaving no trace. These materials would be bound together with removable and demountable connecting elements – the connecting elements being the only new parts purchased for construction. The site was free to become a testing ground; for methods of community construction, public space interventions, parasitic and guerrilla architectures, and to facilitate the performance of construction without the implications and consequences of long-term interventions.

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Inside the older of the two pump houses, the back corner was set up to host lectures from international speakers and members of the workshop, on a borrowed monitor and speakers facing rows of leftover solid wood benches. Behind us lay a backdrop of materials gathered from recycling centres, construction schools, salvage yards, building sites. The workshop’s initial exercises allowed us to familiarise ourselves with these materials, first as individual shapes, then as relational objects, and finally as broken still lifes, stacked and arranged outside on a grid previously painted over the tarmac. These compositions formed the first temporary imposition on the space, necessarily functionless, forming spatial relationships between building, space, body, and material.

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The exercises shifted between scales, from 1:1 assemblages to analytical and experiential drawings which zoomed out to the scale of the site. The painted grid overlaid on the site accented its abstract nature as an empty and previously un-intervened upon space, a piece of land reclaimed from the sea, distant from the dense architectural narratives layered upon the nearby city centre. From the vantage point of an opening on the first floor of the pump house building, we discussed these surveys which were drawn on 1:25 representations of the painted grid. The grid, 25m squared, formed a referencing tool to quickly and easily survey important conditions on site, outlining the primary workspace, presenting opportunities to work in the margins, major and minor spaces, imposing a temporary order onto the site which we encouraged students to disregard, engage with, or undermine as they saw fit.

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Reflecting on the idea of building out loud, a term coined by the Belgian artist and designer Jozef Wouters, in which building and designing occur simultaneously in dialogue with one another, we engaged in a process of making, discussing, drawing, revising, dismantling, and making again; while also devising a brief and negotiating spatially between a series of undefined proposals. Given that many of the materials needed to be returned at the end of the week, and encouraging a general principle of demountability, a system of connecting disparate objects needed to be established. Through using a stock of ratchet straps, threaded rods, nuts and washers, clamps, rope, and bungee cords, a language of combining and dismantling objects was developed. As the proposals materialised, some began to form standalone objects, which could be moved and placed on site; erratics of disjointed scrap timber, blocks, and rubble. Framed by the grand and imposing space, these oddities were defined, given importance as monuments which became emblematic of the work built throughout the week. Other proposals were more deliberate in their functions: a bench, wall, roof, table, lantern, or seesaw.

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A closing event drove the direction of the design – considering how visitors might engage with the objects, where to gather, to dance, to sit and talk, where a DJ could stand. With the constraints of the amount and size of existing materials, the challenge became unifying disparate constructs into one proposal for occupying the Pumphouse. Methods of connecting were shared and re-used across different designs as each participant found their own ways of building with the materials gathered; techniques for threading rope, stacking blocks, or making clamps with threaded rods became a common language in many instances. This was important as the materials themselves were so varied – the challenge became how to unify them and build a public space containing our own individual ideas, to be used in conjunction with one another.

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As the week came to an end, the act of designing through making paused. A process which might otherwise continue to revise and resolve problems through testing and altering froze in time. As tools and equipment were taken away, the aberration of a proposal presented itself, the result of an experimental process engaging critically in ideas founded on public space in the city represented now as an assortment of objects, imprinted onto the large open space between the two pump house buildings. The immeasurable quality of the old graving dock is briefly given definition, engaging with these ideas of the city in this elsewhere space. As the final evening progresses, the interventions seem to settle in as they are leaned on and danced around, one structure being carried inside by the party’s attendees, enclosing late night conversations and cigarettes against a backdrop of an active port – simultaneously in the centre and the fringes of Dublin city.

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Driving Ireland’s looping system of isolated rural roads, you'll spot a common sight: walkers decked out in hi-vis, singly or in groups, tracking the footpath-less edge, keeping out of your way and waving gratefully as you pass. Rural roads are the most dangerous in Ireland: the site of 71% of road fatalities in 2020, according to the Road Safety Authority (RSA) [1]. In that year, forty-four pedestrians were killed on Irish roads (the RSA didn’t differentiate between rural and urban deaths), more than passengers (thirty-four) and cyclists (eight) combined.

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People may choose to walk because they can’t drive, because it is the cheapest option, or simply for walking’s sake. If those living rurally haven’t access to private land, a footpath, or a designated public route, their only option is the roadside, with limited visibility around bends, speed limits up to 80km/h or 100km/h, and the fear of distracted drivers.

