You never own a place like Roche’s. The pub, built on rural Irish bogland – the reason for its recent renaming of The Sinking Pub – is simply under your care for as long as you let it. Erected in the late 1800s, the pub has been gradually sinking for more than a century. The roads leading there have a Space Mountain-like texture and the glasses are slanted, which means that the air passing through is somewhat reduced even for Fanta drinkers. It’s perhaps this effect that keeps customers of all stripes – including Ryder Cup champions, The Rolling Stones and Van Morrison – coming back. There’s something ethereal and Western about an inn whose foundations have succumbed to the ways of Earth and a handful of regulars tend to resist the pull of modern life. “Strange point,” reflected one former participant who wished to remain anonymous. “I was there years ago and was intrigued to see the marks on the ceiling of the men’s dowries. Whether beast or man, I can’t be too sure.”
Roche’s is located on a stretch of regional road in Derrycrib, a rural town in Kildare. 0.96 square miles which former publican Maura Roche once called “the most abandoned place on earth”. In earlier days, wooden beer barrels were pulled by donkey and cart. The place itself boasts a storied history; to the south, the Battle of Prosperous was sparked in the Rebellion of 1798 and nearby Timahoe was visited by President Nixon in search of his ancestors in 1970. Most of these notable events are represented on the walls of the pub – trophies, mugs, flags and photos of former Roman patrons, as well as former winners, the Championship floats on the peat fire, with newspaper clippings featuring the pub neatly framed over the hearth. The attraction for all who head to Roche’s – and, of course, the journey is an undertaking – is undoubtedly the indifference of rural life and the frivolous nature of working to live rather than living to work. “For the staff,” the smiling barwoman told me, “it’s like walking up and down a hill to serve customers… Put a marble on the ground and it will roll in the direction of the M4.”
Depending on who you ask, County Kildare is either Ireland’s answer to Kentucky, an Anglo-Irish stronghold (once the home of Arthur Guinness) or, according to Redditsomewhere you wouldn’t go twice for a weekend break. Derrycrib, by contrast, is famous for a number of less exciting but undeniably important things; school-age children driving tractors, a newsagent selling everything from beach balls to Mass cards, and, indeed, the Sinking Pub, a space that represents an Ireland not yet encumbered by the Criminal Law or the motorway. (Although Dublin City is only an hour away, there could be less of a difference between Swindon and Beirut.) It has been this way for at least 70 years, according to Joe*, whose mother was born above the pub in 1907. During this time, the building was owned by the Carroll family, who ran a pub, a feed house, a bachelor farm and pig shops around. (Carroll’s original sign now hangs on the wall of Roche’s bar.) “My grandfather, during that time, used to go to Dublin once a month to get supplies,” Joe said. “We know he took the train from Sallins (19km away), but God knows how he brought it all back.”
In 1953, the Carrolls sold the pub to Jackie Roche and his wife Maura, a King’s College graduate and daughter of a Suffragette whose heart took her to very acid ground. Maura, who ran the pub, brought a certain elegance to the area, soon attracting seated ambassadors and members of the chattering classes for comfortable leather dips. Both then and now, the pub’s location encouraged a certain degree of desperation and rule-bending, prompting local rumors to go from smirks to suggesting everything from closures to low-budget porn films to Martin McDonagh-level violence taking place within the pub’s doors over the years. The locals also point, with a dark and archaic whimsy, to Maura’s acerbic wit. “As rumor goes, a film director came here in the early 1980s to direct some blue films, – said Deirdre*, a local resident I’ll teach these grazers a thing or two. That was, before Maura cut him down for size. “Do you think you invented sex?” she barked at him. “Because it existed long before you, and it will exist after you’re gone.”
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The late 1950s in Ireland were defined by severe economic hardship and high unemployment, causing Roche to fall on hard times. In a last-ditch effort to stay green, the pub underwent an electrical installation, plugging in a jukebox that apparently sparked something of a social revolution in the area. That initial innovation, and perhaps a genuine fear of ducking under the weed, has managed to keep the doors open and the pints rolling in at Roche ever since – despite social change, new owners, austerity and archaic public licensing laws. “When the Ryder Cup was at the K Club in 2006, the US team was sent to Roche’s on a hookup night,” one regular told me. “They were disgusted and left for Shelbourne immediately. The next night, the European team was brought here as their first stop, with plans to leave in case the same thing happened again. Except this time… they never left.” (Several sources also confirmed that Rory McIlroy was spotted at Roche after his recent Irish Open win. However, one woman, sipping a Sauvignon Blanc at the bar, insisted on a fact-check because, “You’d never know, it could be HIM.”)
Today’s Roche is far from a pub in trouble; four electric car charging points are located in the back, you can order Norma vegetarian pasta in the restaurant, and WiFi is available for those looking to watch the arrows while submitting expenses. Patrons are a healthy mix of locals and tourists, and conversation only occasionally veers toward color; namely a who’s who of “dirty eejits” and the regular “thank god we’re not in Dublin” affirmation. Natives act as personal guardians. “It’s almost a pub for people,” says Deirdre. “It doesn’t really matter who the official owner is… It’s about the people, whoever they are.”
It’s easy to draw a line between the importance of the Irish pub and alcoholism. However, for at least two centuries the pub has been as important to the social fabric of Ireland as bakeries in France and kebab shops in Turkey. All the great events of life are marked in these places; birthdays, deaths, marriages, meetings, rescues, shelters… And they happen to serve alcoholic beverages. “I know men who, in the 70s and 80s, gave almost their entire pension to their owners every month,” says Deirdre*. “Because they would serve them dinner, drink, and even a bed for the night. Without that, they could never have seen reason to get out of bed.” The downside of this misconception is that pub numbers are dwindling, and fast. Ask any Irish person and they will be able to list a number of former institutions, institutions that shaped the way we celebrate and mourn, that never survived the pandemic.
Roche’s, a space that is literally falling apart on the ground, exists in spite of this. According to a lawyer’s report from new buyers in 2018, Roche’s has another 229 years before the ground below swallows him whole. The locals oppose this. “I’ve never felt it drop once,” a customer tells me in a curious, flat, rounded accent. “Though ask me after some of them (he points to an indiscernible brown liquid) and I might say otherwise.” Both the client and the pub are working with essentially declining materials, and yet, dare to dream. It strikes me that perhaps this is the basis of Roche’s appeal. It just invites us to come in and have a good time. Because none of us will live forever.
(Further reading: The Everyman: movie theaters make bad restaurants)
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