A Shot of Beer History #10: Some Late 19th Century Dublin & Cork Stout Labels

In March of 1896 the following commentary appeared in the wonderfully titled Dublin newspaper The Illustrograph:

THE STOUT LABEL QUESTION

   DURING the past few months the magnificent Dublin firm of stout brewers are considered to have tarnished their reputation in Ireland by enacting a business rule to the effect that any licensed liquor trader may use the official Guinness's Extra Stout label supplied by the Company conditionally that such trader will enter into agreement with the Company not to sell the bottling stout of any Dublin or other brewer. This is the sum total of the agreement. The trader may sell porter of any other brewer as drawn from the cask and supplied by the glass or the tankard, but no bottled stout, except that bearing the label of Messrs, Guinness will be allowed to be vended under this arbitrary agreement.
   Now there exists in Dublin, as is the case in Burton-on-Trent, though not to the same extent, several other large brewers besides the largest and most popular one, but the great English brewery town of Burton, which is as equally noted for its Ales as Dublin is for its Stout, enjoys the distinction over Dublin of having the ale brews of its hundred and one other breweries (other than the great leviathan) extensively and fairly patronised by the English people, more so than the other Dublin brewers are patronised by the Irish people.
   This was not always so, for rather more than a quarter of a century ago honours, so to speak, were more evenly divided, nor were Messrs. Guinness the chief or largest stout brewers.
   Neither is the reason for the present unique (not to say monopolising) position of the great James's Gate Brewery due to superior quality of its manufacture, because the brews of several rival breweries in the Irish capital are considered by experts to be equally as good. On another page of this issue of the ILLUSTROGRAPH will be found the extra or double stout labels as issued by the five other Dublin brewers (Jameson, Pim and Co., Watkins and Co., Mountjoy Brewery Co., Ltd., Phoenix Brewery Co., and D’Arcy and Son) and one Cork brewer (Messrs. Jas. J. Murphy and Co., Limited) outside the Guinness pale, and also an edict issued to the public at large bearing on the monopoly and injustice likely to accrue if it should happen that Messrs. Guinness and Co.'s new Irish plan of campaign be universally adopted.
   To this manifesto and the facsimile of labels (except in colour), we direct the attention of our readers, whom we would advise, without any animus against but with a keen appreciation of the great House of Guinness, to try the extra stout bottlings of these six other brewers. This may be easily effected by those in authority over households ordering direct of the respective breweries or their agents, whose names will be supplied on application to the brewers mentioned. A comparison can then be made, and the writer for one has no fear of the result.
   "Live and let live" and "Free Trade" are prevailing mottos at this the latter portion of the nineteenth century, and most certainly an exclusive policy like that of Messrs. Guinness and Co. would have been more befittingly bestowed, according to history and tradition, at the commencement rather than the close of enlightened nineteenth century.

This appears to be a damning (if clunkily written*) indictment of a new policy by the Guinness brewery to force those who choose to use the Guinness label to only bottle their stout porter and no other. These days this might be dismissed by many with a shrug and a comment about Guinness just being Guinness but it appears that at the time the other breweries in the city were rather incensed by this behaviour to the point where they issued what could be seen as a full page proclamation under the title 'Protest of the Dublin brewing Trade Against the New Guinness Label' where they called out Guinness on what the claimed to be its attempt to establish a monopoly under the guise of wishing to stop adulteration, plus the mislabelling of others' product as their own. This was a new direction for the brewery to take in Ireland, but it had been previously done across the sea in Britain so it wasn't a new direction for Guinness to take.

The other Dublin brewers were not protesting against the use of a label by Guinness in itself, and the company had used labels prior to this period anyway, but rather the conditions mentioned above where those who were supplied with Guinness stout and labels could stock and sell no other bottled stout. The protest and commentary was carried in many newspapers and other sources at the time and it certainly sounds as if this was a turning point in the somewhat convivial if wary relations between Guinness and the other Dublin breweries - although within a little over half a century it wouldn't matter, as Guinness would be the last brewery left standing - literally.

That whole controversy is a subject for a bigger write-up but of interest to Irish brewing history are the copies of the labels used by those other breweries for their stout porter, plus the stray Cork one, which have been enhanced as much as possible and shown here. These appear to have been copies made by the newspaper of the actual labels in some cases given the quality and use of writing on a few but nevertheless some are labels which may not have seen the light of day in well over a hundred years. We have seen a couple of them on here before, notably the Watkins and D'Arcy ones, but here they all now are for posterity - or as much as that can be so in pixels and clouds.

Darcy's Dublin Extra Stout label showing their anchor trademark

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Jameson's XXX Stout stamped with the word 'Invalid's' showing their trademark of a three-masted ship at sail and a write-up of its seemingly excellent attributes by Charles Cameron

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Phoenix Porter Brewery Dublin Stout showing their phoenix trademark

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Mountjoy Brewery's Dublin Stout with the words Extra Double and their three castles trademark

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Watkins's Extra Stout Dublin showing the shamrock trademark of the brewery

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J.J. Murphy & Co. Cork XX Stout with their trademark of a ship at full sail between two towers

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These beers may be long gone but at least some part of them remains, plus there are a few homebrewers who attempt to replicate them - if on modern brew systems. Below is one last image from the same source showing a bottle with the Phoenix label above but overprinted with the word 'Extra' - the bottle might be of interest to any family-brewer-based television series producers who wish to set their show in or around that era!

Liam K

*I know, I know - Pot and kettle indeed!

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. Newspaper research was thanks to The British Newspaper Archive, who have kindly let me share the above images from The Illustrograph (Dublin) from the 1st of March 1869. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

Some Found Pub Prose: A Great and Generous Creature

'True, there be many Old Ales (so-called) that be but of this year’s brewing, and deserve but the name of Mild. Yet that Ale which is Old indeed demandeth one hour for the enjoyment of a pint, and even so a pleasant indolence lingereth, deterrent from bodily and spiritual exercise alike.'