But there could be options beyond the roadside. In Scotland, people have a "right to responsible access" [2], meaning the public can access most private land and inland water for recreation and other purposes, including walking. Sweden, Norway, Germany, Switzerland, and Austria have similar statutory rights of responsible access to all land, regardless of ownership. They don’t have to call ahead, or worry that they’ll be reprimanded for walking through someone’s property.

In England, where open access to 8% of private land is legislated, there is a growing campaign to move closer to the Scottish model. The Right to Roam campaign proposes that while ownership of the land may allow landowners to "take rent, mine, and make money from the land", it should not permit them to exclude the public [3]. Some farmers, in response, argue that the public doesn’t know how to use the countryside, and could impact agricultural production [4]. Farmers in support of the Right to Roam suggest it should be accompanied by a public education programme.

Access in Ireland is at the discretion of landowners [5], and may be withdrawn at any time, even when access has been agreed with the state, and even to sites on which public money has been spent [6]. 78% of land in Ireland is private, while 8% is public (the remaining 14% is unmapped, likely residential). Most of the private land is farmland [7]. A 2009 study of farmers’ attitudes towards allowing walkers to access their land found that 51% were opposed to any such scheme [8]. Those opposing public access usually had limited experience of walkers passing through their land and were concerned about interference with farming activity. Farmers who were familiar with walkers were more willing to engage with the scheme, and more willing to do so for free. In general, it was found that farmers were more supportive of creating public access if paid about €0.27 per metre of walkway, if full public liability insurance indemnification were provided, maintenance costs covered, and no permanent right of way established.      

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The question of liability is an important one. Under Irish legislation, landowners are considered responsible for those on their land, meaning concerns around public liability are justified, though recent changes to the duty of care have given more weight to personal responsibility [9].

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The government’s National Outdoor Recreation Strategy acknowledges that access to the countryside rests on the goodwill of landowners [10]. The strategy vaguely aims to develop permissive access and "encourage innovative solutions". Creating a legal right of responsible access in Ireland would open up the countryside, allowing us to hop over fences and explore the land around us. Of course, for that to work, certain responsible behaviours would need to be normalised. Dogs should not be brought near to livestock, and walkers must respect the land, leaving no trace [11].

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There’s a strong environmental case for making land more accessible to all. Studies have found that connection to nature increases people’s willingness to protect the environment [12]. 84% of people surveyed by the Environmental Protection Agency in 2020 thought walking in nature benefitted their mental health [13]. More places to walk safely in the countryside could foster a rural walking culture. Health benefits of walking in nature include stress reduction, cognitive development, and lowered likelihood of cardiovascular disease [14].

This map of walking locations in Ireland shows clear gaps in public access to land. Depending on where you live, the nearest public walking route might be a drive away, and an alternative one even further. These designated routes allow you to get out, to move your body and breathe the air, but what about your curiosity, your sense of adventure, your wish to follow your nose or the call of a bird? Those desires cannot be met by the same stretch of land every time, or by planning a round-country day trip to a faraway route. With the right to roam, people could explore nature and build custodianship with the land. Why should this require a pleasant interaction with a landowner beforehand?

Crafting public spaces that respond to local climatic conditions demands careful consideration. The ground plane bears the brunt of numerous responsibilities: foot traffic, accessibility, servicing and managing fluctuating climatic conditions – specifically rainwater.  

Met Éireann's preliminary data for 2024 shows that March’s rainfall surpassed long-term averages [1]. Further climate change research conducted by Met Éireann also reveals significant increases in heavy precipitation events, particularly during winter and autumn months, with a projected rise in extended dry periods [2]. This poses challenges for both water scarcity and abundance, necessitating prompt design solutions and adaptations to our public spaces and wider built environment.

Rainwater in cities isn't just an inconvenience, it holds potential. Rather than condemning rainwater into stormwater drains, through careful planning and management techniques there are ways we can redirect and collect it, enhancing the spatial experience and climate resilience of our public realm.

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Hardly working

The surface of the pedestrianised core in Galway city over the years has succumbed to the inherent complexities of climate and water, with rainfall historically and consistently being a challenge. It averages at 2,800mm per year, in comparison to Dublin with an average of 680mm per year [3].

Since its pedestrianisation in the late 1990s, the street has undergone various phases of maintenance, resurfacing, and redesign. Previously paved with a cobble lock paving, this surface quickly deteriorated after years of heavy foot and vehicular traffic, compounded by poor drainage, and was removed in 2019.

Since then, it has been temporarily resurfaced with tarmac, and in many ways, is symbolic of the widespread soil sealing occurring across Irish towns and cities. This practice, along with the selection of visually unattractive drainage systems permeating the built environment, reflects a gradual erosion of the importance of aesthetic value in pedestrianised zones. These drainage systems are engineered to direct polluted runoff towards natural watercourses, such as rivers and streams, or in some cases to designated stormwater management facilities. Consequently, the resultant waste has been described as a "toxic cocktail of pollutants’’ identified by the EPA (Environment Protection Agency) [4].

