Anonymous

Scour Trinity News, or the internet and a carefully curated image of the trinity tunnels will emerge. For decades, if not centuries, if not days, if not hours – you have been convinced, hoodwinked and lied to. Try to find information, and your curiosity will no doubt be sparked, and will have grown into a delicate flame only to be blown out with a damning: “These are all myths of course”. Listen closer, my own first-hand evidence stands in stark contrast to those closed-minded enough to believe the institutions that be. The Trinity tunnels not only exist, but they’re real. They’re not only attainable, but accessible. Not only splendid, but superb! 

I recently visited one such tunnel. Upon wrangling open the gate at the leg of the campanile (turn the handle clockwise, then anticlockwise), I plunged deep into the gut of front square. I was immediately greeted by staff, who grumbled as I passed by them. They paid no heed, clearly, I had earned their respect by gaining access to this less-than-sacred sanctum. I hurried down a steep spiral staircase only to find myself at the beginning of the longest, most vacuous and expansive tunnel I had ever laid my eyes on — and I have seen at least three tunnel systems.

The tunnels themselves are around 32 feet tall, and curved at the top – similar to a wine cellar. It’s funny you mention wine cellar, because this was one. There was an abundance of wine of all sorts stored in large red brick rooms lining the tunnel – perfectly illuminated with yellow glowing overhead lights. On both my left and right, these large rooms lay. I ventured into a room on the right and plucked a bottom from the nearest rack, on the wall to my left. All the bottles are ancient and covered with dust, I quickly wiped one down to reveal it was the infamous 1962 Chateau Rothschilde. I put it back, I don’t drink, and have no need for money. I perused many shelves of the darkest maroon chardonnay, the lightest sparkling merlot and small barrels of spirit and mixer. As I walked from chamber to chamber, it struck me that I was possibly the luckiest student at this college. Above, shuffling feet skated over cobblestone in transit to tutorial, or other such menial activity. Whereas I was browsing the best wine collection ever assembled (I can only assume – I don’t drink). 

After what could have been days (I ended up missing 17 assignment deadlines, I might have to repeat a year), I arrived at the end of the tunnel. There, before me, sat the largest casket I have ever seen. Proudly, the wood bulged forward like a silverback’s chest. Its sides groaned with indignation, the liquid inside begging shamelessly for release. At its base, around hip level, sat a small tap. It reminded me of a maple syrup tap, in Canada (if that’s real). In my arrogant, unlucky pride – and perhaps hubris, I decided to commit the error of sampling this large elixir. I squatted down until eye level with this gleaming, silver tap. What could you contain? Who sampled you last? Why won’t you respond? My questions echoed around the tunnel, bouncing off walls and returning after a short period, quieter than before. I placed one cupped hand beneath the tap and the other atop, so as I could turn it. A small stream of pink liquid poured out. Its temperature shocked me, ice cold. Despite not drinking, I am fond of a bi-weekly six pack of druids – and recognised the distinct berry tinge at once. But there was a more subtle, yawning sweetness in the background. It occurred to me, here lies Pav juice! 

I was left unimpressed and disappointed with this discovery, and resolved to depart from the depths once more. Before leaving I scrawled my initials on the walls, and wrote a short series of poems, hopefully someone will discover them one day. Hopefully they may share my writings, never intended to be published. I ran back to the entrance, bounded up the spiral staircase and found myself, shock, underneath the campanile once more. 

The bell tolled, and I cursed and cried! I was now set to fail my exams! I fell to my knees in anguish… how could this happen! Upon later reflection, the fault of my academic performance did rest solely on my lack of assignment submission. However, I maintain I could have attained my requisite 300% in Ancient Mariner (not that one) studies to pass by compensation, if it wasn’t for that cursed bell. 

I have given you but a side-eyed glance at the extent of the tunnels. I wrote this article in Hilary Term when I was in JF, and have now moved on. I have explored every corner of Trinity campus, every book and brandy. A conservative (but socially liberal) estimate puts the number of tunnels at a cool 400. Having explored every one, and possessing an aptitude for counting, I attest this to be the truth. I encourage you to explore yourself.

You may read this short account and not believe it. You may think it exaggerated, indulgent, perhaps nonsense – perhaps nonsensical. I would retort with, Nonsensical and nonsense are the same description… and that’s what they want you to believe. The Trinity elite, the intelligentsia, the “tourists” all want you to think these tunnels inaccessible, and the College a well trodden map. This is not so, the tunnels are free and they are alive. I have included a short riddle below, which, if studied correctly, will not reveal any secret entrances to the tunnels…

In Dublin’s heart, where scholars roam,

Trinity’s secrets may find their home.

Count the arches ‘neath the Campanile’s might,

Seek the answer where our books invite.

Follow the footsteps where Swift once trod,

Measure the echoes of a silenced god.

In Salmons gaze, a clue may gleam,

A riddle’s web, labyrinthine dream.