Dun Laoghaire long ago lost its 'other' hotel. Every town has 'the' hotel - the shining corporate-run palace to which they chauffeur the mother-in-law in hushed tones on an occasional Sunday afternoon for high tea - with wholemeal scones hand rolled on thighs of the health gods, standing napkins, stiff-lipped staff and lingering churchly silences.

Where foreign maids in prescribed mono vestments lie on their backs to scrub the undersides of tables and scour their way daily with toothbrushes through channels of guest room shower grout.

Then there's the 'other' hotel -the family-owned pile they fall into to watch the match, to release the children and eat food prepared by both the departing and incoming chef. The 'other' hotel is where the barman knows the cut of your gib and might just keep your custom beer mug behind the counter. Where the piano guy hits duds but is uncanny at cranking up a sing song.

Dun Laoghaire's 'other' hotel was always The Pierre. Last run by the Rosenkranzs - a fastidious west of Ireland family with Austrian roots - this is where Dun Laoghaire locals came to hide and relax, where salted yachtsmen landlubbed for a sup and where rugby travellers from the UK enrolled with hardened loyalty over decades coming to Lansdowne Road, to be mothered by a conscientious manager by day and enthralled by night by a dapper raconteur barkeep who knew every Monty Python monologue.

Facing straight on to the East Pier, The Pierre was a proper ready-salted seaside hotel of old, complete with a full complement of live-in guests so taken with the place that it was their permanent home.

Sadly for all but the current residents, during the boom years - when we lost so many of our 'other' hotels - the Pierre was bought up and transformed into a block of apartments.