Since time immemorial, we are built to wander. Ever since Neanderthal man( or woman!) had the impulse to amble over from the soggier mudflats to slightly more clement mudflats (complete with south- facing hut ; a literal stones throw from the tar pit), we humans seek to roam.

Now, earlier this month, I enjoyed my Warhol-esque 15 mins of media fame, (an inevitable conclusion to this fine body of work and long overdue) during which I partook in a  series of radio  interviews to explain, in media friendly soundbites what the heck I was doing. More than once, I was introduced as “mad”/  a mad lad  / ” a bad lad off his head” and my personal fav “some guy on a mommy and daddy funded alcoholic road trip” .I was initially surprised by how radical my itinerant rambling seemed to others and struggled to see how travel could not be the priority of any sentient being. Since starting this blog in 2017, a sense of purpose has been imbued in my voyaging, an impetus that I hope may further humankind’s understanding of our shared human experience , through a prism of crisps , pint-tinted glasses with some indoor road signs. Though I acknowledge I have a certain amount of privilege to be able to do this, I am in no way the progenitor of such flights of fancy. 200 years previously , such jaunts were the preserve of the learned Regency aristocracy of Great Britain as they undertook what became known as “The Grand Tour”. 

Beginning in the late 17th Century ,  pampered rotten shits of the landed gentry would head off to “do Europe” on some pretentious precursor to the gap year, taking in primarily the cultures of the Renaissance Mediterranean , cause that’s where bare culture was. These Milords  would commission portraits as souvenirs, write of their travels, produce drippy literature that attested to their sensitive souls and ultimately come of age as men of the world. Much like the later incarnations of the British Lads Lads Lads trip, they too would seek to imbibe and fornicate their way around the Med, in this case with  Florence taking the place of Shagaluf. The tradition ended with the Napoleonic Wars and the invention of the steam engine allowing any old pleb go, thus ruining it for these dandies.

The concept of the Grand Tour was put to print by a British priest called Richard Lassel, where in he  listed four areas in which travel furnished “an accomplished, consummate Traveller: the intellectual, the social, the ethical (by the opportunity of drawing moral instruction from all the traveller saw) and the political”.  All boxes ticked by this blog , I’m sure you’ll agree.* ( * not 100% sure on the ethical )
The more you read the descriptions of the Grand  Tour, the more the parallels to Publican Enemy become abundantly clear;
“ The typical 18th-century stance was that of the studious observer ( in this case, Me ) travelling through foreign lands reporting his findings on human nature for those unfortunates who stayed at home( that’s ye )”, where “recounting one’s observations to society at large to increase its welfare was considered an obligation .Oh , and one should also do well to pick up a whimsical fridge magnet if pos ” .

It is hard to directly compare the mundanity of modern budget- airline travel to the romance of antediluvian pre-rail transport, but in some cases these hoors-on-tour  were literally carried over mountains by their servants, so I think the taking of a quick Uber is dignified by comparison. Verily, I aim to take up the torch of the Grand Tour in 2023, so allow me be your learned Cicerone as I flaneur across the cultural centres of the Med( as it bakes in the hottest temperatures ever that is not global warming.) I shall report all I see so that I may titillate with tales of wonder and awe.

PART 1: Par for the Corse:
First stop on this voyage of sagaciousness is to the mysterious rugged isle of Corsica, making this country no 42 on my list !!That is whether you count Corsica as French, which it is, but also kind of isn’t. Corsica has been officially  French for over 200 years , but for centuries it was Italian , or specifically Genovese. We head initially for the resort of Calvi, a curious nook on the northern seaboard. The main reason we chose Calvi is that the flight is a £100 cheaper than all other locales. This is apparently due to one man  –Vladimir Raitz. Now, Vladimir is not an influential travel blogger, carefully sharing meticulously curated content conveniently obscuring the rampant social ills of mass tourism , no . Raitz invented Calvi tourism , prompting the building of the airport and indeed the concept of the  package holiday itself. He’s presumably in Hell now, so there’s not a huge amount of info on him , but I did find this quote in his obituary that I enjoyed;

