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.