The Thursday Tipple: The Confession Box, Marlborough Street, Dublin 1

If you grew up as a Catholic do you remember doing your Confession as a kid? Entering the dark, wooden box; hearing the priest speak in low, solemn tones to the confessor on the other side; the conclusive tone of the other confession giving way to silence; then the waiting as the faceless priest lifted the slider to begin your session. ‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it’s been six weeks since my last confession…’ Above and beyond the intimacy of revealing one’s secrets, there was the irreverent challenge of trying to hear the words of the sinner on the other side.

The Confession Box makes hearing others’ sins inevitable. I enter it mid-Monday and the tiny pub is rammed. There’s an occasional inner-city accent but most faces and sounds are foreign. A non-Monday reverie fills the air. Those gathered are not the first of the influx for Paddy’s Day, just some of the many tourists who’ve followed the scent of its reputation. You can almost imagine people climbing through the windows to get in on the upcoming bank holiday Monday.

The name originates from its proximity to the Pro-Cathedral, just up the road, though the pub’s folklore focuses on confessions of the proclaimed. Some of those involved in the War of Independence, including Michael Collins, were excommunicated for their actions. It was here that sympathetic priests from the Pro-Cathedral discreetly gave them Communion and Confession. The Big Fella is plastered across the merchandise the pub displays on its walls, glass cabinets and behind the bar: t-shirts, hats, shot glasses etc. I get why pubs do it, but it gives them the feel of a shop.

Downstairs wedged, I climb to the first floor of mint green walls and upholstery and pale wooden flooring. This room is even smaller. My choice of view is either the barman moving directly below me or of the three lads sitting by the window, some five meters away. They talk at a normal level though it feels like we’re all in the same confession box. I earwig on the guy telling his two friends about all the texts, calls and emails he got from one girl whilst starting out with another. ‘I’m not bragging,’ he says with a north of England drawl, sighing as he conveys his difficulties in moving past the former. I sensed neither is now on the scene. ‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it’s been a busy few months since my last confession…’

An intimate conversation in this pub I’d like to have listened in on is not this one, nor the confessions of the rebels (though they would be interesting) but one from early 1960. The pub was O’Flanagan’s then, owned by renowned sports player Mick O’Flanagan. He was one of the only pair of brothers to have played for Ireland in both rugby and soccer. He was a member of the Grand Slam winning team of 1948. After the untimely death an Irish Press sports editor and football writer in the 1950s a group of soccer reporters formed an impromptu committee to organise a charity fundraiser for his widow and family. In the following years, those involved wanted to formalise the committee. Soccer journalists felt they needed a collective voice to lobby the Football Association of Ireland and deal with clubs about facilities and match accreditation.

It was in this pub, undoubtedly over a few pints (perhaps mid-Monday – it was acceptable for reporters back then), that they discussed their dream and brought it alive through the Soccer Writers’ Association of Ireland. I can imagine the passion that fuelled their discussion, someone scribbling with a bookie’s pencil into a reporter’s notebook as they agreed their aims and rules. In the 1980s, my father used bring me to UCD soccer matches when there were more men on the pitch than dotted around it. At half-time, fans, the ref, linesmen, the club’s board (nearly half of those around the pitch) and journalists all huddled in the portacabin for a cup of tea and biscuits. The reporters then returned to their cold, enclosed box beside the subs’ benches where they took notes and filed copy with their newspapers or gave an update to RTÉ’s Sunday Sport through whatever technology they had. I’m sure those reporters had times when they were glad they had the association to make the case for better conditions for their guild. Some seventy years on, you’ll hear the association’s name when media report Ireland’s annual soccer awards.

Reputation looks favourably on The Confession Box’s pint of plain and its trad sessions. I can only confirm its intimacy. Tight spaces make for intimate, (somewhat) truthful confessions. Here there’s little penance.

Prices (25 February 2019)

Pint of Guinness: €5.00

Pint of lager: €5.60

Pint of ale: €5.00

Pint of cider: €5.70

330ml bottle of lager: €5.30

Measure of whiskey (Power’s/Paddy/Jameson): €5.00

Soft drink: €3.00

 

 

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The Thursday Tipple: Churchtown Stores, Braemor Road, Churchtown

Two years ago, we bought a house in Churchtown. New era, new world of buying furnishings and appliances, reluctant ventures into the den of DIY. One Saturday, I cut the cord on a hedge strimmer. An assistant in Homebase advised me on what I needed to buy and how to repair it. As he extemporized I thought of an old Woodies ad in which a homeowner asks a teenage staff member where she can find something relating to patios. The narrator explains that all the teenager heard was: “Bla bla bla, bla bla bla bla, bla bla patio bla bla.’ Replace patio with cord and I was the assistant. After I’d attempted to repair the cord, the strimmer plugged in and ready to be switched back on, I looked lovingly at my wife. ‘Well, if I haven’t got this right,’ I said, ‘it’s been real, yeah?’

