Terry Prone: Fountain of all knowledge — joy springs forth for all who visit

Bobby Charlton, for teenagers at the time, was the individual who imprinted the concept of the comb-over on their minds. However, perhaps because it was before the arrival of social media, that comb-over was mentioned but not mocked.

Bobby was such a gentleman, such a footballer, he seemed to earn a decent onlooker silence around his hair — and he got it.

But then, at the time, and certainly on the day, the mood was of excitement rather than bitter condemnation.

For Irish people, the contrast between home — where the swinging 60s were a rumour that didn’t apply — and Britain was shocking.

Britain was awash in sex, for starters, with suggestions of other available highs. The country led the fashion world with Biba and Mary Quant. 

Everything was different and the difference played out to a new background track as Liverpool revolutionised popular music through The Beatles and other bands. 

Cloaks and platform boots and patchouli were everywhere. Even squats were not indicative of desperation but of a generation filled with a sense of confidence and pride.

On that sunny July day in London, you got hugged by total strangers in a way you might expect in a Mediterranean nation but was not what you’d ever anticipate in the home of “Keep Calm and Carry On”.

In the middle of the city, with people cheering and singing, waving scarves, and dancing, was magic without threats of violence or racism.

But to be in Trafalgar Square was heaven — the sun on your back, the bright turquoise of the pools around the fountains, and the chance of being cooled down by a hug from someone climbing out after a quick dip.

Because, on that day, thousands of people jumped into the fountains. It just seemed the right thing to do. It was as if the fountains had been designed to accommodate revellers.

Indeed, the fountains had been enlarged about 30 years earlier, so the celebratory swimmers had loads of room. Right and proper.

Fountains are street art, but great art, whether stored in museums or attracting the touch of tourists, is dialogue. 

It does — and should — engage people, and fountains, as part of their engagement with the public, should invite immersion.

Nor does that immersion have to necessitate appreciation of the artistic intent of the fountain.

Half a century ago, poor children from the inner city of Dublin, who had little chance, in a hot summer, of getting to the beach or to a swimming pool, used to invade the grounds of the Custom House and swim in the rectangular pool overlooked by the statue of Ireland and her dying soldier.

The symbolism may not have meant that much to the kids splashing around in their underwear, but the cool water and the games played meant the world to them.

It’s an oddity of our capital city that it has so few fountains that are beautiful, so few that engage Dubliners in a dialogue.

Dialogue is evident, for example, every day on the quays between Dubliners/visitors on the one hand and the Famine sculptures on the other.

People stop, leave flowers, stand mesmerised by the emaciated figures. Our few fountains never evoke that response.

The one on the grounds of Government Buildings is as formal as the surrounding structures, with its equidistant threads of water.

Few, if any, Irish fountains throw water into the air to catch the sunlight. None invites a quick dip. 

Indeed, when we had the statue of Anna Livia in the middle of O’Connell St, its waters, endlessly recycled, barely kept the recumbent statue damp.

Why does Ireland have such uninviting fountains?

Perhaps the absence of upwardly thrusting water reflects our weather. 

It may be easier to imagine scattering water into sunshine when you’re sure you’re going to have sunshine. 

But, now that we’re talking about creating more statues of women, maybe we could look at planting them in situations where they’re at the centre of a sparkling fountain.

There’s something about flowing water. Particularly on a hot day in a dusty city. 

Flowing water hypnotises, even if — like the infinity pool around the site of the 9/11 terrorist attack in Manhattan — the water does not fly upward, but bends over stone, downward. It still attracts people with its promise of cool, with its primeval sound.

The monument in New York is all about the marvellous ingenuity of using water to say something about death, grief, and survival of the spirit.

Most European cities have gorgeous fountains at their heart. 

Paris is outstanding in that regard. The soaring sky-directed jets of the fountains in Place de La Concorde are imprinted on many visitors’ mental maps of the French capital, as is the Saints Innocents in Les Halles.

Some of the fountains in old European cities undoubtedly owe their creation, directly or indirectly, to the Romans who, wherever they conquered, brought water engineering with them.

What did the Romans ever do for these cities? They brought the science of sourcing, directing, guiding, and celebrating water. Even quite small Spanish and Portuguese towns have a fountain in the town centre, creating a timeless focus for sundown rambles for everybody from courting coupes to older folk.

Romance of the fountain

Over time, the romance of the fountain made it into popular culture, with Anita Ekberg and Marcello Mastroianni, fully if sparsely dressed, in Ekberg’s case, enjoying the waters of the Trevi Fountain at dawn.

That was in 1960 in a movie called La Dolce Vita. Since then, generations of young lovers have dived into the pool surrounding the heroic white sculptures as a way of affirming their romantic inclinations, although the civic powers that be in Rome got tired of it and instructed that it must end. 

The instruction did nothing to deter a guy who dived into the surrounding pool in April of this year and he didn’t seem that bothered by the €500 fine levied on him.

Trevi earns more than the occasional fine paid by romantic exhibitionists. Some €3,000 a day goes to charities: Coins tossed by tourists who believe this will ensure they return to the Eternal City.

In contrast, the Spire in O’Connell St has never, and will never, become a gathering point. It has no low barrier wall, as do thousands of European fountains, on which to sit, drink coffee, and dream.

And it definitely has no surrounding pond inviting people to jump in as thrilled Londoners did in 1966, to celebrate a team — and one of that team, the gentleman footballer who died this weekend: Bobby Charlton.