There's something about the time spent drinking beer in pubs that brings out the best in good writers. George Orwell's wishlist in his 'The Moon Under Water' from 1946 is possibly the most famous - and there have been other pieces of writing previous to that work and many since. And it's an ongoing writing theme of course, with new 'odes' to pubs and the beer they serve appearing in social media, books, and other published pieces on a monthly basis, if not more frequently. But there is something quite nostalgic, whimsical and utopian about those older pub-related pieces from the more distant past. They can evoke in some of us more emotions and yearnings than the writing of today, or even from the memories our own early drinking exploits regardless of that era. That wistfulness probably stems from something imagined trumping something experienced in one part of our brain and the idea that the past was somehow better than the present. It wasn't of course, on most counts at least, but that doesn't stop our heads from creating a sentimental picture of some idyllic pub based on the descriptions of a long-dead writer, and from tasting the beer they drank - in our heads at least.

And I'm as guilty as anyone of this sort of foolishness.

-o-

While trawling through newspaper mentions for old pubs for yet another historical project, I came across a smattering of repeats in numerous papers in 1908 of a piece of pubcentric prose under the title, 'The Delights of an Old Alehouse.' It really gripped me as I read it and brought out some of the emotions mentioned above, but it wasn't in any way familiar to me which seemed odd, as it was extremely well written and clearly done by someone with a lot of talent. Luckily, at the end of the piece the author - Charles Hugh Davies - was credited as well as the source of the original publication, which was The Pall Mall Magazine. Some sleuthing and searching finally led me to the piece, which is actually just a small part of an article titled 'An Essaie in Prayse of Beer' which is a much broader love letter to beer, and especially old ale, as was hinted at in the excerpt I had read. I can't find it in any other source (apologies if it has been covered by others and I've just missed it.)

For me, the whole essay is a pure joy, both in style and content. The part I quoted at the very start was particularly resonant, as I have a particular interest in Old Ales - and Milds for that matter - and it also takes me exactly an hour to drink a pint in a pub, which has always seemed the right amount of time to spend on a pleasant beer by my estimation, so it was good to have my opinion reinforced by another drinker, even at the remove of over a century. Although, I'm not sure many present-day publicans would agree with Charles and my drinking pace in their pubs!

That original passage that I found in the newspapers and caught my attention I've transcribed here, and it includes some small details that were left out when published in those papers. Again the first line here sang strongly at me, as late afternoon is my favourite time to visit a pub and drink a beer or two.

Yet, to my mind, pleasantest of all is that great draught of Old Ale which may be drunk ’twixt half after three and five of a winter’s afternoon. Let a man go forth on foot with his dog and a stout stick, and let him walk some five brisk miles along a frosty road. Up hill and down he goes, 'twixt leafless hedgerows; his stick rings on the hard ground, his dog runs busily before. Now, it may be, he follows a lonely field path, and now tramps gaily down a village street. At last, as dusk falls, he sees a pleasant inn before him, back from the road a little way, with a great pole and signboard before - the Checquers[sic], or the Three Gold Cups. Firelight shines warm from the windows, and in he goes to a fair kitchen, where a leaping log-fire dances up the great chimney. Round the walls run benches, and at the fireside is a high-backed settle. Before the blaze hang spit and jack, and on the mantel stand brass candlesticks in a winking row. The rafters are black with smoke, and on the wall hangs a copper warming-pan. Down he sits in the settle, and his dog comes to him and lays his muzzle on his knee. Then, "A pint of Old, please. and a penn’orth of biscuits for the dog." The dog knows what is coming, and stands in the firelight watching the stout dame as she goes to draw the ale. His master draws from his pocket a blackened briar, with a well-knawed[sic] mouthpiece, and a black pouch. Slowly he fills his pipe and waits till the dame comes back with beer and biscuits. He lifts the willow-pattern mug - the best for warm and genial Old - and takes a draught, raising the pot, it may be, for a silent toast. Then he puts down his ale on the deal table at his elbow, breaks a biscuit, and throws a piece to the dog, who catches it before it touches the floor. Then, and then only, he lights his pipe, and so sits smoking, throwing biscuit to the dog; and taking slow draughts of the divine thing.

Perhaps the dame comes and sits at the other side of the chimney, or a labourer comes in from the fields. Then there is beer for the labourer, half of Old and half of Bitter, and talk of ratting and high politics. Then the biscuits are done, and the dog lies down before the blaze on the sanded floor. Half the ale is drunk, and the pipe is at its best. The Votary looks into his mug before he drinks, and admires the deep, rich hue. garnets and ebony in a crucible. He falls under the spell, he is a philosopher at the centre of ideas, the Idea of the Good. His thoughts glide down the emanating rays, and he sees clearly how good things are tobacco and fire and life. . . . His pipe is finished, but there’s more beer in the pot, and he lights up again. The dog is growling in his sleep, and the old labourer is looking into the fire with a wise air, though he is really thinking about turnips. Three-quarters of an hour are gone, and it is quite dark outside. The dame lights the lamp, and the man rouses himself with a jerk, drinks off his ale, looks into the fire, then up and out he goes into the frosty evening. If he were a fool he would stay and try to prolong the pleasure with another pint. But he is not a fool - no Beer-Lover is - and he knows - is it by experience? - that the best is done. So he whistles to his dog, and out they go into the starlight with a "good night" from the man and a volley of barks from the dog. Old Ale, Old Ale, thou are a great and generous creature!

I found this wonderfully descriptive and well written and to my mind it deserves to be well known, perhaps just as well as Orwell's piece even if it is somewhat different in style and content. It certainly puts a longing on me to visit such a place, and although I'm very glad we now have smoke-free pubs even the pipe mentions here sound pleasant and acceptable - as are dogs of course.

You might look at the nice illustration above by Herbert Cole that accompanied the essay in The Pall Mall magazine and think that it doesn't really match that piece of prose, and you would be right, as there is another pub related part contained in the full article that matches the image. It shows another side of pub life and interaction but is equally well written and descriptive.

