The large tiled decoration behind the bar proudly declares that McDaid’s of Harry Street has been on the go since 1873. The portraits of Dublin’s literary greats are particularly poignant as most of them frequented this old Victorian haunt. It’s not hard to imagine Behan or Joyce sitting at the ‘h’ shaped bar or tucked under the stairs at the back.
We love the sublime details; the high ceilings painted a deep red wine, the four small arched windows above the door are wonderfully colourful and would be fit for a Parisian Cathedral, the large and grandiose mirror opposite the bar, and the bookcase high up on the wall must be as old as the dusty books it holds. And all of this under the electric light of two modified gas lamps which dangle lazily looking over the patrons whose Italian leather shoes and high heels clack on the wooden floor.
There were two winners last night in Ryan Tubridy’s interview with Brian Cowen. Undoubtedly, Tubridy’s assault on the Taoiseach will have earned him some respect among his doubters. But I wonder, and only time will tell, whether by ripping the Taoiseach apart did he rip a little too far and show up the soft side of the underfire Fianna Fail leader. There was a sense of sympathy for the man by the end of the interview. A sympathy which was aided in no small portion by the crowd that was nervously giddy and similar to the angry mob from the Simpsons. At one stage there was a look on Cowen’s face and you could see it running through his mind-maybe I should tell these people to stick their job and retire to Barbados or something . It’s hard to blame them though, Tubridy in fairness to him was asking questions that everyone has wanted to ask for months but hasn’t, to the best of my knowledge, asked. The question about Cowen’s drinking was a real, wo there, moment but one that the Taoiseach handled admirably. Bertie never got a question like that and I’m sure he didn’t get that big red snout on him from being out pruning his roses in the garden. By the end of the interview I think he actually won the audience over. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if his ratings were to climb after this. It was pretty compelling stuff.
There was a short gap there. A gap of maybe an hour. The day timed it perfectly. And I took the chance to get out for a walk down the Shelbourne Road and beyond. Stopping into Roly’s to get the brown bread for the morning-ostensibly to be generous but really because I knew I couldn’t be arsed to make it and figured that it wasn’t fair to expect Ciara to do the same.
I kept going. The silence on Elgin Road’s tree lined street with its lovely protestant church was interrupted by a family of boxers being taken for a walk by their very proud (maybe a little precious) owner. Judging by its straight tail and unrelenting barking, the dalmatian up the road is not a fan. Silence was soon restored and the road belonged to me and an invigorated but sunny wind.
A wood pigeon cut in with that soothing rhythmic coo-my favourite sound and even the magpie’s gurgling cackle didn’t sound too bad. Easy to see, even today, how Patrick Kavanagh found the streets around here so romantic with their regal houses and leafy boulevards. Even the usual bustling Baggot Street seemed quite calm today and the folks outside Smyth’s of Haddington Road were taking advantage of the dry spell.
It looks like it’s going to rain now. The day timed it perfectly.
Jonathan deBurca Butler is a writer/journalist who regularly writes for The Dubliner, Totally Dublin, Temple Bar magazine and Self Made magazine among other publications. He has also worked on ‘Culture Shock’, Newstalk’s Arts and Culture show.
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