Before Homebase, I had tried the small hardware store near us. It had a reputation for having everything. It was closed when I got there and I never entered it before it closed its doors for the last time early last year.

Rumours of a wine bar replacing it intrigued me, almost excited me. There are few pubs near us: a community pub twelve minutes’ walk away and a recently re-invented gastropub almost double the distance. I dream of having a ‘local’. Everyone who discovers a thirst at the weekend, on special occasions or when sport or the weather itches their feet should have a pub ten minutes’ away — close enough to walk home quickly from but not close enough that it’s beside the corner shop. When we were looking for a house I’d never considered the issue. Talk of a local establishment, albeit for wine, brought a new kind of dream.

Then, before Christmas, a friend told me a pub had replaced the old hardware store. We revised our plan of a pre-Christmas Friday night squat in the gastropub to a crawl. I read online about the new pub’s provenance. Three bothers, Kieran, Fehan and Barry Flood, Mullingar gentlemen who’d owned and ran a quintessential hardware store for 31 years, had put the shop on the market in the belief someone would take over the business. Nobody shared their dream. Those who bought the property, however, liked the idea of branding the pub in the old store’s likeliness. The balding brothers gave them old stock to enhance the retro look.

On the penultimate Friday night before Christmas, we crawled in, escaping one pub and the bitter cold for the warmth and ambient lighting of Churchtown Stores. It’s slick. Its layout offers a good range of high circular tables, snugs and couches. Like all new pubs, it understands today’s appetite for gins, whiskeys and craft beers. The neat, memorabilia-filled furnishing is also contemporary. Yet that night I heard something unique among the large crowd. It was the hum one finds in a new pub on its first or second weekend, conversation laced with the buzz of discovering a new local, a place where dreams – of pints, sporting glories, insightful or hilarious conversations, (re)connections – of a ‘local’ might come true.

There was an aptness about the smell of varnish filling our senses that night, a fusion of hardware stock and pub furniture, as though the pub is a reincarnation of the hardware store/pub you find (dying out) in rural villages and towns. I wondered if the old owners supplied them with the paints in their closing down sale, or advised them what type to buy. When we left I spotted two elderly, balding men having a drink at a quiet counter of the bar. Too many pints prevented me from identifying it was two of the brothers. I wondered if it was, there because they missed the store’s hum of conversation, or curious for the sound of a new kind of hum.

In an interview last year, the brothers explained that it hadn’t mattered if people had visited the store without spending money. What mattered was that they walked out happy. People would think nothing of ringing and asking for advice. Everyone was a customer of the future.

Churchtown Stores still has a fledgling feel. Christmas is long past and, late January, you can still smell the varnish. No food, tea or coffee is available. Nobody enters yet with a look of ‘returning’. The hardware store probably had a nascent feel once upon a time but it all worked out. I imagine the balding men’s toast of that Friday night: may this remain a place where people meet and get to know others, where they laugh and learn a little. May dreams come true.

I could not see a price list on display (29 January 2019)

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The Christmas Tipple: The Willows, Dundrum

For the first time in almost 15 years I’ll wake on Christmas morning in the house where I live. Usually I’ve been at my parents’ house, often with a visit to their local pub before the 25th for that wonderful Irish experience of a jammed pub on the first or second night after most people have finished work for the year, when the ping of conversation is filled with people’s plans for Christmas and pleasure at the prospect of days of indulgence ahead.

I’m bringing the final review of the year right down to the local level, to The Willows, a community pub in the heart of residential Dundrum, suburbia, where Christmas is evident from the fairy lights and green star-shaped lights on the pub’s black frontage and red brick exterior, below Heineken flags that flap so proudly one feels like one’s outside the embassy of a beer republic.

