The sinking pub that won’t go under

You never really own a place like Roche’s. The pub, built on rural Irish bogland – the reason behind its recent rebrand to “The Sinking Pub” – is merely under your custodianship for as long as it allows. Erected in the late 1800s, the pub has been gradually sinking for over a century. Roads leading there are Space Mountain-like in structure and glasses sit at a tilt, meaning a certain tipsiness permeates the air even for those drinking Fanta. It is perhaps this effect that keeps patrons of all kinds – including Ryder Cup champions, The Rolling Stones and Van Morrison – coming back. There’s something ethereal and westward about an inn whose foundations have succumbed to the ways of the Earth, and whose handful of regulars tend to resist the pull of modern life. “Strange spot that,” reflected one former attendee who wished to remain anonymous. “I was there years back and was intrigued to see footprints on the ceiling of the men’s jacks. Whether beast or man, I can’t be too sure.”

Roche’s is located on a stretch of regional road in Derrycrib, a rural Kildare townland of 0.96 square miles that former publican Maura Roche once called “the most Godforsaken place on Earth.” In its earlier days, wooden kegs of beer were hauled by ass and cart. The locale itself boasts a storied history; to the south, the Battle of Prosperous raged in the 1798 Rebellion, and nearby Timahoe was visited by President Nixon by way of his ancestral search in 1970. Much of these notable events are represented on the pub’s walls – trophies, jugs, flags and photos of former patrons, including Ronnie Wood and former winners of the Turf-Cutting Championships, float above the peat fire, with newspaper cuttings featuring the pub framed neatly above the hearth. The pull for all who venture to Roche’s – and, certainly, the trip is a venture – is undeniably the indifference of rural life, and the unserious nature of working to live rather than living to work. “For staff,” the smiling bar woman told me, “it’s like walking up and down a hill to serve customers… Set a marble on the ground, and it’ll 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 home to Arthur Guinness) or, according to Reddit, somewhere 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 that sells everything from beach balls to Mass cards, and, indeed, The Sinking Pub, a space which represents an Ireland not yet burdened by Penal Law or motorways. (Though Dublin City sits just one hour away, less of a difference might exist between Swindon and Beirut.) It’s been that 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 grocery, a farm and a “long, single-storey house” with cattle, hens and pigs all around. (The original Carroll’s sign now hangs on Roche’s bar wall.) “My grandfather, during that time, went to Dublin once a month to pick up supplies,” Joe said. “We know he took the train from Sallins [19km away] but God knows how he brought everything back.”

In 1953, Carrolls sold the pub to Jackie Roche and his wife Maura, a King’s College graduate and daughter of a Suffragette whose heart led her to highly acidic ground. Maura, who ran the pub, brought a certain elegance to the area, soon attracting sitting ambassadors and members of the chattering classes to sinking leather snugs. Both then and now, the pub’s location encouraged a certain degree of divilment and rule-bending, causing local gossip from side-of-mouth smiles to suggest everything from lock-ins to low-budget pornographic films to Martin McDonagh-level violence taking place over the years within the pub’s doors. Locals also tell, with a dark and archaic whimsy, of Maura’s acerbic wit. “As the rumour goes, a film director came down here in the early 1980s to direct some blue movies,” Deirdre*, a local resident shared. “He kind of had an air of I’ll teach these culchies 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 will do after you’re gone, too.”

The late 1950s in Ireland were defined by severe economic hardship and high unemployment, leading Roche’s to fall into hard times. In a last-ditch attempt at staying in the green, the pub underwent an electricity installation, connecting a jukebox that seemingly caused something of a social revolution in the area. This ground-up innovation, and perhaps the literal fear of sinking beneath the weeds, has managed to keep doors open and pint glasses sliding at Roche’s since then – despite social change, new owners, austerity and archaic pub licensing laws. “When the Ryder Cup was at the K Club in 2006, the American team were taken to Roche’s on a bonding night,” a regular told me. “They were disgusted, and left for The Shelbourne straight away. The next night, the European team were 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 in Roche’s following his recent Irish Open win. However, one woman, drinking a Sauvignon Blanc at the bar insisted upon a fact check, because, “You’d never feckin’ know, that could be AI.”)

Today’s Roche’s is a far cry from a pub in trouble; four electric car charging points sit in the back, you can order vegetarian Norma pasta in the restaurant and WiFi is available for those looking to watch the darts while submitting expenses. Patrons are a healthy mix of locals and tourists and chatter only occasionally tends towards the colourful; namely the who’s who of “fuckin’ eejits” and the regular affirmation of “thank God we’re not in Dublin.” The locals act as personal custodians. “It’s nearly a people’s pub,” says Deirdre. “It doesn’t really matter who the official owner is… It’s for the people, whoever they may be.”

It’s easy to draw a line between the importance of the Irish pub to alcoholism. However, for at least two centuries, the pub has been as important to the social fabric of Ireland as bakeries to France and kebab shops to Turkey. All of life’s great events are marked in these places; birthdays, deaths, marriages, meetings, rescues, hideouts… And it just so happens that they serve booze. “I know of men who, back in the 70s and 80s, would give almost their entire pension to the owners each month,” Deirdre* says. “Because they would serve them dinner, drinks and even a bed for the night. Without that, they might never have seen reason to get out of bed.” The downside to this misunderstanding is that pub numbers are dwindling, and fast. Ask any Irish person, and they’ll be able to list a number of former establishments, establishments that shaped the way we celebrate and mourn, which never survived the pandemic. 

Roche’s, a space that is literally dissolving into the ground, exists in spite of this. According to a solicitor’s report from new buyers in 2018, Roche’s has another 229 years before the ground beneath swallows it whole. Locals dispute this. “I’ve never felt it go down once,” a patron tells me with an accent curiously both flat and rounded. “Although ask me after a few more of these (he gestures to an undistinguishable brown liquid) and I might say different.” Both patron and pub alike are working with inherently declining material, and yet, dare to dream. It strikes me then, that perhaps that is the basis of Roche’s appeal. It simply invites us to come in, and have a good time. Because none of us is going to live forever.

[Further reading: The Everyman: cinemas make bad restaurants]