Well, it’s not actually my snug. No one owns a snug. A feature of the old Irish pubs, the snug was a small portion of the bar that was closed off from the public but within hailing distance of the curate pulling pints. It usually had a separate entrance, allowing a customer, male or female, to come and go unobserved by the rest of the punters, thus providing some privacy for those who wanted a quiet drink or a bit of tête-à-tête. There were times and circumstances, however, when the sung could get quite crowded, like the one in Hartigan’s Pub on Lower Leeson Street in Dublin. Years ago University College was located a few blocks away on Earlsfort Terrace just off St. Stephan’s Green. After meetings of the University’s combined history departments, the thirsty scholars (myself included), often reconvened in Hartigan’s tiny snug, a.k..a. “The Horse Stall.” to the consternation of the ould wan in the corner nursing her gin and tonic.

 Anyway, the snug is a good place for a bit craic, a song or two, and a few good books. Speaking of which, let’s start with Gearóid Ó hAllmhuráin’s recent book,   The Flowing Tides.  

Also, please take a look at my appreciation and remembrance of the late Irish poet Macdara Woods. 

For the Holiday season you might want to read “SHOO-FLY PIE: an Essay and a Recipe.”

For the first chapter of my never-to-be-written third novel, see Fiona, A Sequel.