290) The Bird Flanagan of South Circular Road, D8

This is a gem, the true jewel of Rialto and a pintman’s privilege. On approaching the public abode one will be astonished to see, in the distance, the Wellington Monument of Phoenix Park fame protruding high over the horizon, a scene setter if ever there was one. Also, in the middle of a florid roundabout directly opposite lies a mysterious monument, a sculpture by a certain Sandra Bell and commissioned by the residents of Rialto. It appears to depict a twisted fish entangled with Bell’s trademark: a faceless figure whose head is shiny and elongated resembling that of Alien from the horror movie franchise. 

On to the pub: once inside we were treated to a spacious conjoined bar and lounge. A unique raised area at the centre of the room is like a room within a room. It has two unusual fireplaces built back to back, one inside, the other outside and both make use of the one great chimney. To the rear, one will find a conservatory area, irradiated and large with yet another fireplace and a decorated mantelpiece. Beyond the conservatory is the Bird’s beer garden. This pub gets its name from the famous Willie Flanagan (brother-in-law of Taoiseach W.T Cosgrave, see Kenny’s of James’s Street) who was renowned as one of the great characters and practical jokers in the history of Dublin city. The walls are bedecked with drawings of the Bird himself in the midst of various acts of mischief and pranking. There is a black and white photo of him behind the bar that says ‘Willie ‘the bird’ Flanagan, practical joker, 1867-1925.’ 

Willie ‘the bird’ Flanagan, practical joker, 1867-1925

‘Beamish, it’s different because it’s always the same.’ (Except it’s NOT!). The right name for stout was and is Beamish: as black as a priest’s sock, as white as a nun’s wimple. It’s procured here so you can be cured here, so call in and cry! Sound man Brendan! The pints here are delicious and the barmen are prompt to pour. (Albeit the price has increased by 10 cent as of July 2019, but at €4.25 it remains a great price). On the particular afternoon of our visit we found its patrons friendly and many of whom were remarkably tall. Some were genuine giants approaching the seven-foot mark. 

‘Ber’, the ever proficient barwoman of Blue Haven fame has flown the nest in Knocklyon and has landed here in Flanagan’s. Dreadfully seldom she smiles but when she does the sun reveals itself and the bar suddenly brightens. Her regular expression is so frightfully sad it would stop a clock - the clock, which is the pub’s best feature, hangs behind the corner of the bar. It’s an antique grandfather clock which is weight driven and swings a spherical pendulum where the tower ought to be, but the tower is curiously absent. And behold: the clock-face hath no glass case! It’s a bare faced square, bold and brave, giving a joyful tick after every sorry tock. The bell-rings are beautifully notated with a melodic series of synchronized taps on a trinity of golden tubular bells. This tune penetrates the room’s collective conversation, briskly every quarter hour and gladly extended to a full chime-song on the hour. The very second we pointed out this extraordinary timepiece, it struck, and ‘the sound of the peal of the hour of the night’ was harmonious and melodic and suggested one thing: O bounteous Beamish beguiling and abundant!

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