But now he has had enough of solitude, so by eight he and his dog are tramping down the road to the village, moon overhead and snow under foot. Half a mile in ten minutes and they come to the Running Horses. A cheery hum streams out with the light from the uncurtained window, and grows suddenly louder as he pushes open the door, Then to the right, and he is standing in a haze of blue smoke before a glorious fire of peat and logs. All the places near the blaze are taken, but a young labourer gets up to make room for the gentleman. A fool would decline the offer; the Beer-Lover is not a fool, and he sits down in the empty place. They would none of them think the better of him if he did not, and half a pint will more than repay young Thomas. Conversation drops for a minute while two or three elders make polite remarks and the gentleman’s dog makes the acquaintance of that surly looking sheep-dog who has come out from under the settle. The sheep-dog’s owner speaks to him with no uncertain voice, and the dogs agree to tolerate each other, one at either end of the hearth. 'Then it is a pint of - the Votary hesitates, Mild or Old? Well, perhaps Old is a little drowsy for company; better make it Mild. The landlord, fat and rosy, makes it Mild. And half of Burton for young Thomas. So the beer comes—in pewters this time, the briar is lit, and the Votary leans back and looks around him. On the settle sit the landlord and two elders, and there are two more in Windsor chairs before the fire. He himself has a chair at the corner, with the mantel on his right. His dog is at his feet. This is the inner circle. Outside this are four or five others, younger men, two of them playing dominoes, while the landlord’s pretty daughter looks on and advises about the moves. Conversation resumes its course among the elders; one of the younger men sometimes makes a remark, but not often. They are talking about the old squire, the present Llanharan’s father. The landlord and another stand up for him, the others are recalling his iniquities. It all happened thirty years ago, so that they can talk scandal without slander. The stranger joins in now and then - not often, as most of the talk is in Welsh. He pulls at his mild ale and smokes. He has reached his third pint, and begins

"To look into the pewter pot,

And see the world as the world's not."

In the translucent red glory silence melts, and he talks more freely. Yes, his grandfather was old Dafi Llanfihangel, of the next parish. Oh yes, his father was the one that went to England to make his fortune. Did he make it? Well, no. Here comes a protesting chorus from the elders, and they are soon all deep in affairs of the ’50. Yes, yes, his father often talked of Wil Gat. Not dead yet? Well, Well! . . . What, ten o’clock already, all but five minutes? Well, it’s jolly to talk to people who know Wil Gat. "Good-night !" and "Good-night, sir!" from the elders. Then back through the snow, the dog snuffing the keen air, and barking furiously at every sound. And so to bed.

-o-

Charles Hugh Davies was born in 1887, so he wrote those words when he was just 21 years of age, but to my mind it reads as something written by someone much, much older, He was the eldest son of Thomas Davidson Davies and Elinor Lucy Thomas who lived in Bristol. His father was a maths professor whose family originally came from Wales which will explain the content of his second pub visit in his piece. Charles studied Classics in Magdalen College in Oxford, writing the above while still attending there. He worked in Burma (Myanmar) with the Indian Civil Service after leaving college, and joined the war after returning to England in 1915.

He was killed in action on the 17th of January 1916 when a piece of bomb shrapnel pierced the tent where he was sleeping and struck him on the head. He was just 28 years old.

Although he appears not to have done much writing after college I can't help but think that if he had survived the war he might have returned to writing, something he clearly had a talent for, and a piece like this would now be better known as some of his 'early work.' I have chosen just two sections from his essay on beer to highlight here, as both are pub-based and evocative, but the full piece of writing is linked below and deserves a full read to pull those visits into the broader context of his essay to beer - and there is quite a lot to take in.

If you want to read more about Charles and his life - and you should - there is more on Magdalen College's Slow Dusk website where I got the information for the short biography above. I also chose to show you all a photo of Charles from the same source; in memory of him and his rediscovered work.

So here he is, with his beautiful biscuit-loving dog ...

Charles Hugh Davies, BA and Madoc

(Photo courtesy of Magdalen College, Oxford via the Slow Dusk website)

Liam

The full text of Charles' article can be found on the Internet Archive website here.

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its source, and a link back to this post. Research was via The Internet Archive, The British Newspaper Archive, and the Slow Dusk website linked - all online. The illustration is from The Pall Mall Magazine on the Internet Archive site and the photo of Charles Hugh Davies is from the Magdalen College archives and not my own. It is used here for educational, non-profit reasons, and in memory of him. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

Irish Brewing People of the Past - #2 Eliza Alley

The history of Irish brewing is no stranger to women. There is much talk and commentary regarding the brew wives of the far past, and some mention of those who brew in the present - although it could be argued not enough - but there are scant mentions of those who brewed in the two centuries previous to our current one, and specifically in the 19th, where as we shall see, some women had the business of brewing thrust upon them. Dr. Christina Wade in her book Filthy Queens is hugely focussed on the role of women in brewing, and the book certainly champions their cause repeatedly - and rightly. And those who may feel there has been too much commentary on women in brewing would do well to remember that to get a well-worn gate that has seen too much on-way traffic to hang straight you need to sprain the hinges the opposite way, almost to breaking point, in order to get it to sit evenly in the middle of its post.

One of the women featured in the good doctor’s book is a lady called Eliza Alley, who I have written about previously - and that piece was nicely referenced in one chapter. I had come across Eliza’s name while researching who brewed Ireland’s first ‘IPA’ - or more correctly who was the first to advertise such a style of beer by that name or similar. At that time I focused on the beer itself, a little on the brewery and some of its history but always felt there was more to commit to history about Eliza herself. So here we go …

-o-

Eliza Humphreys was born in 1796 or 1797, the 5th daughter of William Humphreys - sadly I can’t be sure of her mother’s name. Her father was a prominent wool merchant in the city of Dublin and shortly after her birth bought Ballyhaise estate in county Cavan, and appears to have divided his time between Dublin and Ballyhaise House. His business was situated at 17 Merchant’s Quay in the city and he also had property on Gardiner’s Row/Place. The family were Church of Ireland (protestant) and, interestingly, it appears that his son William (Eliza's brother) was Grand Master of the Orange Order in Cavan in the 1850s, so the family would seem to have been quite involved in the organisation - probably not an unusual thing for the merchant and land-owning class at this time.

Eliza married William Alley in 1821 in the wonderfully grand St. George's Church in the north-east of Dublin city. William was the son of Alderman, High Sheriff and Mayor John Alley - another merchant and prominent individual in the city of Dublin, who was also a brewer. They had at least ten children over 14 years - John, William, Letitia, Catherine, Henry, Eliza, Matilda, Robert, Caroline, and another Caroline (presumably the first having died as a baby) although not all survived to adulthood. They lived in Clontarf and at one time owned Ivy House, a six-bedroom house with pleasure grounds and a walled garden, as well as a coach house and some farm buildings.