What’s a community pub, you might ask. I remember being bemused by the term when I’d first heard it when living in Inchicore. The give-away for The Willows is the location, embedded within a housing estate, the pub’s exterior looking like it’s been superimposed on the ground floor of three red brick houses along a row of five. Such pubs are focused on serving the locals. The pub’s website tells you that from descriptions of its golf society, the teams it has in the Dublin Snooker Leagues, the players’ skills honed on the three tables upstairs near the function room that houses weekly poker evenings.  It hosts fundraising events for Dundrum Athletic.

When we go down for a drink on the solstice, the ‘opening night’ of Christmas when work has had its year, we discover two parts of the community. In Mackers Bar there’s the community of men of different ages lined like ducks at the bar counter, supping pints, sitting below large flags for Dublin, Munster and Leinster nailed in all corners to the ceiling. They’re slagging each other and trying to persuade the barman to show football instead of racing on the largest of three televisions.

‘I’m trying to keep everyone happy,’ says the barman, pointing at another screen.

‘The results haven’t changed,’ one man says to another staring at a screen showing racing results. The others laugh.

Another local arrives and awkwardly wields a tall chair from the corner snug, bumping it into another guy’s knees. ‘Jesus you’ve only just arrived and you’re already causing havoc,’ the injured says and the laugher is revived. A bronze plaque affixed to the wooden divider wall of the corner snug says ‘Bullshit Corner’. No false advertising here.

The barman yields and switches channel to mollify the protestors. The racing followers balance their attention between the other televisions and the banter. Black and white photos of old Dundrum adorn the hallway of the Mackers’ Bar entrance. One shows King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra approaching Dundrum after attending the Leopardstown Races in 1904. Were The Willows open back then they might have slipped into Mackers for a cheeky one and to check who’d won the bumper.

The other part of the community, everyone else, sits in the ebullient lounge. It’s livelier tonight than the Saturday night we first visited here a few weeks after we moved into the area. That night, a friendly barman had caught our eye, took our order and got the measure of us over a few minutes’ chat when he brought us a ridiculously cheap pint of Beamish (just over €4) and an underwhelming, G&T lacking lemon. He told us the pub sometimes opens mid-afternoon as there is insufficient business before then.

‘Was that a menu I saw on the wall? Do you do food?’ my better half said to the barman.

‘You’d be lucky to get a packet of peanuts in here, love,’ he replied, tossing his head back in laughter.

But tonight there is peanuts, crisps and other pub snacks, and as I watch a guitarist tune and check the sound system before a night of live music I spot a wine and gin menu that wasn’t here on that first night. An array of gins has found its way here, along with the different Fevertree tonics. The pub has responded to the needs of the gin drinking community. The old, the middle and the younger are here tonight. The place feels as though the dozens gathered and the barmen all know each other. They know everyone else knows they will all be here deep into the night.

Community is a nebulous concept these days. We complain that neighbours don’t know each other like they did back in the day, like 1960, when a man called Maxi Walsh established this pub. But there are communities within a community: the athletes, the poker players, the snooker players, the drinkers. This pub brings the little communities together, binds them perhaps more than geography, in turn helping to create a sense of the local community.

After we slip away we notice directly outside the pub a car parked on the lip of the road, perpendicular to and blocking the cars nestled under the pub’s windows.

“Sure no one’s going to be leaving here with their cars tonight. It’s the Friday night before Christmas for fuck’s sake,” I can imagine a man justifying himself as he’d hurried from that car to Bullshit Corner. “Sure can’t everyone pick up their cars in the morning?”

I can imagine the guitarist having to ask if the person owning the Black Toyota could move their car, and the crowd saying he can’t as he’s drinking responsibly. And I can imagine everyone laughing, the man in question noticing none of it, and everyone feeling warm at being part of this proud, self-deprecating gathering of community.

Feeling a little more connected to an area we call home, we agree we might go back to our local for a drink on Christmas Eve.

Happy Christmas.

Prices (21 December 2018)

Pint of Guinness: €4.85

Pint of lager: €5.25

Pint of ale: €4.85

Pint of cider: €5.30

330ml bottle of lager: €5.40

Measure of whiskey: €4.25

Soft drink: €2.75

 

 

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The Thursday Tipple: The Lower Deck, Portobello Harbour

The nights are getting longer. By teatime, as I walk past the swans fluttering into and out of the black waters, the dark has long descended. The Lower Deck, tucked in behind the Atlas Language School in Portobello, is my destination. You’ve probably never been there but have noticed its black and brown exterior as you’ve passed the canal. At the windows by the entrance I peer at the GAA paraphernalia and photos beyond the glass. There’s countless framed black and white images of old Dublin — the Princess Cinema in Rathmines, the old cattle market on the North Circular Road, the fruit and veg markets. Some bring a smile: the famous one of a train that had ploughed through a building wall, caption Last Stop!. There’s one of an Old English Sheepdog on his hind legs beside his owner at College Green pawing a pedestrian crossing button.

