The Weir Review: Ghost stories and fireside pints — the perfect autumnal night out

Posted on Sep 20, 2025 | By Hay Brunsdon

It’s no secret that Ireland is a nation of storytellers. From my personal favourites, Van Morrison, Erin Quinn from Derry Girls, and Frank McCourt of Angela’s Ashes, to the OGs James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, Bram Stoker, and Samuel Beckett, spinning a yarn is practically part of the DNA. Conor McPherson sits firmly in that tradition, and his 1997 play The Weir—which scooped both the Olivier and Evening Standard Awards for Best New Play—shows exactly why.

The setting is a small, windswept pub in northwest Ireland – seemingly isolated from the outside world – the kind of place where the fire crackles against the howling wind outside and you half expect your pint glass to rattle from the gusts. At first it’s all weather talk, fishwife gossip about land sales, and the comforting routine of “just a small one” (or sometimes a “large small one”). Behind the bar is Brendan, pouring pints for locals Jack the mechanic and Jimmy. Into this comes Finbar, the flamboyant property man who’s essentially bought up half the village, strutting in with ‘Ninja Turtle’ karate chops and high kicks to introduce Valerie, a “blow-in” up from Dublin. She’s the outsider, and her presence nudges the men into showing off with their tall tales — first light, then eerie, then deeply personal

On the surface these are ghost stories, fuelled by Ouija boards (or “Luigi boards”, depending on your level of expertise) and that healthy Irish respect for the supernatural — fairy roads, folklore, banshees, things unseen but never dismissed. But McPherson’s genius is how the supernatural slides into the everyday. What begins as bravado and banter slowly uncovers something raw: the weight of grief, the ache of regret, and the human need to be heard.

The line between comic and heartbreaking is razor-thin — one moment it’s “she wasn’t an alcoholic, she was a committed drinker,” the next it’s silence as someone lays their wounds bare. McPherson is both the master of the monologue and comedic dialogue, and the entire cast – led by the brilliant Brendan Gleeson – deftly pivots between the warmth of pub banter to moments of piercing vulnerability.

What makes The Weir so beloved is this balance: small in scale but enormous in impact. The play never shouts; it whispers and reminds us that stories are not just entertainment but a way of making sense of what we can’t explain and a way of finding connection. By the time you leave, you don’t feel like you’ve watched a play so much as spent an evening in a pub where strangers became companions. It feels intimate in the way that ordinary chatter slowly gives way to something raw and haunting: personal stories punctuated by pints. And really, who wouldn’t want to linger for one more round?

The Weir is playing at the Harold Pinter Theatre until Sat 6 Dec 2025. (Approx. 10 more ‘calendar weeks’ if you’re Finbar.) Book your tickets today.