OR PEGGY MOORE’S PUB / MUSEUM. OH AND OLD FASHIONED SWEETIE SHOP.
SWEARING ALERT: a bit potty mouthed at the end
After my day communing with the dead I had worked up a grand thirst or indeed was gaspin’ with the droot. So after my cab dropped me off at the hotel I had one drink with them showing off my Four Knocks stuff (they didn’t even know about it) I showed them the pics of the sun shining in through the door onto the main tomb and they were suitably impressed saying that people waited for years to be that lucky. Smug smile in place I trotted off to Peggy Moore’s Pub.
It would seem that Peggy was a force to be reckoned with. She ran the gaff for 70 years and when the Scholars House Hotel family run business bought it as a sister pub they never expected what they would find in the attic. The McGowan family were to have a huge project to enjoy and be fascinated by.
As soon as I entered I was shown around the place and told of it’s surprising hidden hoard only discovered after the family bought the building. The attic was chocker with a veritable cache of historical artefacts pertaining to all aspects of their shop and pub collected over many years by Peggy herself I presume (there was a box labelled ammunition in a scary way) This pub is also a museum of a kind and everything they found is lovingly exhibited. Here are a few bits including the ledger that the owner proudly showed me.
The drinks were large and I hadn’t eaten so I thought it wise to stagger back before I made a show of myself.
Once back I went straight to their gastro lounge, as they call it, and ordered the best steak and dauphinoise potatoes I have had for ages paired with a couple of glasses of fine red wine. I know it’s boring but it all is so well sourced on this emerald isle so I see why its an award winning restaurant now.
And so to bed…..
New day, new place. The seaside mistake
Yeah, yeah I overdid it the previous night. You can’t not overdo it when you’re in such a fine venue. I set off to the seaside and had booked a hotel right on the beach. Fresh sea air always does the trick. Well not really. I arrived and checked in and went to the beach had a walk and that was kinda it.
I’m a restless creature who loves looking at stuff, whether it be distant history or art, I love learning and being awe inspired by the human spirit, I love food and drink and places of character. Portmarnock and it’s hotel White Sands has none of this. Drab and depressing with no local pubs (I expected there to be loads) and no fish and chip shops (again I was excited about having fresh fishy on my little dishy) to nip into and wile away an afternoon.
I had a terrible lunch in the terrible hotel restaurant, as their bar restaurant was closed for renovation. Was mildly insulted by a Polish waitress who insisted raw cabbage was al dente that went off to the kitchen with my vile roast beef and mash. She came back smirking with slightly more cooked cabbage and probably spit under my roast.
I slept after I was bored and annoyed with myself at choosing this place. grubby and bleak and a stiff walk from Malahide which would have suited me much better. I walked up there later and had a cider then cabbed it back now ready for my trip home to London. The highlight was in fact the terribly drunk Irish lot who had just got back from a funeral and wake. A rotund drunk man with a very red face was insisting a nightclub had been on the left of the hotel and kept rushing over to show the empty space then rushing to the right and pointing at a clearly marked giant billboard with letters as big as fat boy on it saying “nightclub” denying that was the same one. For my money I think he was wrong. It had been a terrible error to build one let alone two nightclubs in this dreary backwater.
” I’m telling you it was feckin there Mary, those c**** who wouldn’t let me in to the nightclub. The doors were there the feckin bastards”
He walked back and forth claiming that it was a different nightclub for fecks sake.
A small crowd of women watched him and one said to me
” Take no notice of the feckin c*** he’s feckin mad”
“It had four doors” he continued somewhat recklessly, looking doubtful himself at this latest claim.
They all nodded solemnly and continued to chain smoked while watching him ranting and raving and swearing and punching his fist to the heavens.
Portmarnock wasn’t all bad I suppose.
OVER AND OUT FROM THE EMERALD ISLE TO BE SURE.
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