Immediately inside the main door a cadre of old men, defined by ties and cardigans, sit in a snug amidst glasses of black and white of differing levels and empty, forgotten ones with white residuals. There’s no teatime look about them, more that of men deep into the night.

The medium-sized pub itself has a feel of night, one whose dimly-lit corners and intimate pockets have never been scattered by light. That enhances the feeling of welcome and intimacy on such November evenings. There’s dark humour here too. A photo behind the bar shows a hearse, The Lower Deck inscribed on the body of the vehicle, coffin inside. Caption: Dying for a pint. Did an old patron request that his remains stop at his local along his final journey? Perhaps he’d had his final night there too.

The Lower Deck has the traditional pub feel. It’s got a country owner, no doubt, Tipperary hurling memorabilia and photos peppering the room. An old-school projector screen is used to show sport (the 6.01 news is on the evening I’m there) while a small TV in the corner appeases the racing aficionados. Donation boxes sit beside the rubber drip tray with a prominence you rarely see in the modern bars up the road. Music comes in the form of singalongs on Sunday evenings, live music on Saturday nights though I wonder if the old men swapping views in the snug take much notice. In the land of retirement, the weekend begins on Monday.

Afterwards, I pause outside and look at the black and white photos again. There’s some of Portobello in the rare ‘oul times: the Old Mall in the 1940s; the pub when it was known as Ryan’s. This establishment has been serving the Portobello people for one hundred and fifty one years, unbeknownst to many who pass the canal on their habitual ways. A contemporary photo of the pub in black and white would hang easily among the others. The Lower Deck sits on the shoulders of a bygone era. Everyone is happy without colour.

Prices (23 November 2018)

Pint of Guinness: €5.00

Pint of lager: €5.50

Pint of ale: €5.00

Pint of cider: €5.80

330ml bottle of lager: €5.50

Measure of whiskey: €5.00/5.30

Soft drink: €3.00

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The Thursday Tipple: the workshop, George’s Quay

As you face George’s Quay, you see the old and the new swirl around the workshop. Etched above the pub’s sleek, non-capitalised name-sign is an old, tired one, Kennedy’s, the name from yesteryear and the family who’ve owned it since 1920.

On the pub’s gable end is a large 3D art installation that tourist and local alike gawk at as they wait for green men. It’s a representation of the endangered red squirrel, made from recycled city waste. Is the traditional Irish pub the endangered species before our eyes?

Slightly down from the gastro pub, towards the sea, lie derelict brick buildings and land parcels arising from the slaying of other windowless shells. They’re from the era of the Kennedy’s sign and will inevitably make way for modern, higher builds, the miracle being that the city’s quays still have relics of the past.

The city of 1920 that John Kennedy observed as he converted the Railway Bar he’d bought into his own was also full collisions of old and new. Some nearby buildings, damaged during the Rising, were being restored. The green-domed splendour of the Custom House, opposite Kennedy’s, would be severely damaged the following year by burning — a landmark episode during the political turbulence of the time.

This pub, re-branded and re-designed in 2014, also points to the past. Framed photographs inside portray Ireland’s commercial and industrial history. Its frayed wooden flooring and blacksmith’s tools showcased beside the bar denote retro-workshop. The theme is stylish, the grey interior cool and smooth. Yet one wonders how much those in financial services who descend here for a gastro burger lunch can connect with the tong or anvil. What nostalgia is provoked by photos of the docks among those drinking the signature Aperol Spritz after another day at the silicon docks? Amusing the chasms between modern themes and patrons.

What links today’s customers with those who’ve disappeared into the years is the railway bar identity. Tara Street Station opened in 1891. Kennedy’s location beside its entrance made it the perfect place for those too early or late for their train to grab a pint of plain. Wicklow is now found in the Wicklow Wolf behind the bar, no longer the Dublin, Wicklow and Wexford Railway Company train. Flapping timetables have been replaced by the real-time app. Not all in here will be heading to Tara Street. But most will feel its proximity as they look out the single, expansive window that frames the Loopline Bridge and crossing trains, or the hundreds passing by each hour en route to or from the station.

