The Hawthorn Bar

Glengariff, West Cork

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here

What is it to be Irish?  Answers to that question are many, with many of them more closely reasoned, more nuanced and flexible in their approach, showing more academic rigour and dedication to the search for an essential truth than you might expect from a toasted special reviewer.  And you'd be right.  But how's this for a workable definition?

The Irish are the mad hoors that kept heading west.  

Kept heading that way until they ran out of west to head in to.  Fecked off out of Ancient Anatolia declaring whatever is the Sanscrit for "I'm just going over here for a look."  When their travelling brethren put down roots in the verdant plains of France, wondered what lay over that next hill towards the setting sun.  Loosing more of their number to the gentle hills of Southern England, settlers becoming house-bound and husbands, deciding "Yerra, lads, we might as well keep going."  Until they arrived here, the whole mad shower of them*.  Incidentally, this theory operates independent of race, ethnicity, language or culture - if you're mad enough to have gotten this far over, you're welcome aboard!

Are ye alright there lads in the back?

But even the wilds of West Cork and Kerry wouldn't be enough for some of them boyos.  Ireland has a curious tradition of something called 'White Martyrdom', a faith-funneled expression of that westward impulse.  You see, for a medieval type who'd love a good hierarchy in all things, martyrs occupied a tier of heaven just below that of saints - a highly desirable station, even if the journey there tended to be a bit ropey (or stoney, or firey).  But opportunities to be martyred for your faith in Ireland were practically non-existent - when these big noises from Europe arrived in and told the Irish to cop on to themselves with their aul' pagan gods and change their whole worldview quick-smart, the Irish just meekly rolled over and swallowed their medicine (sound depressingly familiar?).  So instead, the Irish zealotry would test their little lives against the waves, heading west when there was hardly any west left to find, from the barren outcrop of the Skelligs on to the voyage of Brendan the Navigator.

Room for one more?

Of course there's every possibility they were running, not towards the arms of an Almighty Creator, but away from some God-forsaken pit of a place on the mainland.   There have been times I've felt like hitching a lift....

The Hawthorn Bar is situated in the preposterously beautiful town of Glengariff in West Cork.  On the approach to the town, Bantry Bay, Brendan's launching point, glistens like beaten silver under a swollen sky, the Beara Peninsula bounding it beyond, the vaulting buttresses of Hungry Hill's bulk protruding from the earth like the ribs of some great slain behemoth.  'Twould be a view to give a man an appetite, after he got done with his mouthful of words.

The warning signs were there from the start, though we had reasons enough to miss them.  Casey's up the road had been heaving, so we journeyed farther.  The Hawthorn, by contrast, was empty - not a sinner - at half one on a Bank Holiday Monday.  Ordinarily, that would be your cue to beat a hasty retreat, but the child's arse had just exploded in spectacular fashion, and it was to be a close run race between Social Services and the UN's weapon inspectors as to who would reach us first if the nappy wasn't changed in a hurry.  By the time that situation was resolved, one partner had been so long sitting in the bar and the other had unleashed such atrocities in the bathroom that we both felt a moral obligation to stay on for lunch.  A stance we both came to regret.

Only one surreptitious snap - I was being closely watched at all times...

The Hawthorn is a mess.  Don't get me wrong - it's not messy, it's scrupulously clean - but it's as if someone had tried to explain the concept and function of a pub to a Japanese macaque through an interpreter who'd just had three teeth removed and was still high on the Novocaine.  The laminated menus (always a worry) were labelled for the Rainbow Restaurant, and had a right old mess of food advertised.  There was a shocking mess of traditional Oirish music aimed at the American deaf community on the stereo and the wall clutter seems to have been designed by Jackson Pollock during his little known 'Irish Charity Shop Bric-a-Brac' phase.  Design by consensus had brutally hacked the space into its perceived different functions and the general decor was an atrocity of pine and varnish.  You'd need to take two paracetamol before you went in there at all.

It's a local pub, for local people...

The customer service was of an equally high standard, having its basis in the League of Gentlemen Local Shop Customer Care Charter.  People arriving in (for some poor souls did venture in after us, and I'm afraid we must bear part of the blame for their ensnarement, having taken the bare look off the place by sitting down) were more accosted than welcomed, less served than hounded, herded then corralled towards the rear of the pub from where they could be intercepted should they dare to attempt an escape.  The bar staff's attempted patter resembled more an interview for a position at the Spanish Inquisition than a pastiche of niceties, weather and social convention, and the addition of thumbscrews and a bright shining light would rather have made things more comfortable.  And God forbid I try to take a few notes for a review - the waiter actually literally tried to look over my shoulder any time I put pen to paper to jot down a few thoughts.  One felt like a wounded impala on the Serengeti, anxiously awaiting the inevitable...

The Sandwich:

Chips were an extra, the pint was the business.