In 1823, William Alley succeeded his father in the brewery in Townsend Street following the latter’s death, and at this time he was brewing ‘Strong Ale, Porter and Table Beer’. Brewing was a family business for the Alleys, as William's brother John refitted a brewery belonging to the wonderfully named Mr. Wigglesworth in Ardee Street in 1824, it having also been occupied by a Mr. Richard Pim (a surname of importance in Irish brewing) and an advertisement mentions that his father had been brewing in the city for 30 years, so it appears the brewery on Townsend Street could date from at least the late 18th century and was certainly owned by John Alley in by the very first years of the 19th century. John junior was bankrupt by 1827, so his venture didn't last too long. Interestingly he wasn't brewing porter, just ale and table beer which may explain its failure, given how porter was the dominant drink in this period.

But tragedy struck on the 18th of June 1836 when William died at the age of only 39, leaving Eliza with a large young family to raise. Undeterred, she embraced the ownership of the brewery, and mere days after William’s burial she took out advertisements letting friends and customers know that the brewery would continue, and trusting that their patronage would continue. A year later she was thanking those who 'encouraged her to persevere in the arduous undertaking in which she engaged for the advancement of her numerous family’ and goes on to assure them that the 'malt drink manufactured at her establishment is of the very best quality.' Mysteriously, in a separate advertisement below this she cautions 'her friends and the public against the misrepresentations of a clerk who was lately in her employment and whom she was obliged to discharge, for conduct that it would not be to his credit to explain, but which she is ready to do if called upon. This person is now in another establishment and is, she is informed, endeavouring, by gross misstatements, to induce her customers to withdraw their support but she feels happy in the conviction that all his efforts to do so will prove futile, and only tend to expose his own character.' Whatever occurred in the brewery it appears that Eliza was aggrieved by the episode, and it certainly shows and edge to her strength of character and resolve. 

By early November of 1837 she was looking for a brewer to brew ‘fine ales, beer, and porter’ and by the end of the month she had taken on a Mr. Harrower 'a brewer of great experience and well-known ability’ as head brewer. It is worth noting of course that Eliza would not have been brewing any beer herself, and nor would many of the names we associate with Irish breweries, as almost all would have employed talented brewers to produce their beers, regardless of their gender by the way. These entities were for the most past business people who employed others to execute their wishes and needs, as with any similar business.

Although it appears that neither her or William’s family were short of money it was important that the business continue and succeed in order to have a constant revenue for both herself and her large family and a sense of that can be obtained from the announcement of her employment of Mr. Harrower where she thanks those who have supported the business and ‘have marked their approbation of her exertions, and encouraged her to persevere in the arduous undertaking’ of running the brewery. She assures her customers and friends that ‘her unceasing efforts shall be directed, and her best attention given, to merit a continuance of that patronage which she with pride and gratitude acknowledges.’ Eliza’s character again shows through here, as well as her driven nature, and she appears to have been quite hands on with the running of the business.

Eliza remarried another respected merchant, Henry Cochran of Merchant's Quay, in 1838 back in her father’s home of Ballyhaise in Cavan. (Curiously, Henry dealt in Wool like Eliza’s father and he even operated from the same premises – so there was clearly an existing family or business connection here.) The brewery was trading under the name of Eliza Alley, Sons & Co. and although Eliza was still actively involved in the business, Mr. Cochran also seems to have been involved in the management of the enterprise to some extent. Her oldest sons, John and William would have been 16 and 15 at this time, so were unlikely to have been very much involved in the business, although it’s clear from the brewery’s name that they were to be very much included in the business in the future – although obviously not her daughters!

A curious incident occurred in late 1838 when a man was charged with firing a pistol into the brewery from a nearby building. This was the second time with weeks that this had occurred and intimidating letters had also been sent to Eliza, although it is not clear if there was a connection between the events. Reports of the events indicate the possibly weren't linked, but it does seem that Eliza had her enemies and detractors given this episode and the earlier issue.

But what makes Eliza and her brewery stand out in Irish brewing history is that newspaper mention in 1842 of having ‘East India Beer’ for sale. This was said to be ‘of superior quality and will be found to be very similar to that justly celebrated article “Hodgson’s pale ale”'. This is clearly what we would now term an India Pale Ale or IPA, and seems to be the first mention (at least) of the style being brewed in Ireland, and it occurred during the stewardship of a woman owner, which is also of note. Whether this new brewing was her choice, driven my market forces (this style of beer was certainly being imported into the country by this time), the possible involvement or her two youngish sons in seeing new trends, or a decision by the resident brewer at that time, we will never know but it certainly started a trend in pale well-hopped ales that lasted in Ireland until the early 1960s or so, and returned to us in the latter part of the last century.

In September of 1847 Eliza was once again a widow, as her second husband Henry died of fever that month. But the brewery itself appears to have been doing relatively well and by 1850 they were exporting to England and had acquired a royal warrant, claiming in their advertisements to be ‘sole brewers in Ireland to her most gracious majesty.’ They were brewing ‘Strong XX Ale, Plain Ale, Bitter Ale, Strong XX Porter, Plain Porter and Table Beer’ at that time. Advertisements listed the business as E. Alley, Sons, & Co., and whether the abbreviated first name is an attempt to hide the fact that it was owned by a woman is certainly possible if not provable, and at this point it is highly likely that her sons John and William were involved in the brewery business.

But, like the majority of breweries in Ireland, it wasn't to last, as the brewing equipment was for sale in 1853 and near the end of 1855 the brewery property was in chancery and being sold along with houses at number 55, 56, and 57 Townsend Street, where an advertisement states that the entire property takes in 141 feet of Townsend Street, 213 feet on Prince's Street, 123 feet on South Gloucester Street. This, along with the large number of utensils and equipment for sale, gives us a nice footprint for the substantial size of the business. Eliza Cochran, as she was then known, appears to have been still at the helm and still active in the business at this time.

But perhaps everything finally took its toll, as Eliza died relatively young at the age of 59 on the 30th of June 1856 at Redmondstown House, Clomel, Co. Tipperary, the home of her daughter Eliza and son-in-law, William P. Worrall. Her burial - like that of her first husband - took place in Clontarf, Dublin.

But Eliza and Williams’s legacy in brewing continued, just much further afield. Their sons John and William both left Dublin for America and were involved - separately - in breweries in Boston. John Robinson Alley in particular fronted a number of breweries in the area and the name Alley was once again hung over a brewery business.

But what of the property where Ireland’s first 'IPA' was brewed? By the 1870s at least some of the property was being used by Wheeler & Shanks - later J. Shanks & Co - who were operating from 54 to 56 Townsend Street in 1882 selling alcohol free beverages such as the wonderfully sounding 'Export' Ginger Ale. They were still there in 1898 advertising mineral waters of all types and by 1901 no. 56 Townsend Street was home to an agency for the Deli Brewery in Amsterdam's 'Pilsner and Lager' beers.

