364) Angler’s Rest of Knockmaroon Hill, Strawberry Beds, Chapelizod, Dublin 20
We found ourselves as far as Fingal county, a pair of gasping alemates athirst for a pint. It was a sunsoaked afternoon and we had trotted all the way from Chapelizod Road to Knockmaroon Hill via feet. Eventually, high above the myriad narrow country roads was revealed to us through the trees a faint sign of publife. (Smoke wafting from a stone stove outside the coming tavern - a little wood and turf fire calling all local souls to a sinful mass). The meandering finally cleared and we beheld the glory of an open wet house with our own four peeps. What a discovery! Now we know how Columbus felt.
‘The Angler’ rests by a road on a very rustic hillside slant adjacent to a much narrowed river Liffey. It’s a charming, if also a costly pub, established in 1862 with a famous claim that Michael Collins would meet here with his spies during 1919-1922. We treated ourselves to a stout apiece from the ‘Salmon Bar’ within. One will find a labyrinth of levels which play host to weekly weddings. At ground level, mad fish investigate the four corners of their tank-cum-jail-cum-cosmos. A sarcastic barman (from UK or ‘Stralia?) bespoke bouquets, and would not drop the act even after it ceased to be funny.
We sat on a wall outside by the country road and quenched our want until we went to the shade of the awnings for fear of sunburn. The building is the colour of ‘Colman’s of Norwich’ - the original English mustard. We visited in the wake of a wedding (see above - they do a lot of these matrimonial ceremonies). There was a staring baby whose ghastly gaze had to be turned away. The staff were uniformly uniformed. The boss asked us, the literal spare pricks at the wedding, ‘are ye the photographers?’ The actual photographer came later and photographed us (and we are grateful to receive and use the image he sent us). We were offered water with our pints and drank liberally to sustain ourselves for the trek towards the next watering hole. Says the owner to a family, a nice line he’s used many times before: ‘There’s room for one more if you’d like to phone a friend…’ No wonder he wants to be a millionaire. We’re not anglers, but we did rest, and left with a wish to return.
Prodigiously disguised Publopedians pose like pricks with pints
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