138) Murphy’s of Rathmines Road Upper, D6
Just a little off the beaten track from the rush of Rathmines is the tranquillity of Murphy’s. An average exterior hides a lounge which boasts a spacious layout with a couple of interesting features. Tucked away at the back one will find an alcove akin to a living room equipped with a small library, a fire, and a glass-cabinet housing fine china. A set of curtains can be drawn making this little room private, but not snug as there’s no direct hatch to the bar. In front of this area is a greater space irradiated by a large skylight under which a sprawling iron centrepiece of water lily lamps shoot from stem to flower originating from the hub of a circular wooden table. A secret entrance from a laneway off York Road leads to a door at the back of the pub, a great way to slip away unnoticed if An Garda Síochána invade from the front. Being a ‘Murphy’s’ the stout bearing the same name is noticeably absent, however Beamish is present and willingly served. A regular patron, an exclusive Guinness drinker who’s in the habit of blessing himself on entry, is called ‘The Boss’ by the barman. When asked ‘assume you’ll take a stout?’ The Boss replied: ‘sure I’ll try one.’ Their patented 'Wok Wednesdays' are a feature for the food-fanciers and an area of the lounge is dedicated for those busy gorging.
Once, in middle March 2020, on the eve of a nationwide pub closure due to the Coronavirus outbreak, we sequestered ourselves here, it being the only pub in the area we could find open. Our delight at being able to suck some glass was followed by a slow trickle of other sobers desperate to inebriate. Barman John of Grace’s fame slipped in and fluttered about the bar refusing to take a seat for the duration of the evening, standing instead just as tall as he could. His length of tooth allowed him to offer sage advice to panicking patrons in the face of the nations’ impending lockdown. He was heard to say: ‘Sure no matter, you can always get a few tins from Tesco.’ Will wisdom ever cease? As per a handwritten scrawl stuck to the front window, a strict Covid-19 curfew meant we had to have the last of our liquid absorbed by 7pm. This pub was certain to be the Last Sipper and we happily guzzled through a gallon of Beamish despite it being served in ‘Mid-Strength’ Guinness glasses for which the lounge lady expressed regret.
As the evening drew to a close, we noticed that sitting limply at the end of one of the seats was a single solitary cushion, an abandoned feather bag propped all alone. What had happened to all the other cushions we wondered? This, for us, as we observed the coming curfew, was a symbol of self-isolation and social-distancing, as if the sad little sack were sentient and aware of the impending crises. Whatever became of that lonely little cushion in Murphy’s of Rathmines? Will it ever find a worthy chair? Once again reader darling, you had to be there. And we were.
The loneliest cushion in Dublin. Murphy’s, 15th March 2020, the day of the Great Lockdown
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