Now, by this point you may have gathered that this is not to be an overly positive review.  But to give the Hawthorn its due, there was nothing terribly wrong with the sandwich served.  At €6.50, I think it was quite pricey for what arrived, but I have paid the same elsewhere.  The ham was of good quality, the bread was nicely toasted (though flat toasted, not Brevilled), the cheese almost though not quite at the optimum oozy temperature.  I was prepared to hate the salad, which looked far too heavily dressed, but the dressing was based on a nice sweet salad dressing and in fact wasn't at all unpleasant (though I remain unconvinced that parsley garnish is necessary on a green salad).  But it all looked a terrible fright:  the sandwich was halved rather than quartered, and looked a bit squished and sad, and the salad appeared to have been abandoned halfway through preparation due to lack of interest.  While I understand that all food must necessarily end up in the gullet, but I'm not sure it ought to look pre-masticated on the plate.

On Tap:
As I said, while the Hawthorn might be a mess, it's not at all messy - it's the type of place you can rely on to have the food cooked through properly and the pipes cleaned with the gas pressure up to scratch on the beer lines.  The pints of the standards (to include Murphy's down this neck of the woods) I saw served looked to be in very good order, and they had one very welcome addition on draught as well; a pint of Blarney Blonde from the Franciscan Well brewery in Cork City.  It's a smashing, clean blonde beer which I'd love to see more widely available, and managed to put some class of a silver lining on an otherwise grim-looking cloud.

On the Stereo:
What would Irish traditional music have to do to a person to make them want to do this to it in revenge?  Whatever muck was on the speakers when we came in was an insult to ears everywhere and an act of cultural vandalism.  The only positive to be drawn is that the bar staff forgot to turn it up as a few bodies filtered in, and it was mercifully drowned out.

The Verdict:
No less an intellectual authority than Dr. Eoin Barrett was once known to leaven some of his less creditable anecdotes with the phrase "with exaggeration, of course."  We all tell stories at times that would benefit from this caveat.  Not on this occasion.  The food was fine, but the experience was every bit as bad as described and worse.  The lyrics of Hotel California ran round and round our heads as we prepared to make an escape, and I ran the awful arithmetic of which organ I was prepared to barter for the freedom of my wife and child (kidney, by the way).  We lived to tell the tale, and to warn others.  If Casey's is full, wait for a table.



*I think this theory still holds in microcosm even within the island itself, with a definite increase in lunacy as one progresses from east to west across the isle.  That's why I always feel compelled to check in my sanity, my passport and my liver every time I cross the Shannon.  In fact, I think it should be in a different colour on the maps....

Pat Shortt's

Castlemartyr, Co. Cork

Yes, that Pat Shortt

The Brother used always struggle a bit when he'd arrive home from that England.  Prolonged exposure to a culture of supportive comments about the lovely restoration job you did on that antique sideboard you spotted at the auction at Little Wigglebottom thins the skin somewhat.  The sharks would circle, smelling blood in the water.  Satire, sarcasm, slagging - it's one of the cornerstones of Irish culture, if any trait so corrosive could be likened to a building material.  By the end of the week, he'd be back into the swing of it though, trading caustic comment for withering witticism like the old hand he truly was.

Satire can be a fickle beast.  It's a House of Mirrors, a series of warped reflections of ourselves.  In these distortions and refractions, we find our hidden faults magnified, our supposed virtues diminished.  These darkly comic likenesses subvert and suspend our own everyday self-image, and we often find in them some uncomfortable truth.  All too often the "prophet is not without honour, save in his own country, and his own house" (Matthew 13:57!) - one thinks of RTE turning down Father Ted, Dermot Morgan's coruscating wit on Scrap Saturday having earned him many fans but some few powerful enemies.  But then at times, the gentler satirist finds his most loyal audience among the very community he lampoons.  The D4 set may find themselves the butt of Ross O'Carroll Kelly's joke, but it sends them snickering into their Chianti Reservas rather than into paroxysms of rage - he's in the Irish Times Magazine, for fock's sake!  Pat Shortt has long been our rural equivalent, and throughout his career, from d'Unbelievables to the Jumbo Breakfast Roll Man to Killinaskully, he has held up heightened versions of ourselves for inspection, to show us all how ridiculous it is that we take ourselves so seriously.  If the words "Ye'll know all about it next year when you're under six, lads" mean nothing to you, you've not played nearly enough Junior B Grade hurling.  Something for which to be grateful, perhaps....



Turns out that satire is not all the esteemed Mr. Shortt does well.

East Cork is a part of the world which, if it does blow its own trumpet, is thoroughly drowned out by the cacophony of brass sounded by the west of the county.  It is, in fact, replete with understated gems, from the hidden medieval architecture of Youghal Town to the gentle and fertile coastline from Shanagarry to Inch and on to Aghada and Fota beyond.  I've often ground to a halt in the village of Castlemartyr, one of the few remaining bottlenecks on the Waterford to Cork road, but not before stopped out of choice.  However, the Sprog awoke ravenous in the car-seat (we'd had no time for the fancy breakfasht), and as we had at least two more hours driving to do before giving an ear to the West Cork Coast Brass Band, we pulled in off the main street and made our way back towards the bridge and the traffic lights, and in with us to Pat Shortt's.

