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...