Archiving!

I rise a little after eight. Then trapse downstairs to the bar for brekkie.

The big question is: should I get the traditional or the large Irish breakfast? Good sense prevails, and I plump for the large. Only joking. I’m not a total pig.

Is a description necessary? It’s a Wetherspoons breakfast. Functional, is the word that comes to mind. A way to efficiently load up on calories for the day. Two mugs of tea, too. Proper tea. Strong and milky.

I have to ask at the Storehouse information desk for Eibhlin Colgan, the archivist. And soon she’s leading me up to the reading room. Where she already has the volumes I’m going to consult.

There are eight in total: two Cherry, two Perry and four Cairnes. Covering a pretty decent span of years, between them. 1876 to 1966. Lots to get my teeth stuck into.

I wouldn’t describe the work of photographing brewing records as fun. It isn’t. Tedious. Repetitive. Filthy, sometimes. Backbreaking. Mostly just boring.

Pages are turned, photos are taken. Occasionally, I’ll pause to take a look. More so at the start than at the end of the session.

At lunch, I notice that my phone is down to 38% battery. Which is a bit worrying. I ask about charging it while I eat. Unfortunately, I’ve only brought a USB cable. Damn.

It makes the afternoon session even more frantic than usual. I start to regret how much time I spent on some of the Cairnes records this morning.

When I finish, I’ve still a little battery left. But that was much more stressful than it needed to be. Stress is the last thing I need.

1,000 snaps snapped, I head back to my hotel. Where I recharge my phone and copy all those valuable photos to my laptop. After all the effort it took to take them, I wouldn’t want to lose them by dropping my phone or having it nicked.

In one taxi, I explained to the driver what type of pub I like. Old men’s pubs, basically. One he recommended was Cassidy’s, just over the road from my hotel. After nipping into Tesco Express to pick up a couple of sandwiches (and Taytos cheese and onion crisps) for my tea, I drop by there.

It is, as advertised, and old-fashioned sort of pub. The perfect place to try out the Guinness.

I’m not expecting a sensory overload. Let’s be honest: Draught Guinness is pretty bland. But this pint is smooth and easy to drink. With the vaguest flicker of roast lurking somewhere in its shadows.

I quite like quiet times in pubs. Though his one is by no means empty, there’s plenty of space for me to fill with my fat arse. But still enough fellow customers to observe to keep things interesting.

Only the one pint. I’m not made of fucking money. I retreat back to the ‘Spoons. And the warm embrace off cheap cask beer. I enjoyed the Brehon Black Hills so much yesterday, I get myself another. Which I take to my room. Where whisky I don’t need to pay for (again) is waiting for me.

This isn’t going to be a very pubby trip. I’ve a busy schedule and don’t want to knack myself just hanging around in pubs. Much as I love doing that.

Instead, I hang around my room a bit. Nibbling on my Tesco sarnies and sipping my hotel whisky. While watching some shit TV on my laptop.

It’s me chasing the whisky to sleep today.



Cassidys
42 Camden Street Lower,
Saint Kevin's,
Dublin 2,
D02 YP57.