Straight away, we knew we were in good hands.  Many pubs are owned by people who don't really know their trade - maybe they inherited and perpetuated mistakes a generation old, not having worked somewhere it was done right.  Maybe they bought on a figary, a Celtic Tiger investment, and threw money at the walls hoping something would stick.  Maybe the owner just isn't talented, doesn't have the eye for it, doesn't think clearly about the functions his space should be designed to discharge.  None of these apply here - whoever set out this pub knows his trade and has a talent for it.

The Snug - a cordial area indeed

The interior of Pat Shortt's is divided into three main areas; a nice snug-like nook to the front, the main body off to one side, separated from the bar area by a partition wall, and additional seating to the rear.  It was at the back we found ourselves, all the other seating being occupied at half two of a Sunday afternoon - a sure sign of a good trade.  A dark and well-aged floorboard was mirrored onto a half-timbered wall up to about 4 feet, with a crisp, pale blue painted finish above.  The space is low-ceilinged and small windowed, but the light levels are very well judged to create an atmosphere that is somehow both cosy and airy rather than oppressive.  The walls are adorned with some superior pub-type bric-a-brac, but also some very pleasant and well curated artwork.  Here and there are nods to the career of the great man himself;  the quadruple platinum discs for the Jumbo Breakfast Roll, an old black-and-white from the early days of d'Unbelievables and (interestingly, the largest piece of memorabilia) the cinema poster from Garage - but these self-references are restrained, an acknowledgement rather than an assertion.  And astonishingly (honestly, I had to check twice), nestled unobtrusively around a corner is the rather unflattering portrait of a former Taoiseach that was once surreptitiously placed, to some considerable controversy, on the walls of the National Gallery.  Gracenotes abound, embellishments added by a master to adorn a well established theme - simple leather place settings, the quality brass plates and lettering on the toilet doors, even the quirky coathooks towards the front of the bar.  Elsewhere these might be dissipated efforts in a pub better advised to focus on the basics;  here they are final finishing flourishes on a well-ordered, fully considered and supremely functional space.  You may have gathered - I liked it.

The Way to Win any Argument

Biffo avec Bogroll

Gracenotes

The Sandwich:
The Toasted Special was not a listed item on the menu (assortment of sandwiches given), but when ordered as such was recognised at once and duly delivered (it was also heard to be ordered with confidence in a more local accent, so clearly is a staple of the kitchen).  For €4.80, somewhat pricey for a humble toastie, it arrived with pretty much a full packet of Hunky Dorys on the side.  Everything here was in good order without anything being outstanding - good bread, decent hint of onion, Ireland's ubiquitous under-ripe tomatoes,  nicely melted cheese and a superior, though still from a packet, I suspect, sliced ham.  If I were to be picky (and it's a review, so why wouldn't I be), the sandwich had spent about 30 seconds too long under the heat, with the result that the outer crust was a little too hard and crunchy.  It was an effective and workmanlike outing, but nothing stellar, the attentions of the kitchen staff being more focused on turning out some other very appetising looking pub-grub.  My eyes (and indeed fingers) were heretically drawn to the missus' plate, whereon lay some of the finest homemade chicken goujons a man ever thieved from his wife's dinner.  It was fare that would fare well under the eye of a critic, but we'll leave that task to some other reviewer with a broader and more prosaic mandate.

Bird Attempts Flight on Half Wing...

On the Stereo:
Superior quality diddlie-ie was the soundtrack to our sandwich on this occasion - not the swill trotted out for the tourists, the real stuff that we keep for ourselves to enjoy in dark spaces with the weather at the window and a fire in the grate.  A good trad female voice gave us a version of Rainy Night in Soho that made my day, despite the fact that I've never actually stepped out of a shower and fell into someone's arms.  Or been in Soho, for that matter.  The glowing hearth in the corner of the main space gave the impression that it wasn't only over the speakers that a man might hear a decent blast of the vernacular musical tradition.

On Tap:
Nothing out of the ordinary to report here.  Being as we were in the People's Republic, one could expect Murphy's to be available, and indeed a pleasant glass of the same was enjoyed with the sandwich.  A few bottles from the 8 Degrees brewery were spotted in the fridge, but otherwise it was the usual fare.  But this is a pub that knows its customers well, and knows its customers to be discerning in these basics, so you can bet that the standards were done to the highest of standards.  I certainly would be happy to return to more comprehensively access the pint were I to be afforded the opportunity to do so.

The Verdict:
It's hardly in doubt.  I was seriously impressed by Pat Shortt's - not the finest toastie reviewed to date, but one of the best pub experiences.  It would have been easy for the Great One to simply trade on his name and rest on his laurels.  But then again, in a small rural community such as Castlemartyr, that would have cut the ice for only so long before wearing thin.  Mr. Shortt knows that constituency well - he has been their dark mirror for decades.  And it would seem that comedy is not the only trade that Pat Shortt knows inside and out - pubs that understand and serve their function and custom as well as this one are rare indeed.  Further evidence, were it needed, was to be found in the simplest and most direct feedback:  the pub was full when we entered, and our seats had no chance to grow cold when we left.  When I say it is not the last time I'll stop in Castlemartyr, I'm not only referring to the traffic.