“ I take little physical exercise, my body is merely a vehicle for my head”

Raitz’ idea was specifically the all inclusive package holiday , setting up flights from London to Calvi with all included for the princely sum of £35 pounds. Raitz’ ideal target market was that most noble and learned of professions , where their skills, knowledge and moral fibre are exactly inverse to their fiduciary capacity – Teachers, so there is a nice symmetry that I should follow his route! Calvi is a curio though , despite its small stature, it lays claim to some impressive factoids.
Firstly, avid column-percher Lord Rear Admiral Horatio Nelson lost his eye in Calvi when he forgot to take the tiny umbrella out of his 12th banana daiquiri on a particularly boozy eve. No, he was actually storming the Bastion that dominates the coast here and viewable from the lovely beach nearby. (Good choice Vlad!)
Apparently , THE Christopher Columbus (of genocide fame) was from here as well , one of the many million places that appear to claim him. Though his spiritual home apparently was Galway, which he visited twice, and perhaps, after a particular hard night on the Buckfast, its excessive caffeine content propelled him arseways  across the Atlantic, seaward to the new world. Speculation, sure, but an enduring image.

In the midst of these identity crises, we have perhaps the apt “Loch Ness Irish Pub”.  Expectations for this one were mixed to be honest . To help explain this anomaly, we do know the Roman word for the Irish people was Scotti ,until years later it became exclusively for our Jockish cousins .Perhaps this pub is a nod  to this Dal Riada, the joint kingdom spanning Ulster and the West Highlands of Scotia in the early Christian period? Perhaps not. So amidst all these identity crises, perhaps Loch Ness can be Irish?  After a mild case of sun stroke during a jaunty hike, I return to Calvi to locate Loch Ness. Alas, it appears to be closed , proving as elusive as the beast what dwells in its namesake. However persistence pays off, and on return on day 2, it is indeed open! What to say about Loch Ness ? How to sum up its visage using mere words?

Its fine. First things first, its not an Irish pub. It’s an Irish homage pub. It’s a pastiche of an Irish pub. (At what point does homage become pastiche?) On the reviews off of Google, the owner himself states ( see pic below) :

So it’s in the style of an Irish bar – i.e. go order at the bar. Digging deeper,  according to the very nice bar staff, its a pub “in the classic style of the United Kingdom”.  Being appropriately triggered , and after spending the following 45-50 minutes explaining the key events of the 800 Irish struggle for independence , I decided to order a delicious booze drink. Turns out Loch Ness has no beers on tap, and  they are, alas, out of Guinness, so I settle for a delicious Napo Beer in honour of the most notorious Napo baby, Napoleonè. Napoleon was Corsican born, but famously French bred, but he remains a favoured son of the island. I leave Loch Ness and its Crypto-pubology in the mists of time, with its car on the ceiling and its extensive beer collection, its pool table and its 90’s Britpop soundtrack and head for the next leg of the journey. Loch Ness is a Jock Success , so gets 3.5 bags of Taytos out of 5.

Lovely Bastiards :
We head on a tiny picturesque train across the island next to Bastia, one of the bigger towns with more shabby real-life charm than the over priced Calvi. Now, two important pub-related happenings occur on Bastia. Firstly, if you search for Irish pubs Bastia on google, you get sent to a random shack out of town, which kind of looks as if someone had devised a none too elaborate trap specifically just to lure me in and mug me ( see pic) .