This bar isn’t large: a single room downstairs, an upstairs restaurant. When seating’s available, you’ll enjoy your drink or choice from its tasty lunchtime or dinner menu – the din from others never oppressive. But if you’ve missed that DART and the pub looks full, the layout is not convenient for standing. Ultimately every pub sits a basic test: can its customers get a decent drink in comfortable surrounds? The workshop passes.

The old and the new will remain at this centre point between the Loopline Bridge and the station behind it. High-rise development beside the station is envisaged. The plan for the city’s metro includes an underground station below the Tara Street station. The view might change. But one is confident the Kennedys will ensure the pub adapts for whatever the future will bring – still serving locals and whoever has thoughts somewhere between another pint and another train. The workshop has the basic tools. This species doesn’t seem endangered.

Prices (16 October 2018)

No price list seemed to be displayed.

A pot of tea for one cost €3.00. In a pub on the opposite side of the river it costs €2.20.

Cocktails: Espresso Martini €10.  Aperol Spritz €10 or two for €17.

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The Thursday Tipple: The Swinside Inn, Newlands Valley, Cumbria

The Thursday Tipple takes a brief break from Dublin. It finds itself in Cumbria’s Lake District, England at its wettest, most mountainous and most majestic. At a distance from the iconic Lake District of tourist-filled towns like Keswick and Windermere, or the commercial worlds of walking gear, Beatrix Potter or William Wordsworth, we’re in the Newlands Valley. This is the other Lake District: the hidden, time-abandoned valleys and hidden lanes speckled with cottages, walls and chapels of stone, welcoming inns you won’t know about till you turn the corner.

Deep in a world revered though happy to be forgotten, we’re travelling back to our lodgings after a Thursday of steep walking. Late August sunshine radiates the oaks, horsechestnuts and pines, imposing mountains behind us forever following our eyes. Farmed, free range game leap onto stone walls as they travel from one field to another.

A turn around a sharp corner reveals a large, white-washed building. ‘That’s a nice pub apparently,’ says one of our crew, the ears of his voice pricked.

En-suite rooms, Garden, Refuge Bar is painted in large font on the gable wall. Refuge from what? Surely there’s no need for refuge in paradise. A garden?

A Whatsapp message tells us the others are walking to where we’re meeting them. There’s no point in going home beforehand. A free half hour has presented itself.

‘Will we stop for a pint in that pub we passed?’ I say, burning with thirst and curiosity.

We pull into the car park and let the beer garden we discover connect with the views in front of us. It all makes sense now. The view is the refuge after a long day’s exertion.

Before the eternal magic of a post-perambulatory pint in these parts, there’s one last, leaden-legged climb: up the decking steps from the beer garden to the bar. In the ‘Middle Room’ bar daylight sluices in from the French Windows, transforming a potentially dark room. The bar, tucked in on the right-hand side, harbours the friendly staff and all the beverage possibilities of the moment. Sprinkled through the room are high and low tables where you can sit, talk, sip and drink in the view. You immediately sense that time will never bother you here as you look out towards the mountains.

Back outside, amidst tables occupied by other amblers and cyclists, the pub’s lodgers and those staying in caravans parked on-site, we sit mesmerised by the view across to Causey Pike and Barrow, conquests past and future. The shaded mountains, abandoned now that evening has descended, stare at us, remind us of the highs and lows we’ve shared. On grey and wet days, these parts are steeped in melancholy. But on clear evenings like this there’s nowhere like it. A sip of Theakston Pale Ale feels like lightning binding sky and mountain and garden. Truly, this is the smoothest, silkiest pale ale I have ever tasted.

Sometimes memorable pub experiences are circumstantial: a time, a group, a thirst. The next day we tempt fate by returning after a light afternoon ramble. It’s Friday, late afternoon. Sunshine suffuses the beer garden again but it’s busier — people arriving and reuniting for catch-ups, open air and indulgence.

Yet our experience is repeated, this time enhanced by the tasty food we have. Various posters and fliers show the efforts the pub makes throughout the year to offer patrons and lodgers musical and culinary diversity. The following weekend will see the Swinside Beer and Music Fest.

I reflect in bewilderment at how different two consecutive Fridays can be: here today, surrounded by mesmerising mountains; at home next Friday, scurrying out of work, regretfully, predictably later than I’d hoped. By then a new cadre of holidaymakers will be descending on this beer garden full of hope at the days ahead. Our departure has arrived before our arrival had even begun.