Murphy's Pub and B&B

Strand St., Daingean Uí Chúis.

Radharc Aoibhinn

Smugairle Róin

Cén fáth a bhfuil tusa ag déanamh bróin,

A smugairle róin?

Cén fáth a bhfuil tusa ag déanamh bróin?

Cé dúirt go bhfuil mise ag déanamh bróin?

Arsa an smugairle róin.

Cé dúirt go bhfuil mise ag déanamh bróin?

Cad tá ar siúl agat, a smugairle róin?

Ag ithe do lóin?

Cad tá ar siúl agat, a smugairle róin?

Tá mé i mo shuí ar mo thóin,

arsa an smugairle róin,

ag ithe mo lóin is ag déanamh bróin

agus beidh mé anseo go dtí– fan go bhfeicfidh mé

ó … leath uair tar éis a ceathair, ar a laghad,

san iarnóin.

le Gabriel Rosenstock

'What's in a name?' a young Miss Capulet once fictionally mused. 'That which we call a rose / by any other name would smell as sweet.'  Well that's alright for you, Julie baby, but sometimes one does a certain amount of judging based on the cover of the book.  For example, if a Martian was asked to choose by title only between a Rottweiler and a Chiwawa, surely even E.T. could guess which was likely to be the soft and cuddly one.  Of course, some cultural and linguistic differences are made manifest through vocabulary items:  one is likely to be far more afeared of meeting a German Schmetterling than an Italian farfalle, at least until the butterfly actually showed up!  But some few creatures have pulled the wool over our collective semantic eyes, disguising their true nature beneath misleading titles.  Smugairle Róin* - sounds cute, doesn't it?  Like a smuggled cuddle.  Even in English - Jellyfish.  Who doesn't like jelly?  Jelly Babies, jelly beans, Jellyfish - what's not to like?

A more apt name:  Stinging Malevolent Floating Dirtbags of Stinginess.  It may need work.

Grrr.

So, I'd decided to validate my aging status as a triathlete before the club started staging impeachment trials.  I talked the Chairman into signing up for the Dingle Triathlon with me, packed kit and kaboodle into Gilbert (who, heroically, didn't break down even once) agus ar aghaidh linn siar go Daingean Uí Chúis.  Wetsuit on, jump into the freezing Atlantic (I swear that Gulf Stream is a hoax), ready, steady, go.  It was all going, ahem, swimmingly until I began to hear screams round and about me in the water.  'Unusual,' thought I, before I felt a gentle caress from the seas, as if something had smuggled a cuddle onto my face.  A moment later, an agonising, stinging numbness.  Jellyfish.  Hordes of the hoors.  Shoals of sinister, stinging scumbags.  As if three hours of self-flagellation in ill-fitting lycra wasn't going to be bad enough^ - now I'd have to do it feeling as if I had just left the dentist's, then decided to set my face on fire.  By lunchtime, I was more than ready to seek out a little toasted something designed to raise a man's flagging spirits.

Fáilte isteach

Dingle, nó Daingean Uí Chúis mar a thugtar air sa Ghaeilge, is the bustling market centre of the Dún Chaoin Gaeltacht, a final waystation before Slea Head makes a last, desperate rearguard action in the land's battle against the unconquerable ocean, the Blaskets abandoned hostages to fortune and the waves beyond.  And sure, didn't even Peig think 'twas great craic inside in Dingle, and she hardly a women much given to the craic.  Murphy's Pub and B&B is well situated on Strand St, a stone's throw from both the marina and the town centre, were a man to be armed with two stones and be inclined to random acts of violence.  Myself and the Chairperson (who had roundly trounced me in the race with that unsportsmanlike glee common to all natives of Co. Kilkenny), being pure ravenous and in íseal brí after our Medusozoan molestation, were glad to seek sanctuary and sustenance within, agus bhuaileamar isteach i gcomhair toastie.

'D'Cuimhin liom craic iontach a bhí agam sa Daingean lá...'

Within, Murphy's has successfully walked the tightrope of being two things at the same time - the restaurant area at the back is clean and tidily laid out to capitalise on the tourist trade, while the pub area at the front has managed to retain the atmosphere and feel of a place where a man would happily suck on a few pints over a crossword of an afternoon.  Unhappily, I still had Gilbert to skipper in the afternoon, but Mao looked very contented indeed savouring the sweet draught of victory and a very decent-looking pint of Guinness.  I would have to content myself with the bitter taste of defeat and a Beck's non-alcoholic.

What I had, what I wanted

Either enjoying the jar or marvelling at the speed of the waitress...