No trace of the brewery now exists, as a relatively new development sits on the site of this once important Irish enterprise.

-o-

It’s a pity that the names of brewery owners, both male and female, seem to have been lost to us. Over the years consolidation and rebranding means that just one handful of Irish brewer’s name remain and are remembered by most Irish beer drinkers. Eliza and William, and his father John, deserve to be recorded and name-checked in the long list of Dublin brewers that have risen and fallen through the years and centuries. Ironically, it’s probably their son John Robinson Alley who is best remembered and written about in brewing circles, albeit and the other side of the Atlantic.

But perhaps, just perhaps, we should raise a toast in memory of Eliza the next time we pour an Irish IPA.

Liam

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its source, and a link back to this post. Research was via The British Newspaper Archive and Irish Genealogy, both online. Some content was used and adapted from my earlier mentioned post on who brewed Ireland's first IPA. All sources are available on request. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

Pub Fiction: Something Special in McDaids - The Session #149

 

Seamie sat at the back of the small lounge bar, his elbows resting on the table as he nursed his bottle of stout, his third of the afternoon. They had draught porter here of course, and it was kept in good order in fairness, but he preferred the ritual pour - and the strength and tart dryness - of the stout instead. He’d take a couple of half-pint bottles over a pint of plain any day. And as for the shiny new taps? Well, he had no idea how they worked and didn’t much care. The so-called swingin’ sixties how are ya, everything was changing, and not for the better. And Watney’s? Those little red barrels of English piss were propped up on almost all the bars he frequented now. He didn’t care much for ale anyway, apart from the odd barley-wine of a cold night.

His stomach rumbled, but it was drowned out by the chattering of the men propping up the counter and the clatter of barmen behind it. At this time of the day the place was full of journalists and businessmen grabbing a quick pint before heading to their cosy homes. They were talking their usual shite of course, of politics and sport, both subjects Seamie had no interest in. Anyway, he was as likely to sway public opinion by getting involved in such talk about which TD should do what as he was to appear on the pitch in Croke Park.

He hadn’t eaten today. Not that that was an unusual occurrence, as most days he’d do without breakfast or lunch, partly because of disinterest but also because he needed to mind the few bob he earned from the council for sweeping the streets. Anyway, there was rarely any food in the little bedsit he shared with his brother Iggy near the canal. Iggy didn’t work, or couldn’t work, ever since he was let go from the biscuit factory for being too slow. Not physically slow but mentally slow, or maybe both. Since then all he did was sit in the big chair by the window, looking out at the rare barges that passed by and crying. Iggy cried a lot.

Seamie heard a commotion as two men walked in and were greeted by those gathered at the bar as if they were old friends. He recognised one of them, a spectacled so-called poet that seemed to often be in bother. Seamie had read some of his stuff but didn’t care for it. He preferred classics like those in a little treasured book of 19th century poets he kept in the breast pocket of his overcoat. James Clarence Mangan, now he was a real poet with a proper poet’s name to boot. He never wrote about stony grey shite …

His stomach rumbled again, louder this time and he coughed to cover the sound, not that anyone was paying him a blind bit of attention as the writer held court.

He counted the few coins he had in his pocket, he had enough for his favourite meal with a few pence left over. He raised himself from the bench he was sat on and hobbled to the side of the bar.

‘Peter?’

One of the barmen broke off from conversation with a customer and went to him.

‘Alright Seamie? Another bottle?’ he said as he reached for the shelf.

‘No, no. Can I get a Bovril and a toasted sandwich?’

‘God you can Seamie, sure. The toasted special?’

‘Aye, perfect. Lovely’ He counted out his coins and handed them to the barman. 

He paused. He had just enough left.

‘I will take that stout Peter, just don’t open it.’

He handed over the rest of his coins.

‘I’ll drop them down to you.’

Seamie returned to his seat and finished the last of his stout while he waited for his sandwich, trying not to listen to the insufferable bar talk that had reached a new level of pompous stupidity. Why were men so loud and obnoxious at times?

The barman arrived with the mug of Bovril and a toasted sandwich on a plate with a knife. He placed the bottle of unopened stout on table and went back to chatting with the now large throng that crowded the counter. Seamie carefully cut the sandwich in half and watched the cheese ooze out from the edge. There were lads that would eulogise about a pint of stout but surely a decent sandwich deserved some special words too? If Seamie could only write then he’d have penned an ode to the toasted special. There was something about the combination of cheese, ham, onion and tomato shielded between two slices of overdone toast that suited a public house, especially with a mug of Bovril. That, in fact, was your only man.

Seamie slurped his hot drink and nibbled at his half sandwich, savouring it, relishing it and appreciating how something so simple could change your mood. He finished his Bovril and sat back, staring out past the rounded windows into the darkening sky. He wanted to stay a bit longer, but knew he couldn’t.

Taking a hanky from his back pocket he wrapped the rest of the sandwich carefully and stored it in the deep pockets of his well-worn overcoat before slipping the unopened bottle of stout into the other. 

He headed for the door.

‘See you Seamie,’ said Peter.

‘See you lad,’ he replied.

He stopped and adjusted his overcoat before opening the door, his elbow just jutting out enough to spill some of the whiskey that the poet was raising to his lips as he leaned against the door jam.

The door swung shut on shouts and insults as he heading back towards the canal, with both hands in his overcoat, minding Iggy’s supper.

(The above images of McDaid's public house from 1965 were on the Dublin City Digital Library website archive, and I previously posted it on Twitter with a link. That link appears broken and the archive has moved but is from their collection and used here for non-commercial purposes. It was wrongly reversed in the archive so I fixed and enhanced it at the time.)

This was for a call to action on pub food for this month's The Session by David Jesudason here.

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

A Shot of Beer History #9: Explosion at Macardle-Moore Brewery

Irish breweries are no strangers to calamities over the last few centuries, and at around 7pm on Monday 15th of June 1903 a thunderous explosion rocked the brewery site of Macardle, Moore & Co. at Cambricville in Dundalk county Louth. Initial reports stated that the site was 'matted close with dying and with dead' and that four men had succumbed to their injuries, but luckily this turned out not to be the case.