The material surface of Shop Street in Galway city is currently under review as part of a broader public realm redevelopment and city enhancement strategy [5]. The strategy, while ambitious and impressive in terms of its quality of urban place making and accessibility standards, is conservatively reliant on impervious hard surfaces with traditional methods of surface rainfall drainage. The strategy, apart from its introduction of small areas of sustainable drainage systems (SUDS), misses a massive opportunity to effectively integrate and creatively link rainfall drainage from streets to new and existing public spaces, a critical characteristic of nature-based solutions (NBS) to urban run-off and climate resilience. 

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Working hard

The streets and sidewalks encircling Benthemplein in Rotterdam serve as its water veins, creating a living rainwater laboratory, a ground-breaking urban space known as the Water Square. Designed by De Urbanisten, and completed in 2013, it serves as a multifunctional public space that dynamically integrates water management with recreational and social amenities.The project aimed to address the city's challenges with urban flooding and water management. It not only successfully achieved this, but also exposed these challenges to the public through conscious and clever design [6].

Three basins gather rainwater: two shallow ones collect water whenever it rains nearby, while a deeper basin accumulates water during periods of sustained rainfall. Rainwater from the square flows via stainless steel drainage channels into the basins, visually mimicking natural waterways, while in dry weather, the space is accessible to all [7].

Here, linking the drainage channels to a large public space creates visual interest and dynamic interactions with water, enhancing the sensory experience of the square. The sound of water flowing through the channels contributes to the space’s ambiance, creating a playful, inviting atmosphere that attracts people to linger and engage.

The incorporation of street drainage into the design of the Water Square at Benthemplein exemplifies the seamless integration of water management infrastructure with urban design principles. By combining functionality with aesthetics, these channels contribute to the square's resilience, sustainability, and appeal as a vibrant public space in Rotterdam.

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Conclusion

Despite notable differences in context and scale, the Dutch model offers insights and an attitude to climate adaptive design that can be applied to the Irish urban environment. Fundamentally, the Water Square at Benthemplein demonstrates that it is plausible to effectively manage and even embrace heavy rainfall within urban areas.

It is important to recognise Shop Street in Galway not just as an isolated segment of the city's fabric, but as an integral component of interconnected systems within the broader urban water landscape. This perspective acknowledges the wider context and interdependencies within the urban environment, encompassing flood prevention, the preservation of biodiversity, water quality maintenance, and ecosystem wellbeing. This calls for a change in how we perceive and handle our conventional drainage systems, prompting a fundamental question: are we designing what's right for our rain?

Ireland faces a critical housing shortage. Our financial system means a short-term reduction in house prices is unlikely [1], and analysis points to a shortage in supply as a key contributing factor. To build ourselves out of crisis, housing will need to be delivered at large scales. State agencies, housing bodies, and developers are masterplanning significant swathes of land. In the face of a climate crisis, hitting our housing targets is just the first step. A major challenge will be how we can sustain our housing supply for generations to come.

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When we consider our building strategies through the lens of repair, a key factor that emerges is scale. Repair has a certain set scale because buildings are not precise. The rolling list of repairs that a building demands does not lend itself to a top-down, large-scale approach, but instead requires careful, human attention. Learning to build is a lesson in measuring twice, cutting once, and allowing for errors. This is not precision engineering; small misreads can become gaps you can put your hand in. Our houses are full of filler; half of Ireland is held together with Tec7. If we more carefully consider this complex and often unkempt side of construction, we can enable the continual transformation of buildings over time.

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Large-scale, new-build construction might seem re-assuring for hitting housing delivery targets at first. At the macro level, however, it remains challenging to strategise for ongoing repair work: problem-solving with limited clues, incorporating room for error, and facilitating creative on-site responses. The onus for delegating and procuring repair in private housing typically falls to management teams, resident committees, and individuals. Not surprisingly, meaningful change is impeded by financial realities. We are fast approaching a crisis point; a 2018 report by the Royal Society of Chartered Surveyors of Ireland found three-quarters of apartment complexes do not have enough funds set aside for long-term upkeep [2]. Post-occupancy evaluations are unfortunately neither mandatory nor regularised. There is a glaring absence of data on maintenance and repair in our climate and economy.

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If we reconsider housing with repair in mind, then we begin to look beyond the hoarding of new-build construction sites. We have a country filled with crumbling brick terraces, mistreated stone townhouses, and swathes of cold, damp bungalows tucked into the corners of fields. While this dimension of construction might not be appealing to large-scale investors, for owner-occupiers, repair and restoration could present an invaluable opportunity to obtain and customise a place of one's own. The state is attempting to encourage these small-scale repairs by offering grants of up to €70,000 to homeowners undertaking renovations of derelict properties. But this money is only released once the project meets a number of strict conditions, and is only available to projects involving a contractor [3].

