In what can seem like a foreboding façade the Auld Triangle is a friendly house. The name of the pub is a tribute to the Irish song which first appeared in Brendan Behan’s [1] The Quare Fellow, performed on RTÉ by the drunkard himself. (The song was later to be immortalised by The Dubliners and glamorised by Glen Hansard). A large mural on the wall depicts a painted H (block) inside which the faces of the 1981 hunger strikers are remembered. Another mural celebrates the GAA tradition portraying a Kerry footballer struggling to keep up with a Dubliner in possession. There’s a noticeable lack of windows and the interior is gloomy; however, the bar staff are accommodating and forthcoming. Irish Republican memorabilia adorn the walls. A fine pint of Guinness at a fine price: €4.00 a pour. And the Beamish flows (always an added bonus) at a delightful price of merely €3:60 (since gone up to €4, sign of the 2022 times!), putting it on par with the economical likes of Cumiskey's and the Dominick Inn.

A regular patron is the unequivocal jaw dropping spitting image of Stephen Fry, not only has he his face but also his stature, to such an extent that he might be an undisclosed relative (this pseudo-Stephen is wont to take a long time in the crapper, only to miraculously reemerge from the smoking area, as though he had access to a secret entrance-cum-egress we know nothing about - he also bears a disquieting resemblance to Oscar Wilde of the 1899 period - syphilitic, drunken, debauched and despairing - a role that his likeness Stephen tellingly already played in ‘97, though not in as much degraded detail!). Another regular bears a strong resemblance to the late and destitute poet Paddy Finnegan, a haggard likeness so striking that he could well be the dead bard's long-lost brother, no less gaunt and craggy. Still another barfly, distinguished by his ubiquitous blue bobble hat, is always to be found crouching at the counter's corner, croaking cryptically to his cronies – any sunlight that creeps through the door could well extinguish him, vampire-style.

The Auld Triangle, no friend of authority, also seemingly plays host to many an illicit transaction – a recent visit saw us witnessing what looked like a clumsy drug deal, involving a brown paper bag surreptitiously passed around, a tubby farmer pretending to hold an unconvincing conversation on his mobile phone by way of distraction, while his shady colleagues retreated to a farther table to mutter over their strategy, all the while keeping beady eyes trained on us, the outsiders and potential informers-cum-undercover cops. Such touches of drama made a revisit well worth the effort - and a fourth revisit only proved that this is a pattern, what with lads at the counter’s corner receiving dodgy brown packages and etcetera (maybe it’s only piffling PORN?!?)

N.B. The Auld Triangle does NOT serve an Island’s Edge but DOES serve a Beamish. Hats off forever and a day.

FOOTNOTE

[1] Many have disputed that Behan penned the piece, but sure, howandever, there you are. It has also been pointed out, that in the lyric, due to the reference of the wish to dwell among the inhabitants of the female prison, the ‘triangle’ takes on another meaning altogether - becoming a lubricious symbol of the female genitalia (jingle-jangle!), as the Royal Canal becomes the birth canal, and etc.

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