The Sandwich:

Unusually, I have little to say on the matter.  It was a fine and workmanlike performance on all fronts.  The bread was nicely toasted, with a nice griddled finish.  Two slices of perfectly acceptable ham were present, the tomatoes turned up in the bland unripened state the supermarket sent them out in, the onions were maybe a little too roughly cut.  A pleasant grated cheddar was perhaps a little too amply apportioned (so felt the Chairperson, but he's a vegemite-arian, so what else could they put in?), and could have done with a little more heat to improve the consistency, but it was in no way offensive.  All four quarters were polished off in very short order, but I fear it will be the occasion rather than the toastie that will live long in the memory.

Spot the author

On Tap:

All the standards were in evidence, and the Guinness, as mentioned, did look good.  I suppose Murphy's stout merits a special inclusion, although it would be considered standard enough in this part of the world (and it would have been pleasant to indulge in a pint of Murphy's in Murphy's).  A more local brew on draft was Crean's lager, named for the great man from Annascaul some miles up the road#.  Though hardly ideal race prep., my journalistic instincts had prompted me to sample a few of the same the night before, and I found it to be a clean and crisp, if largely unremarkable lager.  There was a wide range of interesting-looking spirits from the Dingle Distillery on show behind the bar, but sadly time, tide and the drive to Killarney didn't allow for the testing.  Oh, and the Beck's non-alcoholic, which was exactly that.

On the Stereo:

There was a tourist-friendly mix of U2 standards (think Joshua Tree, not Pop) and superior toora-loora diddle-ei in evidence for our entire visit.  Thankfully the Corrs, best enjoyed in video format with the mute button pressed, never made an appearance, but one feels it was only a matter of time...

The Verdict:

Dingle is a great town (just ask Peig!), and I judge it a pity that time didn't allow for its delights to be more amply sampled and enjoyed.  I have similar feelings about Murphy's, and I don't feel that I'm necessarily judging it on its strengths here.  I think a 'proper' meal here (their menu and the plates being produced looked fairly decent) would be a better daytime option, and it did have the look of a place that would serve up good craic in the smaller hours.  But for the connoisseur of the toastie, one would be advised to search on.

The Chairperson went looking for fish for dinner later on, just to exact some sort of revenge.  I couldn't find a restaurant with jelly and icecream on for dessert....

*Though them crafty Gaels knew a thing or two - it translates literally as 'seal snot'.  Which is about where I rank them in God's creation too...
^Full race report from my slightly more straight-laced triathlete alter-ego available on the Waterford Triathlon Club website

#A pint of which taken in the South Pole Inn has now been added to the 'To-Do' list.

The Railway Hotel

Parnell St., Limerick

Helping a man look on the bright side...

It's a terrible moment, that moment when a man realises he's a jibber....*

"Lim-er-ick, you're a lay-dee..."

Portlaw, the late 80s.  Scór na nÓg, County Championships, Eastern Division.  It was the talent competition to separate the wheat from the chaff, the men from the boys.  All the fierce intensity of interparochial hatred was condensed into one small space for a short few hours; the pressure-cooker atmosphere alive with the hopes and expectations of a parish, the walls a-sweat from the exhalations and exhortations of participant and spectator alike.  Dreams haunted the hallways, waiting to be crushed or realised.

"...your Shannon wahters, tears of joy that flow..."

Every year, we eyed the opposition, hoping for some weakness from which we might forge opportunity.  Our set was handy, but bejaysus, whatever they were feeding them fellas from Dunhill, they could fairly drive sparks from the stage, so they could.  Our ballad group had potential, but I never thought The Spinning Wheel was the song choice to get us over the line.  Trevor was a savage man for the remembering the county colours in the Question Time, but our knowledge of hurlers from the 50s and 60s always let us down.

"the bew-tee that surrounds thee...."

But the male solo singing?  Every year, only one entrant.  One gangly, awkward streak of a youngfella from some God-forsaken parish on the wrong side of the Comeraghs, shuffling onto the stage.  The voice would start from some unholy point deep within the cranium, a voice that sounded how a binbag might sound were it to be rammed into a person's sinus cavity, heated to plasticity and dragged slowly down that unfortunate's nostril with a crochet needle.  And every year, the same song; the recriminating, nasal soundtrack of my youth.  Every year, I thought, "This is my chance to make the County Finals - I could take this guy."  All I had to do was get up there and sing.  That was all.  Every year I knew I could do it.  Every year I bottled it.  Jibber.

"...I'll take it with me love where e'er I go."

Well, if Limerick is a lady, the Railway Hotel is probably located someplace around the armpit region.  I don't mean that to be unfair either to the city or the establishment - I think almost every bus station in the universe is thus located, and it was thanks to the bus station I found myself on Shannonside.  The steep learning curve of owning a '94 Campervan (main lesson - don't own a '94 Campervan) meant that I found myself immobile, in low spirits, and starving of the hunger.  The bus station would solve one problem, and I looked to the Railway Hotel across the road to salve the other two.

Photocopy sellotaped to tray - Mad Men be damned, this is advertising!