So there is no actual Irish Pub here, despite its idyllic port side setting, so in this event I fall back on the next best option , the pirate based pub, Blackbeard’s Tavern. Blackbeard’s is a metal pub, with surly bar lady and pickled shot jars lining the bar as expected. A local Bastiard (?) lad tells us how if you flick your bottle cap into a goblet suspended from the roof , you win a free mystery shot!! In possibly the coolest thing I have ever done in my life, both Bella and I flick the caps in with a satisfying clink, then lose all street cred by asking for a lychee liquor. This young Bastiard is lacking functional English so proceeds to communicate in the Corse local dialect / language, a kind of Italian-French hybrid  vernacular. What becomes very clear despite my limited understanding, is that he don’t care much for the mainland French, a sentiment that is echoed in graffiti all over Bastia and is clearly bubbling under amongst the youth of the town, like a continental Derry , where contemporary tourism collides with separatist sentiment , an uneasy marriage , tensions bubbling under the surface. “Santé” we say , as we cheers him .”No, no, in Corse we don’t say this – we say Salute” . On the way to the main square, we see a hench statue of Napoleon , or Napoleonè, his real name until he changed it to sound more French as he abandoned his Corsican roots .

PART II : When in Rome…….
A short flight across the Tyrrhenian sea ( during which I was able to see Elba ) we head for the might of Rome! The Eternal City ! Capital of the ancient world! the Big Carbonara. Rome of course was  famously built by the Romans,  over a period of a few centuries. The thing about the ancient Romans is that they never got to Ireland,getting the ick and labelling us  Hibernia , the land of Winter which must have been a nightmare for the proto-Christian tourist board. To be fair , the name  isn’t far off given this Summer of 2023.  And seeing as, in contrast  its 40 degrees there and hot as a bastard it may not have been to their liking.

The first recorded Roman mention of Ireland was Ptolemy’s  Geography map of  AD150. Not to slag off one of the fathers of cartography, but  it looks like he drew it blindfolded with his left hand having been described what Ireland might look like by someone who’s cousin had seen Ireland from the back of a speeding chariot during a hailstorm. Pthanks Ptolemy.

Despite the lack of Roman interest in ancient Ireland, in modern day the Romans love an old Tabernas  Hiberiensis , with over 10 sites in the greater metropolitan area. Friends , romans countrymen , sell me your beers !
To honour this illustrious conurbation, for the first time in recorded history , I will attempt to visit the Seven Pubs in one day in  the Centro historico of Rome . Temperatures linger in the high 30s , but in the only actual useful  travel advice  I will ever give, Rome has abundant water fountains, so take them flasks people . What gives me immeasurable pleasure is that between each pub, you are assailed by some of antiquities’ finest monuments , casually strewn about the modern city ,a testament to its colossal  power ,wealth and influence ( include reference to  Bray here )  .

First up is the Abbey theatre, a pub named after the Abbey Theatre covered in mementoes and posters from yes, the Abbey Theatre. The Abbey Theatre is a solid 3/5 , its fine but doesn’t linger in the memory and so the show must go on. On leaving the Abbey Theatre, before the next stop, Scholar’s Lounge, you get to stop off at the Largo Argentina, to see the spot where ( Spoiler Alert) Julius Caesar was merked repeatedly. This is the wonder of what I do, combining  classical high culture with the mundane; one moment observing the power of  Imperial Rome, the next listening to  Maniac 2000 in the bosom of my culchie brethren. And speaking of plebs rustica , there are many , as today is a momentous day- the Finale do Campione D’Irlanda (All -Ireland Final) between the forces of righteousness, Kerry and the evil empire of Dublin. Both of the first two pubs I reach, in preparation for the match, have RTE2 on , showing what appears to be the 1994 remake of the Little Rascals. This adds a layer of confusion to proceedings as it is beamed onto big screens , perhaps leading foreigners to believe that the watching of Little Rascals is key to Irish culture and a central pre-ritual of Gaelic Games. Scholar’s lounge is the biggest and brashest pub of all, and is full of real life Irish people waiting for the game .” Watch how they pull that Guinness, its pure shite” warns a pinkened, middle-aged, -Dublin -Jersey wearing centurion. Scholars has won a couple of Best Irish pubs in the world awards , which I have ever heard of (narrowly beating Loch Ness ,of Calvi) . It’s a 3.75 from me.