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The potential for this mode of construction is significant. A high proportion of an entire generation are currently locked out of the property market. Their powerlessness to enact change is contrasted with our historical culture of self-building in Ireland. Although a frequent topic of derision, the Bungalow Bliss building phenomenon in Ireland was a remarkable feat of small-scale building, happening en masse. The effect of this goes beyond housing quanta, as writer Adrian Duncan notes: "There's more of a direct relationship with a home you build for yourself when compared to moving to a house built by a stranger". He describes the Bungalow Bliss period as "one of the last few unselfconscious instances in Ireland of the traditional meitheal" [4]. This could equally apply to a house one maintains, repairs, extends or retrofits.

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However, current government supports fail to reach self-builders and DIYers. Instead the system relies on the appointment of contractors. David Byrne, a self-builder I spoke to, lamented the lack of support available to him: "The government, while meaning well, is giving money to the middle man, while the person at the bottom isn't getting any benefit" [5]. His current project fits many of the criteria that the government seeks to encourage, but as he is aiming to do the work himself, the need to have a contractor involved removes any chance of receiving support. With the uncertainty of older buildings, the need to pay for work upfront, and inability to carry out the work by oneself, many of the grants are a helping hand that is simply out of reach.

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There is also a lack of nuance in these government supports that is stifling the building economy. When it comes to thermal improvement, many grants rely on using an improved BER rating as evidence of a job well done. But the reality of retrofitting is far more complex. In David Byrne's case, he is removing the non-breathable elements from the existing stone walls, to restore their innate thermal and hydraulic functions. Yet he struggles to find support for this approach: "Ninety percent of people I talk to in the building industry tell me to dry-line the stone walls" [6]. How can we expect to harness the energy and desire of self-builders, if we cannot offer them more flexibility in financing and delivering their projects?

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Enabling DIYers will require a surge in specialised education and training, funding and political vision. Currently, a significant barrier to a widespread DIY approach to housing is the availability of clear and accessible information. Some efforts are being made; enterprises like Common Knowledge aim to teach lay people construction skills with in-person courses. Similarly, architects and engineers will have a role to play in encouraging this shift in building culture. Already advocates for self-building – Walter Segal internationally, and Dominic Stevens domestically – have proven the potential for architects to enable self-building. The effort could be worth it, a widespread self-build and DIY revolution has the potential to tackle a number of the problems faced by the current Irish housing landscape: supply, lack of tradespeople, and vacancy.

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If we can navigate this successfully, we could create a new self-perpetuating system for housing delivery and maintenance. If we want the job done right, we'll have to do it ourselves.

Graduates of architecture in the Republic of Ireland are facing a new significant barrier to accreditation, much discussed among affected individuals for the past year. What is a long journey to becoming an architect has, since the beginning of 2023, become implausibly longer again for many students as one of the two universities that offer the Professional Diploma in Architectural Practice in Ireland (PDAP – legally labelled the Professional Practice Exam, or PPE) decided to cease its offering to new applicants for at least three years – up to 2026 at the earliest [1]. This reduced the number of places available from a previous average of roughly 140 per year to the seventy places remaining at the only other university in Ireland which offers the course. In September 2024, this number will reduce again, as the remaining university removes twenty-two places from its offering. With five Irish universities producing roughly 200-250 graduates per year, combined with the number of expatriates working in Ireland in the architectural profession and requiring professional exams – this has resulted in a situation where there are, at the time of writing, around 400 expressions of interest vying for forty-eight places for the single PDAP course. This means that only one in eight to ten applicants will get a place, with the possibility for further growth to these numbers year-on-year.

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In April 2024, while the RIAI issued an updated statement on the dwindling capacity problems, with the welcome proposal of facilitating the PPE themselves from 2025, they did not specify how many graduates this course would accommodate, nor give any indication how much it would cost [2]. The problem is inevitably clogging the system with graduates, who have project and salary expectations that are determined by the timeline within which they complete the PPE. The current delays consequently are affecting their plans of a rational timeframe for career progression. Employers, too, will be directly affected, as they become encumbered with graduates who cannot progress through the system reasonably, and who they thus cannot expect to charge for as registered architects, or whose CVs they may not use to their full potential to win work. What should be even more alarming for the renowned richness of the profession in Ireland is how the backlog is delaying the beginning of the careers of potential sole-practitioners, previously a significant proportion of practising architects. In facing the current delays in starting the PPE, all graduates objectively must contend with a lag before they are provided the opportunity to contribute their ideas, ability, and energy to the industry in Ireland. Professional roadblocks could, and are, becoming repercussive personal reckonings for many, that arguably conclude with emigration to countries with more responsive registration systems as the only viable solution.