The Railway Hotel is a stately building, its architectural heritage proudly displayed inside, when it presided over the coaches and carriages making their way down what was then George's Street.  Traces of that faded grandeur are to be found here and there, from the graceful arches of the windows to the stained glass they so elegantly frame.  But faded it has - there's now more a spit and sawdust feel rather than one of sophistication and poise.  The pub section has that curious sense that all hotel bars share of its purpose being more transient than that of your local watering hole.  The benches and chairs are of the type that will never achieve comfort, but with which the human posterior has reached some grim accord by dint of prolonged exposure.  The carpet is of a variety only ever seen in hotel bars; a colour scheme that even Matisse on acid would have found lurid.  But here, the surrounds have weathered in, have mellowed with age, and the Railway Hotel bar now fulfills the role of local to a cast of characters who clearly fall into the category of regulars.

Grim Accord

Gentler flourishes remain

Who exactly thinks - "hmm, that carpet's nice..."?

The Sandwich:

I knew it was going to be good.  The Railway Hotel is exactly the type of spot that knows what a good Toasted Special is all about.  This is a sandwich designed to save lives and marriages.  For a man in íseal brí, as the natives would have it, this was a welcome repast indeed.  All the basics here are done well.  Two good thick slices of white frame the contents within most pleasingly, the inside still moist, the outside reduced by the heat of the grill to a delicate, almost crumbly texture.  There is loads of lovely ham inside, deli-bought or possibly cooked in-house - none of your plastic packet-o-ham here.  The cheese was a little scarce, but the well-ripened tomatoes and chunky but mild white onion had sweated together in sweet alchemy, releasing that lovely silky liquid feel that a only a properly good toastie can achieve.  The chips pictured were ordered as a side (the chap was hungry) and though a tad underdone, were manna to a man thus deserted by his campervan, and very few remained by the end of the meal.  No frills, no messing, no trivia to hide behind - this sandwich knew it had a job to do and, by dad, the job was done!

Getting the job done!

On Tap:

You won't find anything out of the ordinary here, but like with the food, you'll get the staples done well.  It felt like a Tuborg evening for me, and I wasn't disappointed - cold, crisp and exactly the stuff to blow a fair wind into my flagging spirits.  If the fellas at the counter had any problems with the Guinness, it didn't seem to be affecting their plans to have about seven more.

On the Stereo:

Two separate soundtracks set the tone; the louder more peripheral, the quieter more subtly but deeply ingrained into the pub's fabric.  The pub radio was set to a local station, the name of which I couldn't quite catch, and the DJ was playing out of her skin:  Basement Jaxx, Dub be Good to me, (Never gonna be) Respectable, and I was pretending to only ironically love it.  Meanwhile, humming in the background, but ultimately more pervasive and persuasive, was the real soundtrack of Sky at the Races.  There, the 7.40 was being broadcast from Tipperary, Lady O'Malley romping home at a good price of 8-1, and she with plenty in the locker.  And here, the gentle hand placed at the small of the back - a gesture and touch that can only appropriately be traded among men when money has been lost on a horse.

The Verdict:

The Railway Hotel achieves a status that eludes many pubs and is as rare as hen's teeth in a hotel bar - it's a good, honest drinking man's pub.  The shadows cast by its former more illustrious self grant the space a depth and faded nobility that helps to transcend some of the more anodyne furnishings (if the carpet can, indeed, be described as such).  We're I again in the position of having two hours to kill before a departure from the station, I would happily retrace my steps, newspaper under my okster and a smile on my face.  I could not say that The Railway Hotel is a destination, but as a port in a storm, with a feed and a pint for under a tenner, a man could weather it well here.

And money left in the fist!

*Local dialect term, referring to one of a cowardly disposition.  May also be used as a verb - "to jib out", for example.

The Asgard

The Quay, Westport

The Asgard and the Reek beyond

What did St. Patrick say when he was driving the snakes out of Ireland?

He must have been a ferocious class of a man, our Patrick.  He drove out all the snakes (and all fossil record of snakes ever having been here), explained the Holy Trinity with a shamrock and could program a VHS recorder to record from the telly a week in advance without recording over your copy of Dead Poets Society.  A beast of a man altogether!  Not only that, but between himself and Brigid he managed to expropriate almost every ancient pagan sacred site in the country and repurpose them to the new Christian tradition.

Croagh Patrick would have long been a place of worship when Patrick picked up crook to take up this swineherding lark.  Its massive bulk draws myth and mist unto itself, a brooding presence watching as the drumlin islands of Clew Bay enunciate the last syllables of a continent out into an unhearing and indifferent ocean.  Amidst all this almost senseless beauty along the Westport Quays nestles the Asgard Bar and Restaurant.  Whether approached on foot through the grounds of Westport House or by bike down the Great Western Greenway, one is liable to arrive at the Asgard with the senses replete but the stomach rumbling.  I locked d'auld rothar to the 'No Parking' sign (always a treat) and headed in to sample the goods.