They say that in the Newlands Valley sometimes the sun sets twice over the fells. On our days at the Swinside Inn, it never set at all.

Prices (31 August 2018)

Pint of Heineken: £4.85

Pint of Theakstons Stout: £4.85

Pint of Theakstons Lightfoot: £4.15

330ml bottle of lager: £2.95

Measure of whiskey: £3.30

Soft drink: £1.85

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The Thursday Tipple: The Wiley Fox, Eden Quay

Tucked in beside Liberty Hall, near the metallic hulk of Butt Bridge, is The Wiley Fox. Some might know it as its previous incarnation, The Pint, or The Liffey Bar before that. Others will know it simply as the place to slip in for a pint while you’re waiting for one of the many buses that leave from or pass through Eden Quay.

Two young men, one with the head of his arse staring out at everyone, are whiling away the hours at the bar when I arrive. Funny all the things you hear two strangers discuss in half an hour: homelessness and nearby accommodation; the number of penalty points one has; the life story (‘I left home at 17’); the ex-girlfriend, mentioned too much for her place in his current life to be deemed fully resolved.

Isn’t it good to see still strangers striking up conversation during a solitary pint? I thought it might only still happen in the movies.

Bar stool banter isn’t the only heart-warming thing in this “retro industrial café and bar”, as it describes itself. Its interior is a pleasant mixture of brick, calming colours and quirky, metallic lighting fixtures. You’ve many seating options. As shown, you can meet the world at the bar. You can sneak away to the sun-trapped area at the front, with its comfy armchairs, low circular tables and fireplace. Or you can watch the world and its buses go by at the keg tables outside. The right height for a circular bar table is a precise art. In the main section, this young cub has mastered it.

Some bars place great store in offering specials. Some don’t. The Wiley Fox has them across the board. €12 will get you either: two cocktails before 8pm; a pitcher of house beer; 3 bottles of certain lagers; or two vodkas/rums and a dash. There are more.

The extensive, decent-priced food menu, brought by the Smokin Bones barbeque restaurant, also has an American, industrial feel to it, its emphasis on wings with various barbeque sauces, burgers, pulled pork and ribs. “Low n’ Slow” is its philosophy, “simply cooking with wood & time”. Profound. Simple. Successful.

The Wiley Fox is a different beast some nights when The Sound House, a live music venue, comes alive. I didn’t experience it but Dance Club nights as well as music and comedy gigs are frequent. Monday nights bring the free-entry, Monday Club, while the last Friday of the month brings the intriguing-sounding Disco Lunch: dine and disco from 12-3pm. “Boss, I might be back from lunch late and sweaty….”

Both pints nearly empty, the two strangers-now-friends wrap up their conversation.

“Enjoy your wedding next year. Safe travels,” says the young man from the country.

“Enjoy your experience in Dublin,” says the departing, tucking his arse in before declaring he’s going to hunt down a taxi.

“Sure you can get a bus outside, it’s much cheaper,” he tells the blow-in and points out the likely price difference.

It’s the blow-in, however, who has revealed his wisdom. You don’t need to be waiting for a bus outside to justify coming in.

Prices (20 August 2018)

Pint of Guinness: €5.00

Pint of lager: €5.30

Pint of ale: €5.30

Pint of cider: €5.40

330ml bottle of lager: €5.30

Measure of whiskey: €5.50

Soft drink: €2.90

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The Thursday Tipple: J.W. Sweetman, Burgh Quay

Most Dubliners will know J.W. Sweetman’s predecessor on Burgh Quay, Messrs Maguire – the multi-storeyed pub on the right-hand side of the quays as you head north at O’Connell Bridge. They probably know it from summers’ eves and the unique views and light that spilled in to the second floor. In a low-rise city with many dark pubs, the upper floors seemed to stand on the shoulders of giants. When Mulligan’s was too busy after a Dublin football Sunday, ‘Messrs’ was an option or a place for food after pints on Poolbeg Street. In my mind, every Dub has been to an 18th, 21st or a retirement bash there.