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While legal protection for the title 'Architect' has been a persistent part of the RIAI’s two-fold aim of protecting and promoting members since 1885 [3], the role of the architect and the associated PPE was only legislatively defined by Part 3 of the Building Control Act 2007, which also bestowed upon the RIAI with the legal responsibility to manage accreditation of that title [4]. Part 3 of the Act was not “intended to exclude anybody, but, rather, to include all those who meet a defined minimum standard” [5]. In the current climate, the backlog in achieving accreditation has become so restrictive that graduates of the industry are potentially being prevented, legally, from working independently in it. This hard-won and necessary tool to protect the profession is now rendered as the means by which its reputation is tarnished – through exclusion of new members.

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The situation reveals a functional issue within the increasingly fragmented structure of the pathway to becoming an architect. The industry’s typically younger members, who have studied as long and as hard as those before them, have danced through the same rules but have reached a surprise stumbling block right at the very end. These members are becoming extremely frustrated with the slow pace of any resolution to a worsening problem. The immediate function and future of an industry cannot and should not subside because of the decision to close one course, and improved access to the profession should be increased in line with demand for university places and PPE courses to secure its future. The welcome development of a new course by the RIAI should be the beginning. Members of the industry at all levels should also galvanise government support for the formation of new courses that maintain sustainable access to the PPE. After all, as noted in the RIAI’s statement, architecture’s importance in the symbiotic development of the built landscape with the abstract social values of the people it shelters exists in governmental policy [6]. High-quality design of the future built environment, and surely by consequence, the place and skills of its future architects, is in its heart.

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Update 04.05.24: UCD is reopening the Professional Diploma (Architecture) next January (2025) with a limit on forty places. A process of random selection is being applied for these places. Further details are available here.

"Architecture has no meaning unless in relation to nature". 

— Alvaro Siza [1]

We used to build in quite sensible ways.

Before industrialisation in Western Europe, we mainly built relatively simple structures of load-bearing walls using materials sourced in the locality. These materials – stone, brick, earth, timber, lime, plant fibre – required very little energy to produce. The walls were generally formed of one or two materials and the craft skills required were passed from one generation to the next. These vernacular buildings responded to local climatic conditions, making careful use of volume, the sizes and positions of apertures, cross ventilation, the thermal mass of the wall materials, thermal buffers to the most hostile orientations, and rooms of differing temperatures, to moderate the climate and achieve a relatively comfortable indoor environment without requiring significant additional heating or cooling. The buildings worked with nature and made the most of the natural conditions.

The industrialisation of construction over the last two centuries has created a change, from buildings as assemblies of materials based on craft practices to buildings as sums of subsystems, elements, and specialised layers of proprietary products. This change from materials to products greatly increased the embodied energy of building, as the standardisation of products requires significantly more complex manufacturing. Bricks, once produced locally from terracotta and fired at low temperatures, now require homogenised clay, must be fired at very high temperatures to meet industrial standards, and are transported large distances from centralised production facilities. Wood is now subjected to shredding, gluing, and shaping under pressure to homogenise its properties in the required formats [2]. We have also developed an ever-increasing number of industrial materials – steel, aluminium, PVC, concrete – that need vast quantities of energy to produce.

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In parallel with these changes in construction, we have created a situation where buildings are increasingly isolated from the natural environment, relying on technology to achieve comfort, instead of working with the local climate and conditions, as buildings did historically. In this era of the hermetically sealed building, the architecture discipline has surrendered responsibility for the design of the internal environments to engineers and other specialists. Key architectural issues affecting the well-being of inhabitants, such as air-quality, temperature, and humidity, are delegated to specialists and handled by technology. These issues, which should be central topics of the architectural project, are treated as merely problems to be solved. The construction industry and design professionals have become obsessed with the idea that we can completely isolate the insides of our buildings from the natural environment, like habitable thermos flasks. Yet, as Kiel Moe describes in his book Insulating Modernism, Isolated and Non-isolated Thermodynamics in Architecture, this isolation is illusionary and denies the physical reality of the building and the way it acts in the world: "literal isolation is thermodynamically impossible to achieve in the context of buildings" [3].

Based on this flawed thinking we have developed policies and regulations aimed at ever greater levels of insulation and airtightness, pursuing the holy grail of zero-energy buildings. Passivhaus is perhaps the most extreme version of this, creating buildings so airtight that they rely on expensive and complex technologies to provide ventilation.

