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About Dundalk

Her world’s rough, yeah—grubby hands, stinkin’ breath, dodgy alleys. But she’s tough, tougher than nails. Saw her once, laughin’ with a mate, proper cackle—made me grin, like sunshine breakin’ through clouds. Surprised me, that joy, in all that muck. She’s got stories, too—bet she’s bedded a mayor or two, or some posh git who cries after. Little secret there, eh? Keeps ‘em quiet, she does, sly as a fox.

‘It’s clearly a brothel, yet nothing can be done’

It's midnight on Dublin's Baggot Street and a young woman steps out of the shadows. Low-cut top, tight jeans and rolls of jet black hair pulled tight, she carries with her a story. Like every.

After that, I decide to stroll down to Terenure. I love that area. So chill. But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, proper Irish rain. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m cursing the weather gods, like, “Really? You had to do me like this?” I duck into a pub on the corner of Terenure Road. It’s cozy, smells like chips and regret. Perfect.

Family left homeless after timber cabin home dismantled in planning dispute, court told