All this useless beauty

The Asgard has attracted mixed reviews on Tripadvisor since a recent facelift, and I can see why.  Like many of the establishments visited in Westport, it has repositioned itself to capitalise on the ample passing tourist trade.  But 'what shall it profit a man (or pub), if he shall gaine the whole world, and lose his owne soule?'  The area labelled as the bar (and there was another area labelled as a restaurant) was a restaurant with a bar counter in it - there's no two ways about it.  You'd happily bring your Granny there for Sunday lunch, but I for one would never dream of settling in for a pint with a match on the box.  So I surreptitiously enquired of the helpful (and it must be said, even at the risk of spousal displeasure, very attractive) bargirl whether it might be possible to take my toastie in the snug I had espied on the way in.  Receiving an answer in the affirmative, I grabbed my pint and slunk away from this clean, well-lighted place.

This was more like it.

What 'more like it' looks like

It was properly snug in here, and I had to stare down the residents (and I would say long-term resident) at the bar on entry.  The races were on the box behind the bar, the leather bench and ancient cushions were careworn and threadbare, the light filtering through the single window was ample but not accusatory.  The small area was dominated by the bar and the huge marble fireplace housing the cast-iron stove, but the eye was drawn to the small gracenotes scattered around; the framed front page of the New York Times proclaiming the sinking of the Titanic, the small copper propellers, the lifebuoy from the Asgard itself.  In such a space, a man could easily see afternoon fade to evening, or two pints turn to five.

Add a fire, a newspaper and some bad weather....

The Sandwich:
The Toasted Special wasn't advertised on the menu - it was a 'design your own sanger' affair - but I ordered it as such, and all the expected ingredients arrived in due course.  And more besides - the initial impression of the plate is very good, with a nice looking salad and a generous dollop of coleslaw backing up a very appetising-looking toastie.  Appearances were not deceiving, nor were the other senses to be disappointed.  The ham, in particular, was an absolute rockstar!  I suspected from first glance that it might be rashers betwixt the slices of bread, but there was no rind in evidence, and it sat dead flat in the sandwich - on closer inspection, I concluded that it was closer to gammon steak than anything else.  And it was delicious; thick, salty and warm, and a perfect complement to the oozing cheese and a pint of stout.  The coleslaw was fresh and creamy, the salad (apart from the baleful presence of celery, that most evil of vegetables) crunchy, sweet and well-dressed.  It would be no exaggeration to say that I let me ears back to this one, and it was polished off in fairly short order.

It didn't last long after the photo was taken...

On Tap:
I can't speak to whatever class of fanciness might have been available in other corners of the establishment, but there was no messing around in the snug.  Far from Duvels you were reared, and if all pints of Guinness were as good as the one teamed up with my toastie, there'd be no need for any other beverage; water, wine nor nathing!

On the Stereo:
Not a thing.  Glorious silence ruled, with gentle conversation floating in from the other parts of the building.  The telly was turned down to a low hum of racing commentary, and there was nothing to stop a man happily earwigging as the locals dissected the All-Ireland hopefuls and the sexual vicissitudes of muintir Conamara.  Bliss.

The Verdict:
It struck me during my visit to Westport that many of the pubs have become products, packaged and processed, homogenised and sanitised so as to appeal to a wider audience.  And that's well and good as far as it goes; there's often a need to up the ante, to make sure folk are getting value for their money.  But it took some searching to find what I would identify as a real pub, something that would represent what Irish pub culture is actually about, like it or lump it.  I thoroughly enjoyed my pint and sanger in the snug at the Asgard, but would have found the 'pub' experience a soulless enterprise.  It is possible to walk that line, to be authentic and excellent at the same time, and I think that would provide a far better tourist experience than some of the plastic Paddy efforts that are to be found in our main tourist hotspots.

Incidentally, he said "Are ye all right there lads in the back?"

Ah, they get better with age...

Cosy Joe's

Bridge Street, Westport

Not quite what it says on the tin...

The early stages of a bromance are a delicate, fragile and beautiful thing: the tentative steps, the slow development of trust and feeling, the timid call and response of gesture and reciprocation. At our first meeting it was lust at first sight - I knew I wanted Gilbert the moment I saw him, though I was cautious to seem too keen early on. But as we took our first few halting steps together, learning one another's ways, I could sense my feelings developing, deepening, and I knew this bond could become one of the central relationships of my life, one that might change the way I would come to live out my days.

Gilbert fell sick twelve miles outside Westport. There was no warning, no prior indication, and suddenly the entire character of our relationship had changed. I felt angry and betrayed, and then simultaneously was wracked with guilt for feeling this way, knowing that Gilbert didn't want this to happen either, that this sickness was worse for him than it was for me. But can a relationship still in its nascent stages withstand such a calamitous shockwave? Will I ever be able to trust him again? There was nothing to do but call the tow truck and a taxi, unload the wife and child with whatever necessaries we could carry, and send Gilbert away to the Campervan hospital.