On that evening, after most of the employees had finished work, a flow of porter was seen to be coming out the door of the brewhouse. This was immediately followed by the explosion which tore the roof off the four-storey building and launched the 3 ton copper kettle - one of two on the site - 120 feet into the air and landed 400 feet away. The brew kettle was reported to contain 100 barrels or over 3,000 gallons of porter at the time. Bricks from the collapsed front wall of the brewhouse showered the adjoining buildings, damaging roofs and windows and much internal damage was done to the structure itself.

Two of workmen still in the brewery at the time were injured by falling debris, they were George Finn and Frank McKenna. A man named Patrick[?] Byrne and a boy named J. [or Patrick?] Hodgenson who were waiting to collect spent grains from the brewery, and were close to the explosion, were more seriously injured. They were all attended on the site by local doctors before being transferred to the Louth Hospital, with two other injured parties. Finn, McKenna and two of the others were discharged almost immediately, as their complaints were minor, while Byrne and Hodgenson, who had suffered head injuries, were kept a little longer before also being discharged.

The explosion seems to have occurred due to a faulty or stuck safety valve on the kettle, and no damage was done to any other stock of beer apart from the porter in the kettle at the time. Within days local contactors with help from specialists from England and Dublin were working on the reconstruction of the building and reinstallation of equipment.

So a lucky escape for all those caught in the blast, and it seems that brewing resumed a few weeks later, as the spent grains that Messrs. Byrne & Hodgenson had come to collect were being offered for collection again at the brewery.

Liam K

More of my history of Macardle's Ale and the early history of the brewery itself can be read here.

From reports taken from the following newspapers - The Dundalk Examiner and Louth Advertiser 20th June 1903, The Newry Reporter 18th June 1903, and The Belfast Weekly Telegraph 20th June 1903.

Images of the damage and the kettle lying on the ground can be seen here.

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. Newspaper research was thanks to The British Newspaper Archive, who have kindly let me share the above images. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

Irish Brewing People of the Past - #1 John Smithwick

‘This is the story of an Irish industry which started 243 years ago when a twenty-year-old youth left his Tipperary home, married a Kilkenny girl, settled in Kilkenny city and started a business which is now a household word all over Ireland.’

Here in Ireland, the disconnect between the beers we drink and their origins and true history means that we are far removed from the personalities of those who founded or drove the expansion of our brewing industry in the past. We know very little about those brewery owners whose legacy has been reduced to a brand held now and brewed by larger conglomerates - and sometimes smaller entities - who may or may not care about the actual heritage of the beers that they curate. Those are the ‘lucky’ ones, as at least their names are still associated with Irish brewing, albeit with a history written sometimes by marketing people more so than researchers or historians. Add to this the unmentioned owners of the brands and breweries that are no longer known or spoken about and we have a huge number of unrecorded names and personalities who are now practically lost to the beer drinking public. Names such as Watkins, Perry, Stoer, Pim, Keily, Strangman, D’Arcy and a host of others might have a vague resonance with some people, but very little is recorded about the characters themselves, or at least not in any biographical way.

Who are these often misremembered and unknown people who gave their names to breweries and beers over the last few hundred years? Some of course have been well recorded, names such as the Guinness, both Beamish and Crawford, and Murphy have all been written about in depth in printed publications and online, but others are much more enigmatic or unrecorded.

In this new occasional series, I want to explore some of the less or unknown characters of Irish brewing and reveal a little more about their history, lives and connections to others in the brewing trade. This has been made much more possible in recent years given the online presence of genealogy sites, hard to source old books and publications, and old newspapers - and without those resources this series would be almost impossible for an armchair researcher and reporter. I hope to connect the reader with these personalities and give a little family history as well as exploring how they came to own breweries - or work them. This will still be a tricky enough task so unfortunately, we will still be in the realm of ‘perhapses’, ‘maybes’, and ‘possiblies’ as we investigate their origins and activities.

So, let's begin ...

-o-

Apart from the well-known entities listed above the next most mentioned character in Irish brewing is one John Smithwick, whose participation in Irish brewing history is rather unclear and muddied once any real digging is made into his purported history. I’ve written about the subject of the Smithwick’s brewery many times before - ad nauseam some might say - and given my opinion on its origins based on the published and available material in common sources and archives, but here I will look a little closer at the man whose personal history should be recorded as best we can, seeing as he is thought of (rightly or wrongly) as a large and important figure in Irish brewing history.

The quoted paragraph at the start is from a booklet printed in 1953 called ‘The Smithwick Story’ published by the Irish Publicity company in Dublin as part of a series they hoped to produce on Irish industrial businesses. The publication includes some pages on the history of the brewery and how it operated in the fifties as well as the challenges that lay ahead. 

And that brief quoted history of Smithwick’s origin raises a few questions about the enigmatic John Smithwick who is purported to have begun the business in 1710.

Another version of the origin story is on the Smithwick’s Experience website, and states that the early eighteenth century was ‘a time of strict Penal Laws forbidding Catholics from owning land or running for local office. Into this scene arrives the orphan John Smithwick determined to defy the odds and begin trading’ and the general story being communicated by many sources is that John Smithwick was a Catholic orphan from Tipperary who came to Kilkenny and allegedly went into partnership with a Richard Cole on the site that now houses the brewery tour, and that he began brewing a red ale in 1710 - or variants of this tale. (Just to clarify, yet again, that this continuous brewing of the same beer is not possible, given the ingredients in the current beer at the very least.)

So who exactly was John Smithwick?

Sadly, and predictably given the passing of three centuries and more, information is quite scare, but by looking at a couple of independent sources - a genealogy site plus a book on the Smithwick’s family by Art Kavanagh* - we can put a little of his history together, especially if we go back a couple of generations from John to his grandfather, Lt. Colonel Henry Smithwick. 

Henry Smithwick was a protestant born in Hertfordshire in England in 1599 and having moved to Ireland sometime in the early 1600s was in the employment - as was his father Robert - of Richard Boyle, 1st Earl of Cork, a contentious figure in Irish history, to put it mildly. Henry was married to Mary Fortescue from Devon with whom he had two sons, Henry and William. He was part of the Cromwellian army and had land in Ballydarton in Carlow - where he also served as sheriff - as well as being resident in Waterford and Cork at various times. He died in 1670, and his sons both followed him into the army, with Henry junior achieving the rank of Captain in the army.

