Welcome to The Ballyeffin Inn. This traditional thatched inn is set within the picturesque village of Ballyeffin, on the spectacular Ballyeffin Boglands, the most unbelievable point of Middle Ireland.
‘Original Quaint Olde Worlde Charm’ is exuded in this unique mirage-like 1236 Thatched delight. Steeped in history and at the heart of village life, The Ballyeffin Inn has provided food and respite to weary travellers since the 13th century.
Today, if you are really lucky, you may find a warm welcome from the Innkeeper, Maugra Effin. You’ll could also discover a relaxed, friendly atmosphere, fine locally sourced & award winning rustic food and uncomfortable off-suite accommodation. Well behaved dogs are welcome at the pub. (If you notice a wild looking mutt running, attached to half a chain, and answering to All Hell, we have been looking for him since he broke loose. Please contact a member of staff).
There is plenty of car parking in the bog and a tractor to tow you out (Payment required in advance). Situated in the quaint village site of Ballyeffin, and just a couple of miles from most places a few miles away, The Ballyeffin Inn is an absolute hidden gem. The Inn is widely acclaimed, and frequently in the press, for an ever-increasing variety of un-reportable, but extremely amusing, alleged incidents.
The Inn could possibly be set back from a track, and with an ever-changing view of the marvellous, foreboding, incredible, ominous and uplifting expanse of raised and lowered bog, all draped in an exquisite blanket of heather and bracken and other shit, it is said to be effin’lovely on that one day of summer that is expected every year.
Staffed by an ex-attractive wench and her old crow of a mammy, the Ballyeffin Inn might be the palpitating Heart of Ballyeffin Village, in all seasons, and in all weathers. There is a rustic beer garden to the front underlooking the overlooking track the Inn could be set back from.
This site for sore eyes was constructed in 1236 days as two farm buildings looked on. The industrious Effinites even continued working during the long summer period, those 3.38 sweltering summer days that occurred during construction. Originally built as a jail to house Oliver Cromwell, the Inn fell into disrepair over the intervening 300 or so years as the fired-up locals awaited his imminent arrival. Apparently, when he finally did arrive to the Inn, there was no room. So Cromwell stormed off towards Youghal, and in an absolute huff, apparently, and then proceeded to sack town after town on his way, purely for spiteful reasons, so the rumours at the time said.
Ballyeffin may have received its charter of incorporation in 1209. This incorporation has never been confirmed as the original document was lost during the great piss-up of 1209-1210.
This particular piss-up was undertaken to honour the honour of being endowed with the honour of the still not yet confirmed charter of incorporation. During a lull in festivities a quick search was conducted, because Paddy O’Tumaltaigh had definitely lost a naggin of whiskey. This terrifying and heartbreaking episode soon came to an end. The emergency abated. The golden nectar was found, trodden, unceremoniously, into the Ballyeffin bog beneath their feet. The festivities recommenced immediately and continued unabated, with an eclectic gusto endemic only to Ballyeffinites. The location of the historic piss-up quickly rose to the top three in the Ballyeffin top 10. Subsequently, copious amounts of special occasions were thought up to over-utilise this popular spot in the bog of Ballyeffin.
Over the next 26 years a permanent establishment was talked about incessantly and then, at the start of the 27th year, an old hag had a shocking premonition. It spurred the Ballyeffinites into constructing a jail. The jail was completed with a ‘single-minded determination’; a new type of tool apparently. Then a long wait ensued. Many generations later that effer Cromwell arrived. The rest, they say, is History.
The Ballyeffin Inn became a popular spot for many folk including thatchers, harness makers, coders, programmers and wheelwrights. The Ballyeffin Inn continued to make and sell beer continuously for a long, long, very-very long, time. Construction began of the Grand Canal in 1756. The influx of workmen threatened to overwhelm the Ballyeffin Inn. It was decided to build a wall to keep the buggers out. Subsequently dubbed ‘The Effin Wall’ by All and Sundry Murphy, the greatest shovellers the world had ever saw, the wall became a sign of division and exclusion, and a target for local graffiti artists and other skangers. All Hell then broke loose, from his usually secure chain, and ran away never to be seen again.
Now, several hundred years later, Ballyeffinites still talk about that dog. A lovely, lovely, very lovely, lovely dog, apparently.
In the year of 1804 the construction of the Grand Canal came to a complete halt. It was finished. An American tourist was on a bender at the Ballyeffin Inn. The chef overheard the yank talking to a fellow barfly. “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall,” said the yank. Presently, the evil wall was torn down in an orgy of euphoric demolition. Later on Mr. Gore the Chef, at the Ballyeffin Inn, wondered why, as he pulled painful splinters from his hands whilst cooking a rustic feast for All, Sundry, the Yank, a few Skangers, and the rest of the punters in the Ballyeffin Inn, he had listened to the damn American and tore down the wall. Effin splinters. Then to liven things up the wench and her mammy decided to knock the excise off the price of the beer. Everyone cheered loudly. Then grumbled. For every man and his dog, apart from All Hell, as he had still not returned, knew that the Ballyeffin Inn was, and always had been, a Shebeen.
The wall had been tunnelled under so many times it was like a honeycomb under the boggy surface. After one particularly heavy dose of summer the whole lot collapsed from the incessant rain. That is how the moat came into existence. Errol Raleigh, one of Sir Walters Bastard’s Bastard’s Bastards, started a ferry service on the front door. You could stand six blokes upon it each way, apart from when Fat Jimmy Hart wanted to cross. Errol used to make Fat Jimmy lie on the door, then Errol would sit atop Fat Jimmy’s belly and pull the rope. Errol was always fair and only charged him for a single. A few months later a rumour spread that the Customs and Excise men were on their way so the door was needed to close the Inn. This caused great consternation. After a quick meeting at the Inn it was decided that a lock-in was the best solution. The door was fixed back in place and every man in Ballyeffin stood shoulder to shoulder for the first time, and to this present day only time, in history. The Customs men arrived and couldn’t find a boat to, or a reason to, cross.
To them, the Ballyeffin Inn was a shabby ruin and not fit for anything. To the proud
Ballyeffinites crammed inside it was getting rather stuffy and hot. To cool themselves down they drank a fine local brew.
In 1957 Ballyeffin man Tommy Reely Hay was elected to the County Council. The Ballyeffin Inn was immediately awarded a licence to sell alcohol. This all coincided with a run on brown envelopes in the village. There wasn’t a brown envelope to be had in the whole of Ballyeffin.
Nowadays the Innkeepers, the direct descendants of the original owners, a line that has never been broken, mixed or watered down, unlike the whiskey, do certainly keep a well stocked bar. It is well known locally for the imaginative range of real ales and craft beers. Food, too, is served here. The reputation of The Ballyeffin Inn for serving superb rustic dishes has spread throughout the whole Ballyeffin area. The Ballyeffin Inn is a very popular place. With dodgy skangers, disgraced ex TD’s, embezzlers, US Presidential Candidates, and the Hollywood set all looking for crack the Ballyeffin Inn is the in place to be. The rear beer garden behind the Inn has a large Wendy house for the crack, and any other dope. It is essential to book the Wendy House at weekends to avoid disappointment.
Please enjoy the crack and a beer sensibly. If you cannot enjoy them sensibly we welcome you with open arms. You are one of us, you Ballyeffin nutter.