The goal of these policies is energy conservation above all else, drowning out any more balanced discussion about how carbon emissions can be reduced to combat climate change. A new industry of simulation and certification has been created to drive a massive technological upgrade of buildings, but the promised successes will never be realised in real life. We have rushed to encase all our housing in thick layers of polyurethane and other oil industry by-products without consideration of the destructive impact of this practice. We don’t consider that having the bulk of our energy generated via renewable sources will reduce the need to insulate [4]. We are caught in a mindset that believes that more and more industrialised production and technology will solve any cost, quality, or time problem in the construction industry while helping to resolve a climate crisis that is the direct result of industrialisation and technological growth.

In recent years an increasing number of architects have begun to realise that we are making buildings too complex to design, too expensive to build, and too difficult to operate. Worse still, we are slowly becoming aware that the indoor environments we are creating, the settings for an increasing proportion of our lives, are not healthy. We realise that buildings are not empty shells, that they are filled with air, in the physical sense, and that this air is the main source of nourishment for the human body.

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Alarmed by these realisations, some architects are returning to first principles. They are beginning to study how vernacular architecture managed to create buildings that intrinsically required very little energy to heat in winter and that did not overheat in summer. A change of mindset is emerging, from the modernist isolation of the building and reliance on technology to a new sensibility about simpler, more robust forms of construction that engage in a dialogue with the natural environment.  

One example of this new mindset is the work of the IBAVI in the Balearic Islands. This government housing agency has developed a whole series of really interesting social housing projects that rediscover vernacular materials and construction techniques such as the use of the local Mares stone, and a seagrass called Posidonia as insulation. In their projects, thick stone walls and vaults are deployed to stabilise the indoor environment without needing any applied technology.  

These architects have been leading a rediscovery of how the fundamental spatial elements of architecture – walls, roofs, floors, ceilings, and apertures – can generate an environmental performance in which the building is not isolated from its surroundings, but instead takes advantage of the innate opportunities they offer to achieve comfort without the need for complex technologies. There is also a growing realisation that buildings inherently require a great accumulation of matter and energy to exist and persist, that they can never be zero-energy, and that a building’s success in ecological terms is characterised by its capacity to exchange and harvest energy from the natural environment. This emerging school of thought has the potential to establish a more coherent agenda for architecture and to reestablish its relevance and importance to contemporary society.

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While Cork city is often likened to Venice for its comparable canal system beneath its main streets, its architectural and urban characteristics draw parallels to another Italian city: Naples. Like Cork, Naples is a port city with a rich architectural history stemming from the mediaeval and industrial periods, however, their architectural characters and urbanist developments diverge significantly. 

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The city of Naples embodies Venturi’s ideas, through its honky-tonk architecture, with various contrasting epochs stitched together into one elevational run. Structure, facade, stairs, fenestration: all elements become urban characters of a centuries-old play known to the locals as La Città (The City). This eclectic approach to urbanism results from the continual layering up of architecture upon architecture, fragments upon fragment, all with a keen desire to preserve, protect, and most importantly, maintain each architectural style. 

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Cork city has an opportunity to draw inspiration from the Neapolitan character by investigating its development through the lens of Venturi's theories presented in his text, Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. By juxtaposing similar examples from both cities, a connection between Neapolitan theatrics and Cork city’s architectural and urban framework can be discerned.

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City gates

Monumental gateways of former entry points are present in both cities. Portas are embedded into the Neapolitan urban environment, creating porous penetrations into the city’s historic centre. Traversing beneath these oversized portals is a colloquial experience. While most of these city gates have been demolished or disappeared over the centuries, fragments of their existence are scattered throughout the city. Four of the most intact examples are Port'Alba, Porta San Gennaro, Porta Nolana, and Porta Capuana. Nolana and Capuana are former entry points of the Aragonese fortification walls, flanked by two towers on either side. Both are embedded into the surrounding urban fabric, with housing blocks capturing portions of the former fortifications. This variegated facade, which conjoins the massive scale of the Aragonese arch and the human-sized domestic architecture into one elevation, embodies what Venturi refers to as ‘superadjacency’.

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Looking at Cork city, similar giants appear, however, they take on an alien appearance compared to their surroundings. This is the case for the gateway that serves as the entrance to Bishop Lucey Park, known to Corkonians as the People’s Park. The double-arched entrance is reconstructed from the 1850’s Cork Cornmarket, a former marketplace, not located on the park’s derelict site, but instead at Coal Quay less than 500m away. Flanked by low stone walls and metal railings, recent development plans for the park include the removal of these adjacent structures while allowing the gateway to remain. The threshold becomes monumental rather than transitional. This form of symbolic architecture, represented as fragments of the whole, can be understood as “economical because it implies richness and meaning beyond itself” without the need for the whole [1]. However, care for its continuing existence in the chosen context is key. The gateway to the park rescripts its history into a fraudulent one, a contradiction, but not necessarily the form which Venturi discusses. Approaching by means of inversion, removing the deceptive, and creating a void to signify this entry adheres to the Venturi's idea of fragmentation while remaining faithful to Cork's history.