Time marches forward and places change hands. J.W. Sweetman’s is the name outside it now and Thursday evening’s tipple is consumed on the ground floor to the drowning sound of upbeat jazz in the Blu Room upstairs, a weekly feature from 6pm. This pub has captured the zeitgeist of Dublin drinkers’ and tourists’ requirements: craft beers and a broad choice of new whiskeys and gins; plenty of TV screens to show all major sports events; and a decent food menu (with deals for times of the publicised sports events). The food is agreeable. I try the home brew of Red Ale (4.8%), punchy and crisp. Add in the 2.30am closing time on Saturdays and Sundays and you’ll see how this bar might do well. No doubt the city’s pubs rely on tourists, which might explain the American bar feel to the ‘mix’ pubs now offer.

Change of ownership hasn’t meant loss of view. By the windows on the second floor, you still get a great vista of the city’s river, the buildings on the quays and the wide expanse of O’Connell Street, with all its monuments and history. Tables are taken quickly so be alert.

Ireland isn’t just small geographically. They say if you put five Irish people in a room together, at least two of them will know someone in common. It was only after visiting the pub that I realised I knew an ancestor of the eponymous brewer.

The Sweetmans was a famous and successful family for centuries in Dublin, known for brewing, architecture and politics. By 1756, they had five breweries in Dublin, including one at 81 St Stephen’s Green that would later move to Francis Street. As a child I knew Brigid Sweetman, a sweet, elderly lady and daughter of Roger Sweetman, a Sinn Féin MP during the War of Independence and cousin of the party’s second president. Her antecedent, Patrick J Sweetman, was the first Irish brewer to publicly advertise his porter, an ad appearing in 1780. He sold it at a time when London porter dominated a local market defined by poor indigenous brews. In 1793, despondent local brewers succeeded in getting Irish parliamentarian Henry Grattan to repeal the excise duty on beer in Ireland — to encourage its consumption rather than the cheap, low-excise spirits that local brewers blamed for their misfortunes. After repeal, local beer brewing grew and with the production of a standard roast malt technique in the early 19th century, porter brewing proliferated.

Brigid used to proudly refer to her family’s brewing history. There’s no involvement by any of her relatives in the company that brews and runs this pub on Burgh Quay, though you’d be forgiven for thinking there is from the pub’s marketing or website. John William Sweetman and his descendants, however, would be pleased to see the renaissance of beer brewing in Ireland today after another long period of mass importation.

Prices (25 July 2018)

Pint of Guinness: €5.50

Pint of lager: €6.00

Pint of Sweetmans Craft: €6.00

330ml bottle of lager: €6.00

Measure of Irish whiskey: €5.60

Soft drink: €3.00

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The Thursday Tipple: O’Neill’s, Pearse Street

In Dublin, most good pubs are quickly hunted down and, to their owner’s delight, never left neglected. But every city has its blind spots, locations just off the beaten track that leave a good pub unnoticed to locals, tourists or an area’s workers.

O’Neill’s on Pearse Street may be one such pub. Located near the railway bridge that’s had a Guinness ad plastered across it probably since the O’Neills started serving here (1888), its footprint contrasts greatly with that of its namesake on Suffolk Street. The former is situated on a busy, vehicular street with few retail or entertainment units nearby. The latter stands just off Grafton Street. The former hasn’t opened on Sundays in about 10 years. The latter buzzes morning, noon and night.

Yet this pleasant, relaxing pub consistently hums along, mainly it seems to the tune of tourists staying nearby or in one the eight guest rooms upstairs. On the night I visit I’m unsurprised to notice a man sitting at the bar drinking Guinness with the expression of someone ready to pounce on conversation. The American asks me how to tip a barman if he’s paying on card. No need to tip barmen here, I reassure him, and he’s delighted to get chatting. Arizona. First time in Ireland. Here to discover ancestry. Staying 20 metres up the road, where the family have crashed out after the long flight. The nearby barman hears these lines in his sleep.

The good weather on the evening in question has detracted those who might have been there otherwise. The emptiness reveals the true amount of space offered by this pub of dark wooden furnishings and walls covered in framed portraits and pictures. There’s the long counter in the smaller bar, perfect for perched, one-to-one, reflective or chest-offloading pints. The counter running along the opposite wall offers the same. The little snug adjoining it facilitates the confessional pint with a partner, or the gathering of friends who want to lose themselves from the world.

Move to the darker lounge section and you’ll find a range of table constellations, nooks and crannies to suit your numbers or dynamic. My mind rewinds to previous winters and the cosy atmosphere the larger section offers: soft lighting; the gentle burble of conversation; a good range of beers and whiskeys (it offers whiskey-tasting sessions); and the absence of numerous TVs blasting out sport. This pub always offered an ideal spot for an audible winter’s night or a December Saturday evening drink after Christmas shopping.

