Quaint little cottage appearance on the outside. Must vaster inside. Guinness goes for €4.80 at our time of visiting back in the winter. Two Tuborg taps visible but no Beamish - wadda fuq? Get yer priorities straight, lads! Walls of exposed brick. Guinness too sweet, especially when contrasted with the brace of Beamish we’d just had. Racing on the telly. Aul lads visible. Sitting around at separate tables passing remarks. Lads getting rolls in Centra. Then rolling in here. Rollers. Legends all. Better sipping here than in the nasty neighbouring ‘pub’ [1]. Very familiar Irish writers poster on wall - you’ve seen it in school - recite them all by heart as a test of memory - Swift, Yeats, Synge, Goldsmith, Joyce, Beckett, O’Brien, Behan, Kavanagh, O’Casey, Shaw - who the fuck’s the token twelfth? (Shame on me - Oscar Wilde, of course.) We don’t have piles to say about Kyles. It wasn’t wonderful.

FOOTNOTE

[1] Don’t bother your arse trying the larger pub on the corner of this road called The Cock and Bull. It’s a glorified fast-food-diner-hall with no soul or charm. The Cock and Bullshit!

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