These are the bestest things in Ireland. Chekkkitout.
The Franciscan Well is a rarity in Ireland: a real Irish Microbrewery.
There has been a pub on this site for as long as people can remember. It’s also protected, as it’s an historical site with an ancient well on the premises of what used to be a Franciscan abbey (hence the name). Truth be told, the well is not used in the brewing of the beer, Russel, the brewer, explained to me. They had the water analysed and it turned out to be a combination of runoff, well water and a few other sources - too inconsistent for the purposes of brewing. The main Cork city watersupply is just about perfect for a brewer’s purposes, so that’s what The Franciscan Well uses.
The bar itself has done its best to capitalise on its just-off-the-centre-of-the-city location and has a sizeable covered beer garden out the back where frequent BBQs are held during the warmer months of the year. The pub itself is a spacious affair with plain wood and copper elements giving it a very modern, American microbrewery feel.
The Franciscan Well brews four beers year-round: Blarney Blonde, Shandon Stout, a Hefewiesen and Rebel Red.
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Last night was the fabulous Brideswell traditional Irish music session. This session is, quite possibly, the best traditional session in the midlands.
I almost didn’t go, but then I reflected that it had been some weeks since I last attended. It was a wet drive out under the overhanging trees to Brideswell. The village of Brideswell in County Roscommon is a very small place off the Tuam road from Athlone. Ronan, the Bean (our driver) and Anne-Marie joked about the two pubs in Brideswell: O’Connell’s and Hamrocks.
“You’re either a Hamrocks or an O’Connell’s man, and there’s no in-between,” the Bean asserted, “It’s a bit like being protestant or Catholic.”
Hamrocks is the larger and newer of the two, attracting a more youthful, hip clientelle. O’Connell’s is, as Bean puts it, “an old man’s pub,” and is hosts the trad session every fortnight.
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So this evening I headed out to Flannery’s for the Saturday session. The roads were wet with rain and the streets were full of celebratory Junior Certs in search of The Pub That Does Not Check For ID. I met a friend for a couple before heading across town with the bodhrán in search of music. I was greeted at the doorway with the news that Flannery’s was hosting an end of summer party.
“In September?” I asked. The answer was the same.
Flannery’s is one of those pubs that most people miss. In the old style, the family that owns the pub live right behind it (from the right angle, you can see the kitchen of their home through the door behind the bar). Because Flannery’s strives neither to appeal to the crowds of young drinkers nor to the pensioners who make drinking a part of their daily routine, it has managed to preserve the quiet, cozy ambiance of a pub in a much smaller town from days past.
Open only one or two days of the week, it’s rare to find the door open.
Inside, the place is wedged. I dodge a couple waltzing to the music and locate a seat at the bar next to a friend. The bartender catches my eye and nods toward the Guinness tap - my pint is on the way.
Flannery’s shelves are literally overflowing with knick-knacks from acround the world. Faded drink advertisements from bygone days are scattered throughout. The lighting is a dim gold, casting a forgiving light on the worn surfaces. The huge set of horns from Africa mounted in the shadows to a ceramic mug from Yosemite amongst the clutter behind the bar, testify that Flannery’s has seen a lot of visitors over its lifetime. It’s an older generation (mostly) here in Flannery’s. While in the jax I overheard two men saying,
“There’s no more places like this, sure there’s not.”
“Ah, what will we do when this is gone?”
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Every year there is a huge horse fair in Ballinasloe. Midland balladeer Brendan Shine wrote a song about it about, oh, a million years ago. If you think that’s old, just think: this Irish festival is older.
As Brendan says, the king of the fair used to be chosen by fistfight. Now the king is
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It always arrives unexpectedly.
I remember the first year. I awoke to a heavy fog - so heavy you couldn’t see 20 feet ahead of you. I headed up along the river under the castle on my way to work early in the morning when suddenly the mists around me parted and I was passing by makeshift stalls, colourfully dressed people brushing past me chattering away to each other in a foreign tongue. The odours of spices, pastries and leather cut through the crisp morning air.
It was magical - where was …
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