Shut up about Barclay Perkins - Dublin bound
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As with most trips, it begins with a taxi ride to the airport. I’m such a lazy git, there being loads of public transport alternatives. I do, at least, have the excuse of being old.
The airport is busier than I’d expected. The taxi struggles to find a spot to dump me. This is slightly concerning. Security won’t be a problem with my pushing-in status. The trouble is likely to be at passport control. Where I don’t get any priority.
It turns out that the queue at passport control isn’t that bad. I’m through in fewer than ten minutes. And sail on immediately to duty free. Where I pick up some hotel whisky. Not Islay, I’m afraid. That’s all way out of my price range now.
After that small diversion, it’s straight to the lounge. Where I kick off with a brace of whiskies. My server must be new, as she pours very generously. At least a double for each. Much better than the usual stingy single measures.
They’re still serving the breakfast food. Hurray! I get scrambled egg, sausage, mushrooms and spuds. I pass on the chicken bacon. I believe that bacon only grows on pigs. I’ve yet to be proven wrong.
I collect another pair of whiskies – sadly, stingy singles – before heading back to the buffet for my second course. This time, it’s bread, cheese and some salad.
I’m just thinking of heading to the gate, when I notice that my flight has been delayed. Time for more whisky, then.
It’s a City Hopper service. Which means no air bridge. It’s a bus and then climbing up stairs from the tarmac. The flight is full. But at least it only lasts a bit over an hour.
Having no checked in bag, I’m quickly through the airport and searching for the taxi rank. In no time I’m bouncing along the road with a very chatty taxi driver. Who makes all sorts of food recommendations. Before telling me that he can’t eat any more after having throat cancer.
When I booked my hotel, I had no idea it was a Wetherspoons. Honestly, I genuinely didn’t. It is handy, though.
I’ve a little time until my evening appointment in Dún Laoghaire. Time for a pint downstairs. I’m tempted by the Old Puke. But I plan having some of that in London next week. And there’s an Irish Stout: Brehon Black Hills Oatmeal Stout.
It’s rather nice. In pretty good condition and only 2.60 euros a pint. What the fuck? How can Wetherspoons knock out beer at less than half the price of the other pubs in Dublin?
Feeling a bit peckish, I order an all-day breakfast to go with my pint. It fills the considerable hole in my belly wholly fully. I won’t need to eat again for a couple of days. At least, that’s what it feels like at the moment.
My destination tonight is Dunphy’s, a traditional type of pub. Where I’m meeting Oscar O’Sullivan, a reader of my blog.
He’s waiting for me at the bar. Once I have a pint of Sullivan’s Red in my hand, we start chatting about beer in general and Irish beer in particular. Things I can bullshit away about for hours. And hours. I should really win an award for my ability to talk about beer, uninterrupted, for hours. I’m sure my family think I deserve something for it. Probably a long prison sentence. Without the prospect of an early release.
Sullivan’s Red isn’t very red. More like dark brown. A typical Dark Mild colour, really. It tastes quite like a keg Mild, too.
I don’t stay out too late. I only have the three pints. I need to be up reasonably early, as I have an appointment at 9:30. And I wouldn’t want to face a day off hard archiving without the fuel of a Wetherspoons breakfast.
Whisky pursues me to sleep.
Keavans Port
1 Camden Street Upper,
Dublin,
D02 K854.
Dunphys
41 George's Street Lower,
Dún Laoghaire,
Co. Dublin, A96 YR23.
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