A fine old establishment - a gem - a home away from home - no nonsense - no frills - just spills! - a favourite for Dubliners - and for the Dublin Publopedians.

Staff are prompt and pints are delicious. Barman Niall is an excellent barkeep and is always efficient and professional. Reportedly established in 1890 and precious little has changed over the years - making it unique amongst many tarted up bespoke woke bars in the capital. It’s very central but uniquely economic, at least in terms of its Beamish which goes for €4.50 – long may it last (alas, it didn’t last, nor could it last, alas). Best avoided on Friday nights when seats are unobtainable.

The pub is especially to be treasured for the breadth and multiplicity (and even dare we say diversity) of its customers - as someone said of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, ‘Here is god’s plenty!’ Sitting at the corner of the counter and eyeing up the company, you’ll never get bored. The rich and varied clientele includes an eclectic mix of Liberties locals, lawyers and layabouts, millionaires and milquetoasts, businessmen and bowsies, barmen and barflies, militant soaks and vigilant sacristans, the swarming entirety of Christchurch Cathedral Choir (including organist and assistants), as well as numerous blow-in American tourists who have been heard to ask for ‘one of those black beers’ and torture/enchant the natives with questions, spurring them on to show off.

A window seat affords a glorious view of ChristChurch and could well be among the finest vistas in Dublin – highlighted by a busy public bin which is frequently emptied by a certain binman who likes to use the bar's toilets, to say nothing of the many bullying seagulls who fight over the bin's contents. 

Half the bar also tilts alarmingly like a ship on a choppy ocean, owing to the building's poise on the crest of a hill – the slant is only discernible from a low seat to the left. Stained-glass runs along the top of the pub’s many latticed windows which sparkle with colour at the right time of day. The comfortable corner section is partially enclosed and can only seat a small number. Not attached to the bar, this ‘false snug’ is just snug enough to be considered one. This triangular section with its traditional central pole was once the main entrance (a painting of this former entrance can be seen on the wall) [3].

A narrow and mysterious door at the rear of the room leads back to the front making a circular route for reasons unknown. Directly opposite this curious door is hidden a cheap antique clock equipped with a pendulum in its tower, and a horse carved at its peak - available for all but none to see. Toilet facilities would be delighted with a deep clean. 

The upstairs area is also cosy with an open fire and more attractive latticed windows through which the sun can spill. Stephens once spotted Eva here, (an attractive but troubled doctor of Physics whom he once met in the Workman’s Club) drinking heartily and exhibiting a black eye. Fiddler, raconteur, sometime squatter and social activist Sean Fitzgerald [1] (a probable ancestor of the titular lord who lends the place his name) runs a ballad tour that starts and ends at said pub, popular with tourists.

Photographs on a pillar by the counter depict two departed regulars, one a black-and-white old granny with the gnarled and beckoning finger of a wicked witch, the other a jug-eared gent called Tom Smith (1921-2000), whose catchphrase was 'Amn't I right?' Not a man who much liked to be contradicted then, to judge from such a motto. According to a barman, his 'shift' at the counter, to which he adhered religiously 7 days a week, started bang on the dot from 10:30am to 1pm, followed by a break, followed by a second round from 3pm to 6:30pm. The discipline is awesome. An amazing oddity is the ladies toilets, the entrance to which is partially blocked (see photos below) - what a design!

This amiable house has the advantage of having a greasy fish and chipmongers for a next-door neighbour [2] - the famous and original: Leo Burdocks, the home of a delicious ‘one and one.’ If you can resist succumbing to the waft through the wall by the night’s end you’ll have proven your sobriety. 

N.B. It was in this pub in late 2021 that, for the first and only time in our lengthy excursions, we witnessed not one, but two men of the cloth enjoying profane pints of cider in secret away from the sacristy! The sight nearly left my eyes to see two collared and clerical chaps tucking into their tankards with gusto and glee. Yet it was a humanising spectacle. Sure and all, why shouldn’t a priest enjoy his tipple as much as the next parishioner? Ah sure, wasn’t it our Lord’s first miracle to turn water into wine anyway? Their Gospel gossip was interrupted by the intrusion of a boozer who inquired what had been their subject of study in college. What d’ye think? says they smarmily, with a gesture to their collars and doubly dark attire.

The interloper, a security guard for the Book of Kells in TCD, went on to describe a trip he’d made to Israel, a place, he said, that was full of ‘Jew-men’. The tippling priests smiled and nodded and drank up fast and nodded and smiled out the door, where they stood for some twenty minutes smiling and nodding and slowly smoking their holy fags, before stubbing out the biblical butts and heading off in separate directions.

Tippler’s Trivia: From between 2019 and 2023 this was the only remaining pub serving Beamish in the whole of the Liberties. And we’re delighted to say that this nugget of trivia IS NO LONGER THE CASE BUT HAS SINCE BEEN DISPROVEN.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Who (SHOCK! HORROR!) made low-key headlines in 2018 upon his eviction from the property in which he and some cohorts had been squatting: https://www.herald.ie/news/courts/get-the-squatters-out-of-our-cottage-siblings-ask-court-36907763.html

[2] Another neighbour of Lord Edward’s is The Bull and Castle. This was once a respectable pub but has since mutated into a shuddersome steakhouse-cum-cocktail-shed. This new Bull(shit) and Castle is only notable for being the birthplace of James Clarence Mangan. A plaque for the poet can be found on the exterior wall. This ‘pub’ deserves nothing more than a feeble little footnote. Look, (to be like Virgil for just a noble moment), and pass on.

[3] Painting…

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