The 1970s in Dublin wasn’t just a decade; it was a specific kind of atmosphere—a mix of coal-smoke haze, the chime of the bells on the No. 10 bus, and a city that felt like a very large, slightly overgrown village.
If you closed your eyes back then, you’d hear the rattle of milk bottles on a frosty doorstep and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the Guinness brewery. Here is a look back at those golden, gritty years.
The Ritual of “Going Into Town”
Saturday morning was an event. You’d get scrubbed up, put on your best wool coat, and head for Nelson’s Pillar (or where it used to be) to meet friends.
- The Sounds of Moore Street: You’d hear the “dealers” before you saw them. “A pound a box, the strawberries!” echoing against the damp stone walls.
- The Shops: A pilgrimage to Clerys or Arnotts was mandatory, but the real magic was in the windows of Switzers at Christmas, where the mechanical displays felt like high-tech wizardry to a wide-eyed kid.
- The Treats: If you were lucky, you’d end up in Bewley’s on Grafton Street. The smell of roasting coffee hitting you as you walked through those heavy doors was better than any perfume. You’d sit on the red velvet banquettes, surrounded by stained glass, feeling like royalty over a sticky bun.
Summer Evenings and Street Lights
Before the era of sleek playgrounds, the street was the stadium.
In the 70s, the sun seemed to stay up forever in June. Kids played “kerbs” until the streetlights flickered to life—the orange glow of the sodium lamps being the universal signal that it was time to go home. There were no smartphones, just the sound of a neighbor calling a name from a front door and the distant “tink-tink” of a bicycle bell.
The Cultural Pulse
Dublin in the 70s was finding its groove. You might catch a glimpse of Phil Lynott strutting down Grafton Street in a leather jacket, looking like a rock-and-roll god.
- Music: You’d save up your pocket money to spend an hour browsing the stacks at Freebird Records, looking for that one LP that would change your life.
- The Cinema: Going to the Adelphi or the Savoy wasn’t just about the movie; it was about the velvet curtains, the usher with the torch, and the sheer scale of the screen that made you feel like you’d stepped out of grey Dublin and into Technicolor Hollywood.
The Simple Comforts
Life was slower. You’d wait all week for The Late Late Show on a Friday night, the family gathered around a TV set that took five minutes to “warm up.” Dinner was often simple—a “coddle” on a Saturday night, the salty, savory steam filling the kitchen, or a loaf of Brennan’s bread so fresh the crust would crackle when you squeezed it.
There was a certain toughness to the city, sure, but there was an incredible warmth, too. Everyone knew your business, for better or worse, and a “cup of tea” was the solution to every crisis known to man.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 