Situated near a beautiful ancient church largely overshadowed by overpass and highway. The pub itself sits beside a concrete horror of a house that casts a gloomy pall over its neighbour, whose doors are lined with the usual band of chain-smoking sentinels. The Barman here is in contention to win 1st prize as the Village idiot. Upon ordering a round of Beamish, the said barman was seen to regretfully shake his head – at first we thought we were being refused service on account of our outsider status – in the end, he was just registering the same surprise at our choice of beverage, as beheld in previous barmen along this stretch.

A barfly at the counter told Sam Coll he needed a haircut (a common gibe at the balding young) but was quick to mitigate any potential offense by adding that he himself was in similar need of a barber's blessing, indicating his greasy combover as evidence of his own particular follicular failing. None taken, mate! One elderly punter (squatted on a stool with a Spar bag full of cat-food, dispensing flirtations to the ladies) was held to be a dead ringer for Gay Byrne, a likeness on par with that of 'Stephen Fry's dissolute twin brother' as seen in The Auld Triangle. The pub was crowded, no doubt vibrant with community spirit – none of which altered Andrew Stephens' instant verdict: 'This place is a shithole'.

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