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Urban ecclesiastics

Venturi's theories are not lost on Cork city. It is in the ecclesiastical spaces where these theories are effectively realised. This effectiveness may stem from the proximity of neighbouring buildings, resulting in a densely complex and interconnected urban fabric reminiscent of Neapolitan city development. One example is St Augustine’s Church on Washington Street. The second of its kind on the site, this church designed by architect Dominic O’Connor and completed in 1943, embeds itself into the streetscape, matching street lines and eave heights [2]. Contradictions appear in its material usage and elongated stained glass windows. The scale of the chiselled stone facade compared to the adjacent brickwork follows a height ratio of 3:1 and 5:1 and a width ratio of 2:1. Glazed openings extend to the fourth-storey height with no external breaks. The entry point on Washington Street is marked by a Hiberno-Romanesque style archway, double the height of its central door and those surrounding it. 

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Chiesa del Gesù Nuovo in Naples follows a similar over-scaling of architectural features with a more theatrical approach. Typical fenestration proportions are kept, while the scale is magnified to an almost caricature-like quality. Duality is present in its glazed elements; becoming what Venturi describes as “as both structural and ornamental, frequently redundant, and sometimes vestigial” [3]. 

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By allowing these structures to play both against and with their architectural context, each element becomes a character in the city’s shared theatrical stage. This extreme multiplicity “reads like a unity through a tendency of the parts to change scale, and to be perceived as an overall pattern or texture”, creating an architecturally theatrical city that seeks to celebrate and conserve its elaborate and paradoxical history [4].

Virgin materials are any materials extracted directly from nature that lead to destructive impacts: trees being ripped from the ground, soil contamination, illness, and pollution. It takes an abundance of energy to process these materials and can, in some circumstances, lead to a displacement of communities. In a linear economy, the focus is on single-use and permanent disposal of materials. In the context of the climate and biodiversity crisis, these methods will have devastating future consequences. According to the World Economic Forum, the effects of the climate and biodiversity crisis are seen as the top tier risks for the next ten years and beyond [1].

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An example of this is evident in the process of creating aluminium. The mining of bauxite, the ore needed to produce aluminium, has been linked to deforestation, community displacement, and environmental destruction in places such as the Brazil’s Amazon rainforest, China, and West Africa [2]. As bauxite is found near the earth’s surface, bauxite mines strip large areas of land, frequently impacting local ecosystems and communities. Bauxite refining creates an alkaline waste product called ‘red mud’ that contains heavy metals and other elements.  If the waste is not stored correctly and enters local water sources, it can be harmful to humans.

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There is a non-violent and earth friendly alternative: using reclaimed materials. A key advantage offered by reclaimed materials is they require minimal to no reprocessing. Shifting to prioritising reclaimed materials would foster a circular economy, a nature-based system which would be regenerative. In a circular economy, materials never become waste – and waste production is considered an avoidable design flaw. Members of the construction industry need to constantly ask where a material is extracted from, and what is its end-of-life strategy. Asking shows a conscious approach, where we care about respecting the earth and leaving a liveable planet for future generations. Asking shows we understand climate justice, and how people who are suffering the most from the climate crisis have done very little to cause it. Asking shows an awareness that we, as members of the construction industry, are part of the problem currently, and shows a desire to become part of the solution for the climate and biodiversity crises.

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Three main challenges exist for this non-violent approach to materials. These are, namely, psychological, practical, and regulatory challenges.

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Psychologically, we need to accept that the way we are building now is harmful, and while changing to using reclaimed materials is not going to be comfortable for those in the industry, change is rarely comfortable. However, with a growing consciousness of the devastation caused by the climate crisis, key players within the construction industry are beginning to reflect on where materials come from, and the social and environmental impact of the extraction of these materials.

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The practical challenge is tracking, storing, and quantifying the sustainability of our materials. We can start with establishing material passports, that will give materials an identity and help to map out elements that are being removed from buildings for refurbishment projects. We need to remove demolition out of our standard construction vocabulary and replace it with conscious deconstruction. We also need the state to provide storage for reclaimed construction materials, as is happening right now in Germany [5]. This will lead to an ease of use of reclaimed materials.

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On a governmental level, we need the regulatory framework to be immediately updated – the regulations currently serve the linear economy, with reclaimed materials not being stated or encouraged in the documentation. There is scope in Section 1.1 ( c ) of the Technical Guidance Document D: Materials and Workmanship that enables materials to be reused under specific conditions, but we need the state to provide funding for anexisting secondary material marketplace (such as the Irish Green Building Council’s Construction Materials Exchange). In cases where demolition is absolutely unavoidable, planning compliance should mandate that a pre-demolition audit is carried out and that high-value materials are given a material passport and to be either directly transported to another live site or stored (temporarily) to be reused in the future.

