Monkstown has a drink problem... and I’ve got a birthday to celebrate

FOR a city so associated with alcohol, it was hard to get a drink in Dublin last Wednesday, albeit Wednesday afternoon at 4 o’clock, and albeit in Monkstown village.

But still. I was gasping. And I had an excuse. For once.

It was my 51st birthday so I thought I would go for an impromptu glass of wine with some friends. The universe, it appeared, was plotting against me. To begin with, one of my favourite south-side boozers, Goggins, was shut at 4pm.

Then across the road, one of my favourite southside eateries, FX Buckley Steakhouse, wasn’t open either.

My heart — whatever about my liver — sank as the restaurant next door to it was similarly closed at 4pm until 5pm. There were two lovely hipster fellas outside watering plants while my friends and I were in need of a stronger liquid.

It was a gloriously sunny afternoon so we didn’t want to sit inside in Avoca, so we decided we would take a trendy table outside in its sun-trap of a garden instead. The lovely, young hipster behind the counter told me that, alas, as of yet, it didn’t serve alcohol in the garden.

We soon moved on, down the road in the direction of Dun Laoghaire, late afternoon folks in search of a drop to drink, to The Purty Kitchen. They were open and we got our glass of wine. You’d think I had a drink problem but it was my birthday and I had not been to bed the night before to get the article on Mary Kennedy written for today’s Sindo. So, don’t judge me. I do that better than anyone.

Matters didn’t improved dramatically when, despite getting a glass of wine, I went and asked in the pizza place adjoining The Purty Kitchen could we order some... well, pizza. It was fast turning into a scene from Duck Soup by The Marx Brothers set sur mer in south county Dublin of a particularly sunny afternoon.

The lovely, young hipster behind the counter of Shovelhead Pizza told me that the ovens were only warming up and that we could not get food until 5pm. How difficult is to make pizza? Almost as difficult to get a drink in Monkstown village it seems.

Despairing, I rang That’s Amore in the village and managed to get a table for 5pm there. So after our one glass of wine in The Purty Kitchen, we retraced our steps back to Monkstown Village. It was worth the trek. Monkstown on Wednesday at 5pm was like the Mediterranean. There was more than a bit of heat in the sun, and we didn’t need the chic wool blankets that the manager of That’s Amore provided us with.

Basking in the glow of the warm autumnal sunshine, munching on pizza, you wouldn’t have swapped Monkstown in a magical moment like this for practically anywhere in the world.

We sat outside in the village and had a glass of wine and pizza until the sun went down and the full moon appeared in the sky over Dublin Bay with Howth floating on the sea behind it.

Woozy with Italian vino, I imagined swimming out to the sea, all the way from the Forty Foot to the beach in front of Larry Mullen’s house in Howth. (A quick digression. I used to live in Howth Lodge across the bay. Everyone in Howth spoke very highly of Larry and what a great and remarkably grounded guy he was.)

Two days later on Friday, my adorable niece, Skye, turned eight.

Even for one so young, Skye reminds me so much of my late mother Maureen.

On occasions, it is like my Skye is challenging the spirit of Maureen when she says something to her big brother Zack, to invariably gently but firmly put him in his place, or say something with a certain tone of brilliant indifference that only my mother could have matched.

Skye is an amazing young kid. She plays GAA and football, loves Guns N’ Roses, is a whizz on the trampoline and at gymnastics, and making cupcakes that Nigella Lawson would marvel at.

Little Einstein Skye also has a great mind on matters as diverse as movies and books and life as an eightyear-old.

She will be a future president of Ireland — or America — if her equally brilliant brother Zack doesn’t get there first. Or maybe Skye will end up in Aras an Uachtarain (with a trampoline in the back garden) and Zack will emerge in the White House as the commander-in-chief with a penchant for Sponge Bob Square Pants and coding.

When I mentioned my late mother and Skye earlier, there was a bitter-sweet reason for this.

My first memory of Skye was the day she was born in Mount Carmel and my mother holding this beautiful newborn baby in her arms in a hospital chair with the sunlight coming in through the window.

It was like my mother had waited for Skye to be born, because the following afternoon my mother passed away eight years ago. Happy birthday, Skye. Miss you, mum.