That Tuesday in June was a hot Summer’s day. From the Waterways Visitor Centre the seaward spaciousness looked inviting so I crossed the iron bridge and set off. Down by the Ocean Bar people were sipping morning drinks in the still shaded outdoor area.

Rounding the corner a mighty gloom fell onthe path as the sun was hidden by the towering buildings to my side.

The few boats moored further down along looked old and weather-beaten with names ranging from lofty-sounding ‘Excalibur’ and ‘Roin Mhor’ to ‘Overdraft’. The ‘Naomh Eanna’ looked sad, like a skeletal creature much neglected and abandoned except for the unlikely watersports shop lurking in its belly.

A flurry of excitement arrived in the shape of the Viking Splash driving through the gates. As it approached the slip into the water the guide was instructing those on board, mainly schoolgirls, to lift their hands in the air and, he warned, the boat would not move until he was obeyed.

Up shot the arms and away dove the vehicle into the water to the accompanying squeals and shouts from the passengers. I found myself giggling in glee.

Continuing along the roadway I went down the steps at Ringsend Bridge. Along this rather litter-polluted patch the open water spaces were so filled by the dinning echoes of demolition machines that I felt I might be in the middle of a great noisy battleground.

A little hint of calmness came as the space opened out and the Point Depot appeared across the water, elegant and gentle on the eye from where I stood on the footbridges between the Camden, Buckingham and Westmoreland locks. I’d read that these locks, opened in 1796, were designed to hold 600 ships at any one time but rarely held more than a few dozen.

I carried on along Hanover Quay, passing red brick warehousing to my right and to my left the newly laid paving at the waters edge, still cordoned off. Further along walking became treacherous as, trapped on a narrow street between high walls, I competed for space with the large lorries that roared by. I escaped this to walk again on the water’s edge at a safer distance from the construction site that much of this whole area currently seems to serve as.

I regained the busy Iron Bridge. Looking back, I saw a very pretty house fronting onto the waterside on that hazardous walk along Hanover Quay. From where I now stood it appeared to me that some of the lush green garden in front of this building might now occupy a space that may once have offered public access alongside the water’s edge.

Overall I felt that the view that had prompted this walk had not quite lived up to the calm quietness I had anticipated. Perhaps when all the construction is completed the once-open spaces of these 25 acres of water and the towering blocks might marry well.

Turning to look inland beyond the Box in the Docks, I cast a thought towards the promised pleasures that might await a walker along the canal towpaths that lead across Dublin and into the far-off green fields of the countryside. Maybe another day the sun might shine again and tempt me further afield.