Captain Henry Smithwick was born around 1630 was listed as in ensign in 1649 in a section mentioning his father in "Depositions of Cromwell's Adherents" regarding the securing of the town of Youghal for English forces. He was registered on a census in Drogheda, Co. Louth in 1659, and as "Henry Smithwick, of Lord Lisburne's Regt of Foot, later Capt in Co Richard Coote's Regt of Foot" in Burke’s Peerage, and was still listed as being in the English army in 1692. He was familiar with Kilkenny as he removed the King James’s Royal Arms from the Tholsel (city hall) on the High Street and replaced them with King William of Orange’s. He was married to Sarah Meredith and had six children - one of whom was our John Smithwick. (This early history is set out in Kavanagh's book and backed up by the genealogy website that references Burke's Irish Family Records.)**

John was born in 1690 - there are no official, published records that tell us where, and married Jane Dunphy in 1719. Jane died in 1725 and they had no surviving children – they seem to have sadly lost 5 sons. He remarried at some point to Mary Grace who was born around 1710 with whom he had three sons, Edmond, Peter and Michael. He may have lived in Lazybush (Lousybush) just north of the city, as this is where Mary was from and where Peter was born.

There appears to be very little available history for John Smithwick but he seems to have been a protestant, like his father and grandfather, although his second wife Mary Grace was Catholic and so were her children. Kavanagh and other sources would seem to suggest that he remained protestant until his marriage to Mary Grace some time well after 1725 (given Mary's age and the date of his first wife's passing) and perhaps until his death. Both John and Mary died in 1768 and both are buried in St. Canice’s Church of Ireland Cathedral graveyard, very close to his first wife.

That's their gravestone at the top of this piece.

Of what John’s occupation was when he arrived in Kilkenny - if he didn’t already live near here - we are quite unclear, He doesn’t seem to have been mentioned in any military setting so it appears that he didn’t follow in his father and grandfather’s footsteps. Given who his father and grandfather were and the land they owned, it’s likely that John too was a man of some means at least at this time. Modern anecdotal sources mention a relationship with a Richard Cole as a brewer but there are no available records that show this. A Lease that claims to show the plot of land Cole being the site of the brewery near the St. Francis Abbey doesn’t mention John Smithwick and is also for a plot of land outside the Black Abbey Gate, so is clearly nowhere close to that site anyway. A short family history written by Walter Smithwick in the 1960s states that John Smithwick’s business at this time was unknown, and even the Smithwick’s Experience website now states that the brewery fell out of family hands and only returned to them in the early 19th century, so there is little history surrounding the so-called originator of the brewing dynasty.

So unfortunately, if not curiously, there is no published information for our John Smithwick being a brewer in any way – not an auspicious start to this series on Irish brewing figures! It does not mean that he wasn’t involved in brewing of course but the most optimistic scenario imaginable is that he was in some sort of business partnership with Richard Cole and that one or either had a small brewhouse at their house for the household's consumption - which was quite common – and somehow this morphed into him being a brewer, perhaps? In truth the house owner would never have been the actual brewer anyway, that would be done by one of the workers on the estate. So sadly, I can’t find any information that shows that John Smithwick started a brewery in 1710 as is often claimed, unless some more information comes to light or is released by certain parties.

The earliest written evidence of any of the Smithwick family owning a brewery was a few generations later, where through John’s son Peter, and Peter’s son John and then great grandson Edmond, the brewing arm of the business appears to have been started in 1827, having bought and converted a distillery for that purpose. There is mention in some sources that our John could not own a brewery in 1710 because of The Penal Laws forbidding Catholic ownership of businesses, but if he was protestant at this time - as reported by Kavanagh - then this law would not apply to him. It certainly would have applied to his children and grandchildren but they have never been shown to be connected to the brewery in any way by any source, and Edmond’s father John held lands and successful merchant businesses for many years prior to Edmond buying the lease on the brewery – surely he could have ‘declared’ his interest at least – if not ownership - in any brewery? The Smithwick family were certainly Catholic and staunch Nationalists by the 19th century it is worth adding.

It seems impossible to find how and why the 1710 reference was first mooted and what exact information led to this date being quoted, although it seems to first appear in print around 1892. Earlier sources such as trade directories or travel guides don’t mention the brewery, and those post 1827 don’t mention the date, nor any John Smithwick. For example 'The Official Illustrated Guide to the Great Southern & Western Railway' by George S. Measom from 1866 clearly states the brewery was established in 1828, which is near the right date and probably when they started brewing in any meaningful way. Perhaps there is some mention in the family records, but that would have been published with more detail surely – especially in the write-up by Walter Smithwick?

So, our first foray into the historical characters of Irish brewing doesn’t tell us much of who John Smithwick really was business wise, but it puts a little more history to the person himself. Hopefully new information will surface to throw some light on who exactly was the ‘mysterious’ - if less so now - Mr. Smithwick.

TBC? ...

Liam K

(Note. There is also a reference to a Smithwick marrying the daughter of someone in the Cromwellian army, Richard le Harte in Tipperary. This person is mentioned as a William Smithwick on one unverified genealogy website but there is no record of this daughter - Margaret - in any online biographies of Richard, nor does her proposed birthdate tie in with his timeline and marriage, and although a John is mentioned as a son the dates again don’t match and she would have had to have him at the age of 15, which isn’t impossible but not likely. Anyhow, the other family tree is from two seemingly reputable sources, so appears to be correct, subject to finding other information.)

*The Gentry & Aristocracy Kilkenny – Smithwick of Kilcreene St. George of Freshford Wandesforde of Castlecomer by Art Kavanagh

** This connection to English or Cromwellian soldiers and personnel is more common that one would think. If you go back far enough then many of us - including myself - had actual or reputed connections with those who came here at this time.

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. I relied heavily on the Art Kavanagh book mention above and the linked Smithwick family website for much of the content printed here, added to by other online sources as linked. The photo used is from my own collection and taken by me a few years ago. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

Beckett on Bars: The Session #147

There’s no shortage of mentions and images of Irish pubs and beers in the literature and artworks of this country, so when Phil Cook suggested the theme for this month’s The Session - basically to discuss something beer-related in art or fiction - selecting something to write about wasn’t difficult. The issue was more so to find something that hadn’t been written about before, or at least not to the point of readers skimming past it by it being just another misplaced or misinformed ode-to-the-ode ‘The Pint of Plain’ or another look at the Mr. Spock-like character in Harry Kernoff’s ‘A Bird Never Flew on One Wing.’ Not that these are not important and much-loved works, but they hardly warrant another revisit by me.