Next on the list is Trinity College, located aptly in the fancypants Pigna district . Trinity is in a lovely old building and seems like a nice spot, but it’s surprisingly dead, so tempus fugit, and we head after a swift half. Rome may not have been built in a day, but I’m hoping all of its pubs can be visited in one.  Next stop is the leafy Shamrock Bar, in the shadow of the colosseum .Drinking a pint in the shadow of this landmark seems like a lifetime achievement unlocked, and perhaps after I will have time to partake in the age old tourist tradition of carving my stupid initials on this totem of humanities’ commercialised brutality.  Recently, a British tourist did just that, sparking a man hunt from the Roman authorities. His excuse, entering the Pantheon of shit excuses, was ” he didn’t know how old it actually was”. Its a Colosseum mate, where gladiators fought to the death. Did he think it was still being used? Did he think next week Christians feat. The lions would opening for Harry Styles? I don’t know what happened to the guy in the end, but it would have been thumbs down from me I can tell you.

The colosseum is thronged, but to lessen the tourist numbers ,on the hour, two lucky ticket holders are chosen at random to fight to the death for the benefit of the organised Summer School trips, with dozens of under10’s baying for blood and the clash of steal and bone. Or so I suggested to the tour guides. Shamrock Bar is an excellent bar, with a nice unassuming entrance and a cascade of football scarfs from various visiting teams . I have a piccola Guinness and its tip-top, but there is one crucial error- instead of showing the All- Ireland Final, all TVs are showing Formula 1, the most boring sport of all time and a marked step down from the sheer passion, excitement and drama of the Little Rascals remake. This mortal sin has to count against Shamrock Bar , so I award it a 4/5 with a thumbs up so it may live to fight another day.

Last on the list, in the neighbourhood of Monti are the 2 originals of the Roman Pub scene, the Fiddler’s Elbow and The Druid’s Lounge. The Fiddlers Elbow becomes a firm fav, its cosy windy interior and cavernous appearance gives it a local pub vibe in contrast to Scholar’s Lounge . I order a Guinness with a bag of Republican Taytos ( Smokey Bacon). ‘Excellent choice‘ says the barman. “When in Rome”...I reply, having readied the use of the phrase for the right occasion over the past 3 days. Now, while the small matter of the All Ireland is going on, a local Roman Darts tournament is really hotting up at the back of the pub. There’s a leader board ,a convoluted league table ,an audience, a compere, fans, all far more engrossed in this modern day gladiatorial bout that some obscure Irish game .Shouts from Dublin fans are echoed and mirrored by the Roman lads when someone does a good darts (I never truly understood darts, beyond the fact that you throw it at the thing). But for me, this is what an Irish pub should be, a place for Irish People abroad but also a local pub where you can get a Guinness and hang out. It’s a 5/5 from me. I leave the Fiddlers Elbow with 5 minutes of the game left, with the aim of watching the crescendo in their sister pub ,The Druids Lounge 5 minutes around the corner.
Alas, the Druids Lounge for some reason is not open yet. Again the arbitrary opening times for pubs have hampered my best laid plans, so after 7 pubs and 4.5 pints of the finest/ averagest porters Rome has to offer , I head home to learn that the plebs rustica have been defeated by the plebs urbanus. However, we have succeeded in visiting the 7 pubs of Rome, a new record in one day, seeing the sights and remaining thoroughly hydrated and relatively un-sunburnt. Veni, vidi and indeed vici! And a big thank you to our own Cicerone, il Grande Derek for his generous hosting and invaluable local knowledge ,

Part 3 : Bologna: Red Med Redemption.
The final leg of our cultural wanderings take us to the key stopovers of the grand tour , the northern City of Bologna. Bologna is where all food was invented. Before that who knows what they did. Culturally, it is a city of learning and of ham, 2 of my favs ,so it is with high hopes we venture forth.
Bologna has a distinctive look, draped in burnt orange and famed for its porticoes, elaborate alcoves that line the streets. Once you become accustomed to walking beneath these alcoves, you’ll never enjoy walking exposed to the elements like a common mongrel , so illustrious are they. Bologna is amazing in that , one of the main tourist attractions is eating the food, kind of like in Dublin where going to a pub is seen as a tourist treat . They invented all the big hitters- pastas, cheeses, hams, salamis , piadinas, ragu, dolmio, old el paso, and all for prices that suit their leftist leanings. Solidarity!

