Without doubt the finest pub in the area, it has a unique atmosphere of something approaching a retired movie set or theatre stage. Andrew Stephens has here spent many a long day’s journey into night. The unusually low ceilings give both a great source of comfort and a mild sense of threat. And lo, even a Beamish can be your cry! It’s a sleepy pub by day - televisions show live sport but no radios play so thankfully the sound of music is absent. Young ‘Gav’ is a seasoned barkeep of an excellent standard in spite of his age. Long-time barwoman Bernadette, known simply as ‘Ber’, has her favourites. She’s frightfully efficient and the owner of the saddest face that ever grew over a skull.

Patrons make up a bold mix. The bar is a small no man’s land where The usual suspects can be found propping it up which include a well-liked couple who drink nightly and heartily. They insist on driving home despite being on rocky pegs and regardless of the efforts made by concerned patrons who try to find them a taxi driver willing to accommodate. In the lounge one will find Harold and Maude ‘types’ sitting in situ but barely speaking, and the best of youths at the next table discussing the future. The lounge is large and receives the sun’s grace. Several bronze ornaments sparkle with the shining of glass-light. 

Big Tom, (millionaire property and pub owner) ailing with shaking, roves like a ghost of a ghost between bar and lounge [1]. Always garbed in a too big suit he looks as mad as the man from the south. He takes a glass of smelly larger on the hour and infrequently stands a drink to a select few, but only when the going’s good and they haven’t pissed themselves.

After ambling here directly from Delany’s, a thirsty Sam Coll was yet again struck by the palatability of the pint. The pub is located next to the greens of Cherryfield and many a drunken punter has used the field as a pissing ground after last orders. Since 2001 this has been the local favourite of serial sippers Stephens and Saunders who are guilty of ogling a great number of handsome lounge girls over the blue years. Once, on a mad mission to drink as much as possible, the said pair became so inebriated that they lost their language and found fluent Urdu.

Stephens was pinting here one night in late 2019 with freshly converted Beamish imbiber Peter Conlon [2]. After six swift salubrious pints, Stephens departed. Mr. Conlon, alone, remained. Propped up against the bar he listened to The Greatest Hits of Phil Collins via headphones and belched his way through another brace of Beamish. The lull of the music so soothing and serenading made Conlon unconscious, and on several occasions, had to be roused by a vigilant barkeep who clicked his fingers right in front of his face. He eventually ventured to cycle his bicycle back to his quarters wiggling and wobbling all the way. This caused in his belly the fresh Beamish to be disagreeable and was thus reproduced upon the bathroom floor. He could feel it coming in the air that night, Oh Lord! A life lesson learned.

A moderately amusing exchange was overheard on a recent visit in 2020 – on arrival, we observed the barman as a frustrated figure as he had to suffer to listen to yet another speech by a drunken barfly buzzing incessantly at the bar. The said barman was asked by an amused regular sitting at the opposite end: 'How are the balls of your feet?' The barman rolled his eyes under his breath, muttering: 'The joy of it... I wish I had earmuffs...' You had to be there [3]. 

Update as of 2019: the infamous ‘Ber’ has relocated. She has permanently retired from ‘The Blue’ and is now pulling pints in the Bird Flanagan.

Further update as of July 2021: it seems the pub is undergoing extensive renovations. The exterior has been fittingly painted blue and is the beneficiary of new windows. One hopes the interior is not going to be transmogrified too harshly...

ENDNOTE as of August 2021: after the first visit since Covid-19 and Tom O’Malley’s passing, we are delighted to report that the interior of the pub is, as you were - unchanged. Excellent Beamish still flows (albeit selling at a higher price - and who could blame them?) and the proficient bar staff remain ever strong. Long live the Blue Haven!

FOOTNOTES

[1] Tom O’Malley - proprietor of the Blue Haven pub until the time of his death, which occurred 11 June 2021. We hope his True Haven is blue. R.I.P.

[2] Current student of Psychology at IADT Dun Laoghaire, part-time fishmonger, Dublin Publopedia enthusiast, apprentice pintman, a man-about-suburbs.

[3] The Blue Haven is located some ten to fifteen minutes walk from D'Arcy McGee's, of the Spawell Leisure Complex, Wellington Lane, Templeogue, D6W. This pub was technically the 349th pub we visited in January 2020 – it is also a near-unique case of an establishment so depressing and repugnant that we cannot bring ourselves to write a full-scale entry for it, and will instead deny it a number and consign it to the purgatory of a footnote. We might have known it was going to be shite, given its location in a complex surrounded by golf courses and car parks and children's playgrounds. It plays host to a captive audience, some of whom display a corpulence more commonly seen in a Wetherspoons, which offers a similar foodie-drinking atmosphere (albeit at markedly cheaper prices). Photos on Google Maps show the Beamish logo prominently displayed outside, but within the precious drink is not to be found, presumably a recent casualty, and a further black mark against this singular hole. A bad omen was unheeded en-route to D'Arcy McGee's, as Andrew Stephens decided to run across the road in spite of a red light, and was very nearly hit by a car for his pains. Not half an hour later, as we left the bar feeling rotten and sad, he again broke into a run and fell flat on his face, narrowly escaping injury in the form of broken glasses or grazed knees. Grateful to be alive, we then paid a nocturnal visit to the nearby Templeogue Cemetery for some sombre spiritual sustenance, touching gravestones for succour and solace. How many D'Arcy customers will wind up among its plots? Eerily, Stephens was to suffer another such fall in front of incoming traffic less than two weeks later (see entry for:  Leonard's Corner).

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