Formerly known as McDonagh's. We landed up here in the wake of a depressingly unsuccessful mission to visit the city centre's early houses, none of which (as we should very well have known) were open of a Sunday (bar O'Donoghue's of Suffolk Street, which isn’t strictly an early house), and so were in need of some seaside air to lift our spirits, arriving around noontime to the sleepy coastal town. The pub's exterior seemed on the gastritis side, but the sight of a wizened elder peeking out the window, his face the texture of melting mottled candle-wax, promised better. And so the lavishly furnished interior proved – a roaring fire charmed the heart, and a friendly barmaid warmed the cockles, while in the background a bunch of ruddy old Scotchman grumbled about their recent loss in a rugby match.

The Dalkey Duck, a self-described Victorian pub owned by Whelan's, has a logo of a dressed duck smugly smoking - A Dalkey Dick, or so he seems. It can boast of a false snug, an upright piano, pulley chains in the jacks, a vast and very elaborate beer garden set on a slope (looking onto Killiney Hill), plus a massive painting of a naked lady on the wall, none too shy about displaying her bushy pudenda. Beguiled by the surroundings, we were easily persuaded by the barmaid, an able saleswoman, to have another round of Guinness half-pints (five euro sixty for both). They were served in a pair of dinky glasses that moved her to squeal: 'Aren't they the cutest?' to which we boldly rejoined: 'Wish I could take 'em home with me!' A lull, and then she saucily shot back: 'So long as I don't see you do it!' Best of luck to the Dalkey Duck!

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