Gilbert in happier times

Truth to tell, there are worse towns in Ireland than Westport in which to find oneself high and dry, and only a very few better.  One half of the memorable Cork duo Foxy Ladies (widely regarded as one of the finest musical acts never to have actually performed a gig) was on hand to give succour to the other, and once the Sprog was fed, watered and put to bed and a cold beer put into a chap's hand, things didn't look quite so bad as they might otherwise have been.  A mitigated disaster, if you will, and the intrepid reviewer began to consider ways to derive from this sow's ear some class of a silk purse.

Westport's noble riverfront - found a new setting on me camera....

Westport is a vibrant and bustling town, and its Irish name Cathair na Mart gives an indication of its traditional importance as the market centre of the surrounding region.  It's now supremely well set up to cater to the tourist dollar, and the triangle from the Octagon down to the Carrowbeg River is peppered with thriving pubs and restaurants heaving with Yanks and Europeans of every hue.  There are mussels aplenty to be had, more panini and ciabatta than a man could shake a baguette at, but precious little sign of the humble and endangered toasted sandwich.  It took an intense and arduous search for the reviewer to turn up some indigenous pub fare.

Cosy Joe's enjoys a prominent location on Bridge St. right in the centre of things and is well placed to capitalise on the prodigious amount of tourist traffic passing its doors.  Cosy is something of a misnomer, as its demure exterior belies the enormous, four-floor split-level affair that lies within.  Speaking from experience, it enjoys a dubious popularity with hen and stag groups at the weekends, but during the day caters expertly to the pub-grub masses.  Its interior reminded me of nothing so much as that latest blight of Hollywood blockbusters where the credits boast of six and more screenwriters - everything here is design by consensus.  Each aspect, from furniture choice to menu, from lighting to background music, is homogenised; any quirk of personality that might give rise to offence or interest airbrushed from existence.  It is clean, considered and ruthlessly efficient.

Getting the job done - design by consensus

And this is not always a bad thing.  McDonald's and Starbucks enjoy ubiquity for the same reasons - you can be sure it won't be excellent, but you can also be assured that it won't be awful.  And while I like to roll the dice when flying solo, when taking lunch with the missus and Sprog in tow, playing it safe is a good option.  And in this regard, Cosy Joe's excels.  A high chair was produced with a flourish, and the Sprog had a diluted drink and a baby-bowl (free, gratis and for nothing) lashed in front of his ravenous facehole in the blink of an eye.  The table service was lightning quick and unfailingly helpful and courteous.  You may be ambivalent about its objectives, but Cosy Joe's know what it's at, and by God, it's good at it.

The Sandwich:

Chips - I'm never sad to see them...

The menu at Cosy Joe's is quite broad and includes a sandwich section where you pick your own fillings.  So while you can order a Toasted Special and reliably expect the desired ingredients to arrive, it's not something the kitchen deliberately sets out to do, and my expectations weren't especially high.  So, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my quite reasonable €4.25 bought me a daycent looking class of a sandwich accompanied by a nice side of chips.  Now, there were no particular high points - the tomatoes were the anticipated pale watery affair the supermarkets here dare to call ripe, the ham was from a packet as opposed to sliced from the joint - but it was a workmanlike performance designed to get the job done, the Glenn Whelan of the Toasted Special world, if you will.  The sandwich would have benefitted from another minute or so under the heat:  the sides could have done with a little more colour, the cheese with a little more melting.  One quirk was the different finishes on either side of the sandwich that had me wondering what class of a contraption had produced it - a flat, Brevilled texture on one side with a griddled finish on the other.  It was a riddle inside an enigma all wrapped up in a conundrum.  A braver reviewer might have asked to see the toaster...

A Riddle to best Oedipus

On Tap:
I guess one upside to a sick campervan; I least I wasn't driving!  The pint of Guinness was grand, and to be fair, it was early in the day, so there wouldn't have been much of a run on it.  You could be confident of a good jar in Cosy Joe's - it's a well-run establishment which will make sure these things are done right.  Options were pretty much confined to the usual suspects, though I'm most pleased to see Peroni, a very fine Italian beer, moving more and more into this bracket.

On the Stereo:
Background noise was being generated by one of these computerised jukebox jobbies, where staff can just select a setting (insipid and inoffensive in this case) and walk away.  The computer decided I would be treated to some agreeable The National, some acceptable Coldplay and some atrocious Peter Andre wannabe whose name, I am delighted to admit, does not reside in my store of knowledge.

The Verdict:
Cosy Joe's knows what it's about, and is superb at delivering a homogenised, sanitised, safe version of the Irish Pub experience.  The staff are excellent; friendly and efficient at all time.  The food is dependably good, the setting eminently family friendly, and these factors are very important when the Sprog is on the hip.  But personally speaking, I don't take my coffee at Starbucks, I don't eat burgers from McDonald's.  I prefer to run the risk of encountering something awful in the hope of unearthing the rare gem.

They say that fish and guests share this attribute - both begin to stink after three days.  Gilbert was still in campervan hospital, so the missus, the Sprog and I took the train out of Westport.  When I come back, hopefully Gilbert will be fitted with a shiny new clutch and we can pick up where we left off - it might still be the start of something beautiful....