This was by far the poorest establishment we found on the Dalkey stretch, a massive amphitheatre perhaps better called a 'hotel', professing to date from circa 1745 – yet the only thing that looks ancient is the font of the sign. The interior was charmless, replete with crying children and elders breaking glasses, redeemed only by a well-stocked and roaring fire. A besuited and moneyed couple were lounging at leisure beside the blazing flame, and we remarked on our envy of their seats. 'Yes, we're very lucky,' the lady sighed. 'Would you like to buy them?' her smarmy beau replied. Service was slow as we stood like losers at the sweeping and circular multileveled counter, and the glass of Guinness, when finally it arrived, proved nearly undrinkable, sickly sweet and stale, unfit for human consumption, better off poured on the flowerbeds.

The only merit, fire aside, was to be found from sitting outside and sucking up the ‘gorgeousity’ that is the view, for on a sunny day it commands a bustling panorama of the town's main street, right within spitting distance of Dalkey Castle and Archibold's Tower. (Indeed it was the first time Stephens had ever heard the word ‘gorgeousity’ [1], a locution which has forever invaded his mind and mouth). The King's Inn was also within eyeshot – we'll get out of here gladly. Shall we ever return? A resounding quoth the raven: NEVERMORE.

Endnote: Prophetic was the raven’s quoth - the queen has permanently left the castle - the pub “will not reopen and has ceased trading.” Play the world’s smallest violin. Further Endnote: The pub is due to reopen under new ownership after Covid restrictions are fully lifted.

FOOTNOTE

[1] Copyright: Anthony Burgess.

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