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Ultimately, we need support from everyone in the industry to do this. Most individuals in construction could start immediately, by following these steps:

1. Observing how we build now.

2. Assessing the damage caused by extracting materials.

3. Examining alternatives such as using reclaimed construction materials.

4. Requesting that manufacturers, design teams, and the government use unharmful ways of building, so we can protect the environment we are part of.

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As the forward-thinking activist bell hooks stated in her book The Will to Change: "The way things are is not the way they have to be" [6] We can change how we relate to the earth, and our disconnect to the materials with which we build. We need to advocate for non-violence, lean into the will to change together, and make a concerted effort to build with reclaimed materials.

The last decade had seen technology companies grow at a rate at which commercial property developers cannot keep up [1]. The majority of office space had been designed on a speculative basis. Build a ‘Grade A’ office, and they will come – but this is changing. Demand no longer exceeds supply, and the way we work has changed, while the way we occupy our offices is changing too. With lower occupancy and flexible working, the role of the ‘HQ’ has arguably become more important in its physical presence for larger companies. An office location, design, and provision of amenities are the bricks-and-mortar branding an organisation often requires. The machismo associated with office buildings of the past is no longer the best means to externalise one's values. Hugh Pearman once described Wilford & Sterling’s No. 1 Poultry as “exuding an astonishing sense of power and purpose” [2]. Kevin Roche, decades earlier, used similar power and purpose to make the workers of the Ford Foundation feel important. In an Irish context, Arthur Gibney strove to make the user feel important in Merrion Hall (1973), introducing his client to the Burolandschaft concept of office interiors, and an "exercise in the geometry of the module" [3] in both building and landscape terms, accentuating the structure of the pre-cast concrete frame. The theory goes that these important workers tended to be happier, more productive, and stay with the company longer. However, the design of these workplaces is changing again, and the changing culture of work is the first reason why.

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The second reason is the elephant in the room. According to the UKGBC, 80% of buildings that will be occupied in 2050 have already been built [4]. 85% of Irish office buildings are below a B rating [5] and c. 15% of commercial buildings in Ireland are vacant [6]. We have an increasing amount of low-grade office space, bound for obsolescence – the dreaded stranded asset again. A change of use to residential makes perfect sense for some buildings, but not all. Site values, and potential return on office developments still hold more value than an occupied block of apartments in central locations. The structural design of more recent office buildings also limits the potential change in to residential. The office building of twenty-first-century Dublin, with small atria, deep floor plates, and bulging plot ratios are not well suited to change of use. If we believe in a future for the office, then we need architecture to ensure existing buildings can become offices of the future.

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What does this mean in design terms? Simply put, this is about design either side of the facade, while the facade remains. Feature facades have become ubiquitous with high-end new build offices – leading to monikers such as the ‘Cheesegrater’, ‘Gherkin’, etc., which all add to the value a potential tenant puts on their choice of building. These building exude a company’s core perception of itself, and its place in its community. Fit-out design, and place making give tenants a real ability to make staff feel important, and, of course, to be good neighbours. The opportunity for a cloud-based company to drop anchor and show their staff, and indeed their community, that they care is most often done through building. The best building to do this in, is one that already exists.

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We need to embrace the large-scale refurbishment of existing office buildings to provide the next wave of ‘new offices’ as and when they come. The way we have designed speculative offices in the recent past, with an unknown future user, has been wasteful. We have provided fit-outs to entice a tenant, which will subsequently be ripped out and replaced. We have designed structures, vertical circulation, and sanitary spaces to allow for maximum occupancy, when this is often not required. The constraints that come with an existing building should, and can, be embraced. Floor-to-ceiling minimums of 2.8m are an arbitrary, agent-led, recommendation without taking in to account the depth of the floor plate. The over-design for floor loadings, mechanical ventilation, WC provision, lifts, etc. all encourage us to build new. As architects, we can strive to prove the workability of retention, and more so prove that future workplaces can change, grow, and adapt as required.

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The main reason to retain what we have, is not accreditation led – it is common sense. We have an abundance of flexible buildings in Dublin, and few have been designed to be flexible. The houses of Merrion Square were not designed to cater for tenements, nor offices, but they have operated as both throughout theire lifetime. 1970s speculatively built offices were not designed to be converted into apartments, but they are well suited to it. We don’t know what flexibility we are designing into the office buildings of the last decade, but it is our job as architects to make it work, and to lead the conversation in designing the headquarters of the future.