Back in September, I noted the reappearance in Dublin of The Burton: once again occupying the corner of Duke Street and Duke Lane, 120 years after Leopold Bloom gave it a review that, repeated on Tripadvisor today, would have put the place out of business.
In fact, the original Burton had closed anyway by the time Joyce’s Ulysses appeared in 1922, complete with Bloom’s 1904 visit, in which – via the novel’s Homeric parallel – the venue’s clientele are transformed into a cannibalistic tribe called the Lestrygonians.
The sights and smells of the male, meat-eating customers so disgust Joyce’s latter-day Odysseus that he turns temporarily vegetarian and changes plans for lunch: having a cheese sandwich next door in Davy Byrne’s instead.
A century later, of course, even a negative mention in Ulysses is a thing to celebrate. So it was that in September, a gleaming new Burton had been born again on the site, with an impressive mural of Bloom on the side.
But passing it daily since then, I wondered why it hadn’t opened yet. The refurbishment was complete, the interior furnished to an opulent tee. There were even menus on the tables. The place was all dressed up, waiting for someone to say go.
Recently, Christmas decorations had been added to the windows. And yet, as they say in the theatre, the house was dark. There was still no Bloom at the inn.
So, passing it again earlier this week, I saw the name of the project architects on the planning notice and, curiosity getting the better of me, gave them a call.
It turns out that the delay is because the company involved is still awaiting a licence. This has taken longer than expected, clearly, and a pre-Christmas opening is now unlikely. I just hope the ghost of Burton’s most famous non-customer has not entered an objection.
***
But it was funny I should ring, Garrett O’Neill said, because I had come up in conversation recently. A friend or colleague had commented on his habit of using the phrase to “write in” to certain people or places, as opposed to just “write”.
The friend thought this eccentric. Garrett, however, considered it correct usage. “You don’t just write to The Irish Times or Joe Duffy – you write in,” he told me. “So I said I might write in to Frank McNally and ask him to comment.”
I hadn’t thought about this before, somehow, but it set me wondering about other such prepositions. By similar logic, when replying to readers, I suppose I am writing out from The Irish Times. But you never say that, for some reason. The only things I’ve ever written out, consciously, were lines in school, as a punishment.
Of course, I write things down all the time (notes usually). Then I write them up – always in that order. And I’ve written off a few things too over the years, although – touch wood – so far, none has been a car.
***
Referring to another old Dublin pub recently, The Flowing Tide, I suggested its name derived from proximity to the Liffey. Since then, several readers have written (in) to correct me. It seems that, in fact, the name comes from a metaphor for Home Rule, used once by British prime minister William Gladstone.
Colman O’Sullivan refers me to the book Liberalism Under the Union by JL McCracken which mentions the pub and says its name was “adopted in the latter half of the 19th century by the then owner from a speech Gladstone made in which he claimed the flowing tide of liberal opinion would make Home Rule a certainty”.
Gladstone was wrong, alas. Unlike King Canute, the House of Lords succeeded in stopping the tide – twice. Then, even with diminished powers in 1912, it delayed the third Home Rule Bill long enough for it to be overtaken by the first World War.
This proved fatal for the metaphor and – almost – for the pub, which in a poignant irony was hit by a shell meant for the GPO in 1916. But the business survived, and the name did too. Long divorced from its origins, the pub flows on regardless.
***
My thanks also to Kit O’Sullivan, daughter of the late Charlie Lenihan, for a footnote to the saga of the Taxpayers’ News, the Kerry newspaper once edited by Con Houlihan.
As mentioned last week, its legal problems began with a charge of slander over comments Lenihan made about a fellow county councillor in 1957. Lenihan then repeated the comments in print, via a late amendment to his monthly paper, added unbeknown to the editor.
Houlihan, who resigned in protest, would later say that the 1958 libel case closed the title down: “It lingered on for a few months and died quietly.”
But Kit offers two clarifications. First, she insists, there was no libel case. It was a charge of slander only, brought against Lenihan in person, not against The Taxpapers’ News. That might be a moot point had the damages closed the operation anyway. Contrary to Con, however, Kitt also points out the paper continued publishing until May 1961, a full three years afterwards.