Tourists and a small milieu seem to have sustained this pub. Just like its namesake on Suffolk Street, it offers many corners and pockets for a drink, but without the same commotion. It seems justifiably easy in its own, calm skin.

Prices (27 June 2018)

Pint of Guinness: €5.20

Pint of lager: €5.80

330ml bottle of lager: €5.30

Measure of whiskey: €5.00

Soft drink: €2.80

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The Thursday Tipple: The Bernard Shaw, South Richmond Street

As I leave the office, a colleague tells me he’s leaving work early to accompany his daughter to the Ed Sheerin concert in the Phoenix Park. In his mid-forties (I think), he sounds amused at the prospect of time-travelling.

At the entrance to The Bernard Shaw, a friendly, bearded bouncer asks me if he can check my bag for cans. Now I’m the one time-travelling. It’s good to still look half-young.

I’d known from a night there about five years ago (in hindsight it’s almost 15) that this pub-café-pizzeria lures a younger clientele. Tonight’s gathering at the bar, some ordering the pizza and pint deal, others the two G&Ts for €15, confirm this. They’re still in college or just beyond.

The wall opposite the bar displays art for sale by contemporary artists Stephen Shaw, Sinéad Smyth and John Kavanagh. The art is modern, accessible, interesting.* Other walls display posters for gigs (some on here) of which I’m no longer “street” enough to guess the genre. Weaved among the art works is a poster for the pub’s recent World Buckfast Day event. The liquid of champions, the pub describes it, promoted earlier in the month with the world’s first Buckfast 99s and Buckfast Bingo. This two-minute wait at the bar brings me through adulthood, studenthood and puberty.

A door at the back, past a narrow section with tables, leads to a vast outdoor area. There, dozens of patrons, Irish and non-Irish, sit at wooden tables under the plastic roof or stand at keg tables in the uncovered area. They’re drinking and talking quickly, enjoying this fresh but unrelentingly sunny May evening. All seem oblivious to the mural of a Shaw quote (the only Shavian trapping I can see) on the gable end of the pub’s building: Music is the brandy of the damned. I’m time travelling again, transported back to college nights and standing outside the students’ bar, drinking carefree but in conformity. It’s noisy. It’s busy. It’s vibrant.

From a vintage, double-decker bus, permanently stationary at the back of the yard, patrons order delicious-looking pizzas and bruschetta. Inside, the smell of fresh food being prepared is wonderful. My order of coffee order causes consternation. They tell me to order it at the bar (also a café by day, with a sumptuous-looking menu). The barman tells me the opposite. The lads in the bus then dutifully oblige. Upstairs, people sit at cramped tables enjoying their meal and the view (you can book tables). In 2015, the blue bus made it into the McKenna’s Guide (a recognised list of best places to eat, shop and stay in Ireland). The space on the other side of the building the pub’s event space for Thursday-Sunday food markets and events like flea markets.

Back outside, chatter glides over a large, steel door. I’m a child again as I open the magic door and find a smaller crowd sitting at small tables formed from crates propped up by mini-kegs. A polemical whiff lances the air. Another colourful mural, this one on the big socio-political matter of the month, spreads across the wall shared with the neighbouring property.

As I enjoy the outdoor vista again I ask myself for what age tourists I review pubs. This might be a good place for young tourists to meet other young tourists. Then I look again at the crowd and notice no ethnic separation. This is modern, young, dynamic Dublin: those from Ireland and many from elsewhere, studying or working for companies that attract many nationalities, enjoying drinks in this post-commercial, non-landscaped space. It’s under my nose and I just haven’t noticed it much.

After leaving, I look back at the distinctive, black, asymmetrically-shaped building with its ice cream cone stand outside. Both neighbouring buildings are long demolished, the gable ends now frayed with concrete and crevices filled with thriving plants. The streetscape as you travel down South Richmond Street now makes sense. The vast, boarded space that looks like a demolition site is a world of outdoor eating, drinking and magic buses. Young Dublin has made a home where old Dublin once lived. It could be Brixton. Or maybe I’m showing my age again.

Prices (17 May 2018)

Pint of Guinness: €5.50

Pint of Becks: €5.80

330ml bottle of Heineken: €5.50

Brewtonic: €6.00

 

* The pub will host a closing night for their work tomorrow (25 May).

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