There is a correspondence currently in The Irish Times about renaming Merrion Square. There is some discontent about its being ''Archbishop Ryan Park'', since, in the present national mood, it seems that no honour is to be given to any member of the Irish hierarchy.

The Evening Herald had wanted the park to be called ''Oscar Wilde Square'' - perhaps nicely paired with the Roger Casement Garden of Remembrance, making Dublin the only capital city with two public places named after famous gay people.

Other correspondents have suggested Andrew Madden Square, honouring the former altar-boy who was molested by Ivan Payne. But it is unusual to call a public place after a living person. Brian Trevaskis is another candidate put forward - Mr Trevaskis was famous on TV in the 1960s for his strong criticisms of the Catholic clergy: I understand that he later committed suicide.

There is also a suggestion that it should be called MacGiolla Park, after Tomas MacGiolla, of Sinn Fein - the Workers' Party, who, as a Dublin councillor did so much to open up the park to the general public. Fair play to him, too.

I would like to suggest Merrion Square called Dargan Park. William Dargan started life as a railway labourer, and, with great initiative and hard work, constructed the first railway line in Ireland, from Dublin to Dún Laoghaire. He went on to construct 600 miles of railway lines all over Ireland: he became successful and gave £40,000 to the National Gallery in the mid-Victorian period - perhaps the equivalent of ten million today. His statue adorns the front of the National Gallery still, appropriately looking out over Merrion Square. He gave huge employment, but died in poverty.

We are very quick to honour writers, politicians - and victims - in Ireland: but sometimes it is appropriate to honour practical men and women too. Engineers are woefully under-valued in Irish tradition.

The British have rightly come to honour, as a great man, Edwin Chadwick, whose contribution to the national good was to build clean drains, thus wiping out cholera at a stroke.

Secret of happy marriage

An admirable Irish couple, Bill and Kathleen Ward, celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with a blessing at the lovely Carmelite Church in Dublin's Whitefriar Street. They said that the secret of their successful marriage was ''talking''. They talked to each other continually. They never stopped communicating.

Wonderful and wise. ''Never let the sun go down on your anger'' is just about the best advice about in any family relationship.

And yet I would ascribe the longevity of my own marriage - more than three and a half decades now - rather to the opposite of talking: silence.

My husband is averse to women who chatter too much (a characteristic shared with not a few men). He once said to me: ''Asking 'a penny for your thoughts?' is grounds for divorce.'' A joke. Kind of. He's well able to natter himself when he's in the mood, but he enjoys long periods of silence. Though I can be gabby enough, I also like not to have to talk sometimes, without anyone thinking I'm being sullen or unfriendly. ''Companionable silence'' is a very nice concept.

Communication is important: so are civilised meals together. But some of us also like to have some space in our heads, to cogitate on our own thoughts, and even to decide not to air or to share everything that is inside our heads, since some things really are better left unsaid.

Lenten reading

I have been asked by The Times of London to list my Lenten reading. This was a good opportunity to focus on some reading for Lent, and I began to think about it and browse in religious bookshops.

I came to the conclusion that I am very hard to satisfy in this line of books. To be honest, I find that most religious literature today is too soppy for me: I can't relate to the soft, therapeutic approach to faith and spirituality. And all this obsession ecology is reverting to pantheism - or, what I have heard called ''bunny-rabbit religion''.

I like something vigorous, challenging, awkward, difficult.

I shall probably return to my mother's favourite spiritual reading: The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis. It is austere to the point of being flinty. It is tough, demanding and pulls no punches. In the 18th century original, it is also beautifully, poetically written - another attribute difficult to find in contemporary publications. ''Vanities of vanities! All is vanity, but to love God, and to serve him only. It is, therefore, vanity to seek after perishing riches. It is also vanity to seek honours. It is vanity to wish to live long, and be careless to live well.'' Great stuff!