250) Ryan's of Sandymount, D4
Pleasant and inoffensive local benefiting hugely from its rejuvenating proximity to the seaside. Beamish is served and the seats outside are delightful on a sunny day, with a great view of the village green if one chooses to avoid the myriad sport-showing TV screens within. A good place to repair to after walking on the strand and working up a thirst. A Chinese barman, who answers to the name of 'Andy', is a favourite of the regulars.
UPDATE AS OF JULY 2022: Here be a classic case of the necessity for repeated visits, and how one cursory token sup will result in an utterly inadequate and paltry effusion like the one above - the pub is of a quality far beyond what that short bland paragraph suggests. Ryan’s is a gem of gems, a font of peace and tranquility and sweetest serenity where time stands still and downcast hearts are lifted higher, enchanted by the nearness of the sea and the swelling tides on the strand. It remains a proud Beamish bonder, for the bewitching price of €4.60, far more delicious and far more economic than anything to be found in the city centre. Barman Andy remains in service, and special mention must be made of his boss barman Martin, a fluffy headed and genial fellow well liked by the community and outsiders alike. An effusive lady was heard requesting a cheese sandwich from him, and, bouncing on her toes as she said so, she declared ‘Anything for you, Martin!’ Well, now. Lovely hurling, Martin! (To throw the gentleman’s catchphrase right back at him!)
Regulars are loyal and their seats must be respected - one of them, dominating a stool at the far counter’s corner, bears a resemblance to the late poet and former Sandymount resident Seamus Heaney, a likeness so marked that he could even be the dead bard’s brother - who knows? Another regular, curly black of hair and bespectacled and sandalled, is wont to come forth with cod-poetic proclamations as the day wanes and the pints proliferate, once remarking (in a pointed gibe at the follicle-challenged Publopedians) ‘The currency in Papua New Guinea is bald heads.’ Another fellow seems to be a Cockney (dubbed by us Private Carr or Compton) and is often observed talking on his phone, explaining how he’s missed the boat yet again, captive to the pub’s beguiling power. Tribute is paid to another Sandymount resident W.B. Yeats, whose image dominates the radiant stained glass window, his poetic prowess indicated by a gleaming quill and inkpot. (Indeed, do but take a stroll in Sandymount Green opposite the pub and you will quickly find busts of Yeats and Heaney, their proudest sons.) O rarest Ryan’s, you deserve rhapsodies, would that we had the wit and the words worthy to encapsulate your ineffable charms. Long may it stand and serve the same again and better!
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