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....