And where’s ‘here’? Well, The Session was originally conceived in 2007 by Stan Hieronymus and Jay Brooks as a way of pulling together a collection of blogposts from different beer writers on a single topic once a month, and hosted by a different writer each time who chooses a topic. It finished in 2018 but has since made a revenantial appearance thanks to Alan McLeod - this being #147, or #2.6 depending on whether you see it as a continuation of the old or the start of a new series.

This is my first proper contribution to the collection of writings.

-o-

Around the time when this month’s theme was announced I had acquired a copy of Samuel Beckett’s first novel called ‘More Pricks Than Kicks’ as once more I tried to delve into the works of The Big Irish Writers of the early 20th century. So far, I had failed with Joyce (apart from Dubliners), couldn’t find any huge love for Behan’s fictional work, O’ Casey was too theatrical for my taste, and O’Brien/O’Nolan/Na gCopaleen/etc. had been quite hit and miss. Beckett’s works didn’t seem to hold out any more hope for grabbing and holding on to my clearly substandard intellect but seeing as ‘More Pricks’ was a series of short stories like Dubliners I decided to give it a try.

It is a collection of related tales woven around a character called Belacqua Shuah and is set in and around Dublin, presumably in the early parts of the 20th century. The main protagonist is a somewhat unlovable character - for the reader at least -  who has some unfortunate relationships and a penchant for gorgonzola, mustard and cayenne sandwiches on blackened toast - possibly his most likeable attribute. The book itself would have been classed quite risqué in places at the time it was first published in 1934. Indeed it was seemingly banned in Ireland at that time, which is hardly a shocker given how the country was firmly in the grip of the clergy then as many tried desperately to find an upper level hierarchical body to replace the lost overlords in our relatively new country - quasi-militant Catholicism filled that void quite nicely for some. Even today it might certainly be cancelled for the latent misogyny that appears on occasion in its pages, although that’s not a reason for any rational person to ban, cancel or indeed, burn it.

Anyhow, most of the book is certainly quite readable and entertaining, although in parts it suffers from the same problem I have with the syntax, grammar and wording used by certain Irish writers, where some passages appear to have been translated into a vocally similar sounding but unfamiliar language by one person just using just a dictionary, before being translated back to English by another separate hand who similarly has no knowledge of the language into which they are translating, and who lazily decides to leave a few non-English words in the text to boot. (I am fully convinced that you could read out loud passages of Joyce’s Ulysses, for example, to a non-English speaker in Antwerp and they would nod along enthusiastically to whatever they were apparently hearing in their own dialect, regardless of what it meant in English.) The result is something that you can, at a push, make sense of and understand but it requires a lot of hard work on the reader’s part and can ruin the flow and entertainment that should be derived from reading. (And yes, dear reader, I’m hardly one to talk about jittery, over-punctuated, writing styles and invented words I know …)

But even allowing for my shoddy intellectual capability to understand parts of this book there are flashes of pure brilliance that even I can recognise, and one such passage is the piece of writing I want to highlight for this month’s The Session.

-o-

In the third chapter of the book, titled ‘Ding-Dong,’ our sub-hero is out on the town one evening and having walked up Pearse Street has ‘turned left into Lombard Street’ and ‘entered a public house.’ This may have been the public house now known as The Lombard, whose bar entrance appears to have been just across the road after the turn, but quite possibly was the pub that sat on the site where The Windjammer now is, further down the road at the corner of Townsend Street but with an entrance on Lombard Street. Certainly given Beckett’s description of ‘the rough but kindly habitués of the house, recruited for the most part from among dockers, railwaymen and vague joxers on the dole’ it might perhaps sound like the latter at the time but clues are scarce.

Regardless, it was the account of his experience within the establishment that grabbed my attention the most, just before anxiety and despondency hit him as he contemplated the day’s events and his general future:

Sitting in this crapulent den, drinking his drink, he gradually ceased to see its furnishings with pleasure, the bottles, representing centuries of loving research, the stools, the counter, the powerful screws, the shining phalanx of the pulls of the beer-engines, all cunningly devised and elaborated to further the relations between purveyor and consumer in this domain. The bottles drawn and emptied in a twinkling, the casks responding to the slightest pressure on their joysticks, the weary proletarians at rest on arse and elbow, the cash-register that never complains, the graceful curates flying from customer to customer, all this made up a spectacle which Belacqua was used to take delight and chose to see a pleasant instance of machinery decently subservient to appetite. A great major symphony of supply and demand, effect and cause, fulcrate on the middle C of the counter and waxing, as it proceeded, in the charming harmonies of blasphemy and broken glass and all the aliquots of fatigue and ebriety. So that he would say that the place where he could come to anchor and be happy was a low public house and that all the wearisome tactics of gress and dud Beethoven would be done away with if only he could spend his life in such a place. But as they closed at ten, and as residence and good faith were viewed as incompatible, and as in any case he had not means to consecrate his life to stasis, even in the meanest bar, he supposed he must be content to indulge this whim from time to time, and return thanks for such sporadic mercy.*

Although even the latter parts of this passage suffer from the 'Flemishisation' that I mentioned earlier, it is pure prose and poetry combined. Something perhaps that should be studied and discussed by students in schools throughout this and other lands. We have poetic parts such as the ‘charming harmonies of blasphemy and broken glass’ and an almost religious aspect to his thoughts and feelings as he sat drinking his porter. It is descriptive to an extreme in how it portrays an early 20th century urban public house, with mentions of beer engines, cork-pullers, bar staff known as ‘graceful curates’ and customers ‘at rest on arse and elbow.’ The wording keenly reflects how this pub was seen to be a refuge and place of escape, albeit with some reservations, at that time. Superb stuff. 

I am not sure it requires much more discussion, perhaps just a second reading and maybe a third For me it is probably the best written piece on drinking and public houses that I have so far encountered, and it is worth nothing that I first read the passage in a public house on a quiet Saturday afternoon, at rest on arse and elbow.

So, I shall say no more, just go back and read it again, and again ...

Liam

*I quote this piece from the book purely for educational and non-commercial reasons, some hopefully I will not get in trouble with the executors of Beckett’s estate!?

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. The quoted piece from Beckett's More Pricks than Kicks appears on pages 39 & 40 of the Picador 1974 edition. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!