The Lady Belle

Things were easier when Dungarvan was cat.*

In days gone by, back before we started lending each other Deutschmarks and telling ourselves we were rich, this was a given.  You could be sat on the bus, staring at your translucent half-reflection in the windowpane, nursing a dirty head and fervently hoping that no one smelly would take the seat beside you and think, "at least it's worse out there than it is in here."  In the grey monochrome rain-slant of the mid-nineties, the quays in Dungarvan huddled shivering against the winds off Helvick as sodden cattle stand together in a storm.  It was the place to which young bucks of the parish would decamp when expelled from the city establishments, where they could woo the females of the west of the county with fighin' and talk of farm machinery.  And, we would tell ourselves in superior tones, you couldn't get a decent blaa* there for love nor money.

Then I stopped getting the bus to Cork, and Dungarvan blipped off my mental radar for a few years, and quietly, while my back was turned, the town began to renew itself.  Now, walking through the town, you find yourself wondering, "Did the mountains always so eloquently frame the skyline to the north?  Did Grattan Square always so elegantly centre the town?  Did the quays ever thus sweep gently to the crumbling hulk of St. John's Castle?"  And you find yourself uncomfortably unable to escape the conclusion - Dungarvan is a pretty town.  Moreover, those quays are bustling, and that square this Sunday was alive with music for the Dungarvan Tradfest, and the pubs were spilling craic, caint 'gus ceol out onto the streets.  And it turns out that Barron's Bakery in Cappoquin churns out the finest blaas a man ever did insert into his facehole.  They even have a famous chef fella off the telly!

The Lady Belle stands demurely just off Grattan Square, opening its doors in 1825 just as the square itself was being completed at the behest of the Duke of Devonshire, and I'm sure this gracious lady has come to the aid of many a famished traveller in her near 200 year history.  And so it was with us.  This author's commitment to his subject was becoming a source of friction as the family had just been forced to decamp from Merry's, another fine pub with a laudable menu but a lamentable lack of toastie, and matters were threatening to come to a head just as the Belle hove into view.  The Missus disappeared to investigate as I stood buggywatch, and returned with an answer guaranteed to set to flame the heart of any aficionado - "We don't do food, but I can do you up a toasted sandwich."  My spider-sense a-tingle, we entered!

Note Illy coffee sticker - always a good sign!

The Lady Belle is a find - a real pub that knows its job and sets about doing it with distinction.  Stained-glass windows admit just the right amount of light on a summer's day - illuminating but never accusatory.  The door shuts and the world is elsewhere.  The exterior Georgian architecture of the square finds itself echoed within; the delicate plasterwork and ornate coving of the ceiling a feature rarely found in pubs outside Dublin.  Internal partitions intelligently divide the space into discrete (and discreet) seating areas, and one can easily imagine oneself happily falling into bad company in one of the snugs of a long Saturday afternoon.  In fact, with a little forward planning, this is a happy circumstance that may well be engineered in the near future...

The Door into Dark - 'tis named after a ship, don't you know...

The Sandwich:
I was hopeful, but wary - how often have we let our spirits be raised only the have them dashed against the rocks of disappointment?  Our circumspect hearts proceed now with caution, insulated from the heat of our passions - we are, after all, grown-ups.  But then I see the  double grill, battle-hardened, worn with age, and I am carefree, back in my twenties.  The sandwich is taken from the fridge in the same plastic in which it will be toasted - my stomach feels a teenage whoop of delight.  The large forceps-like device is clamped about the sandwich to give the distinctive striped markings, the hallmark of the greats, and I am six again, running downhill, eyes streaming in the wind and smiling, smiling until my face aches.

So seemed the view into Wayland's Forge, where similar wonders were worked

When it arrives, served with a bag of Tayto Crisps split between myself and the Missus with paper sachets of salt and pepper on chipped delph, I know that I am in Elysium.  All here is exactly as it should be.

It should ever be thus

On Tap:
All the standards are here, and the Guinness has every cut of being a fine one.  Certainly, none of the fellas at the bar seemed to be passing any negative comment.  I was a little disappointed not to find any of the Dungarvan brews on tap (which I would have found in Merry's), but settled instead on a bottle of Helvick Gold - given the location, it would have been rude not to!

The Tipple, with the grill working its alchemy behind

On the Stereo:
It was match-tastic when we were in, with the Déise taking on the Banner (and losing; a sour note on an otherwise sweet afternoon), but research tells me that one is likely to happen on a session nestling into one of the snugs on any given evening.  Imagine how terrible that would be...

The Verdict:
If you happen to be travelling through Dungarvan, then a beautiful lady awaits.  In fact, this is more than a pub of convenience, a stop on the road - this is a destination.  As much as it pains me to admit it, Dungarvan Town is now a place I'd travel to, and one of the few Irish destinations with the foresight to have developed a coherent plan for the impending Zombie Apocalypse (I kid you not - follow link!).  And the Lady Belle remains, as it has for the best part of two centuries, to give sup, succour and sustenance to any weary traveller who seeks her out.  You wouldn't keep a Lady waiting, would you?

That's no Lady!

*Local dialect item, meaning unpleasant or unsatisfactory.  See also 'cat melojian'.
*Local delicacy; a bread roll, topped with flour.  Possible derivation from Old French 'blé', meaning flour.  Not a bap.  Not at all like a bap.  I've met elephants more like a bap...