Bologna is famously a university city, having impressively also invented Universities as well . The Uni has a daunting role of past alumni ; Dante of the Divine Comedy fame being one , and a fantastic fresco of one of the seven circles of hell adorns the local Cathedral. For $5, you can see a hellish Beelzebub eat and shite out sinners, (including one so controversial armed guards have to stay put outside the Church.) Google it yourselves. Erasmus was also there, on what he arrogantly called a ” Me year”. Others include Copernicus, Enzo Ferrari, Marconi, Pasolini, Petrarch, Pier Luigi Collina, Umberto Eco, noted Irish Plague doctor Niall O Glacain, Laura Bassi and a heap o’ popes. The only ‘celeb’ who went to my Uni was Enda Kenny. Bologna has a history of Leftist sentiment and innovation, as well as having loads of students, making it a top spot for nightlife. I can only imagine that on the site of these Irish pubs , Dante once may have done 2 x 1 Jaegerbombs, Copernicus’s head spinning wildly as he stumbled on home after too many ales and Umberto Eco with his top off , swinging it ’round his head yelling pints pints pints.

In amidst all this unbridled gastronomy , craftsmanship and acuity, what of the pubs? There are a few in Bologna , and expectations are high. The first is The Clurichane, a great name for a pub, matched by its sumptuous surroundings and its tasty pintage. One thing I really like about Italian- Irish pubs is that, in order to preserve the classic façades of the historic buildings, the entrances are really understated and don’t have big massive signs screaming “TOP O’ DE MORNIN TO YE from Seamus O Reilly’s Craicfactory”. Just nice little portals to a magical world. The Clurichane, named after a spritely divil who haunts breweries and whatnot, is a classy joint, no mistake- its a solid 4/5 .
The second pub of Bologna is the Celtic Druid .The Druid is a great example of a foreign Irish pub, in that it is primarily for locals and students as distinct from being the exclusive haunts of ex-pats and reddened tourists. Almost everyone is Italian in here . So is it Irish? It has Harp, Bulmer’s, Smithwicks on tap, its wooden AF and they even do a Celtic Spritz, a glass of Bulmer’s with a glug of Apperol which is banging. Where the Irish pub becomes the alternative pub is the sweet spot , and the Celtic Druid is busy almost every night. I tell the barman that I really like this place ,and show him pictures of this blog and website , telling him of my mission. ‘Oh shit man’ he says apologetically , ‘let me fix your Guinness‘, and he takes back the pint he had pulled, reduces the head, tops it up again, wipes down the glass and hands it to me with reverence. I’ve truly made it. Lamentably, there is one final Irish pub, The Irish Times, with an amazing wee bar front and a fab mural- however it has closed for 2 weeks for the Ferragosto when all Italy goes on a quick hol. Couldn’t imagine a pub in Ireland deciding to close for 2 weeks, but we must respect tradition.

So a new record for pubs has been reached in one sitting. Like the Grand Tour of old, I recount my tale here for you, to record and impart wisdom gleaned from my wanderings as best I can.. One last point – on the grand tour, it was tradition to bring back commissioned souvenirs of high art, like views of Venice, which I believe I have done with this haul of a cool  tortellini key ring and Sexy Priest 2024 Calendar( see below) Having experienced a rapid succession of Irish pubs , rating them for posterity, other travellers can hopefully follow in my footsteps. Or for those less inclined to travel but still wishing to learn more about what I have spoken of, they are repeating the Little Rascals on iplayer .