An excerpt from Dingle before Fungi Came to Town.
My introduction to the family business coincided with the inauguration of the Dingle agricultural show in 1964. It was held in Páirc an Ághasaigh. I was eleven years of age and rambled into the bar. The place was crowded and my father asked me to collect the glasses. I must have made a favourable impression because I was co-opted to my new profession each Sunday after the Gaelic football matches. Within a few months I became adept at seeking out empties in every nook and cranny. As there was no running water in the premises one of my tasks included ferrying buckets of water from the outside tap into the bar. The buckets were placed on a small table and the glasses were hand washed in the plastic bucket. Then they got a final rinse from a fresh bucket of water. During the busy periods glasses were at a premium. Washing entailed a quick rinse and bacterial infec-tions were still a millennium away!
I soon became familiar with all the local faces, and by fourteen years of age I knew most of the townlands, parishes and villages as well as the customers from Lispole to Ventry. Working in a family bar gives a youth an ideal opportunity to experience the vast vagaries of human life. Many human characteristics became apparent to the observant eye and the cocked ear, including greed, generosity, envy, kindness, friendship, temptation, loneliness, joy, camaradarie, intelligence and ignorance. Our clientele were honest, humorous and readily shared inval-uable advice and direction with my brother and I. Many names come to mind but especially our neighbours Mike Shea, Mike Boland, Jack Neddy and Paddy Barrett. They were hard working men, impeccably honest and remained loyal and caring customers for many years afterwards. Other regulars included; John-ny and Kathleen Hand, Joe Babs O'Flaherty, Francie Lovett, Baby John Devane, Tommy Barry, John Geraldine Murphy and Joe Gibbons with his two dogs Sally and Lassie.
Sunday nights were special in the bar. The local customers were dressed in their best attire. They chatted freely about fishing catches, cattle prices, the woes of the small farmer but especially about Gaelic football. The Ferriters from Beenbawn were the first to arrive. Soon a steady flow of Griffins, O’Sullivans, Fitzgeralds, Barrets, Brosnans, Kellihers and Farrells arrived from the east. My father was the chief organiser of the music. My sisters Eithne and Mary Mazz were accomplished musicians, while my brother Fergus could play every musical instrument in Walton’s musical store. My mother Molly played the piano and often accompanied the musicians.
I was the black sheep of the family and couldn’t sing or play an instrument to save my life. I was consigned to a life inside the counter. As the evening wore on customers were invited to sing and a familiar pattern soon emerged. Kevin Devane from Deerpark, Lispole was always requested to sing ‘The Bonny Boy is Young’. Francie Hickson soon followed with a sweet version of ‘My Lovely Cot-tage by the Lee’ and Big Mikey Brosnan from Fothrach rattled the squeeze box with a great interpretation of ‘Marie’s Wedding’. Seán Scanlon from Burnham sang beautifully in both Gaelic and English while Martin Flannery gave a lovely rendition of ‘All Kinds of Everything’ and Timmy O'Sullivan (Reenboy) belted out ‘The Patriot Game’. Finally, Joe Carr Griffin never let the night pass without singing ‘Dingle Bay’, as well as a never ending selection from Joe Dolan's back catalogue. The curse of the microphone had yet to be introduced into public houses so music and songs were a pleasant distraction from the general banter between customers. Feats of bygone years were recalled such as the ghost train to the All Irelands, the barrel of rum in Lispole, the beagle hunts, the submarine in Ballymore, the spy Karl Anderson, the aeroplane crashes on Mount Brandon, sheep fairs, Ballinclare fair and football feats too numerous to be recounted. Although Dingle boasted to have fifty-two licensed premises, one for every week of the year, only about forty were working bars by 1970. Each bar had a num-ber of characters but too many stars in one bar was a disaster because they each needed an audience to listen to their tales of worry, woe and wonderment. Only on the Wren’s Day, Regatta and Races did the characters roam freely and venture into unfamiliar public houses. The characters were an integral part of bar culture. They bore tidings of recent deaths, births, marriages, gossip, hearsay and a hoard of stories about animals, fish, faction fights, tramps and tales from England or America about lost emigrants and the tragedies they endured.
Many of the characters would lift your heart on a dark wet November evening as well as uplifting the mood of the other customers. Although the hot news and stories were often rehashed and reinvented they were always dovetailed to suit a particular occasion. They were undoubtedly the spin doctors of their times and precise facts were seldom necessary. In fact, exaggeration, innuendo and grey areas were an essential component to their arsenal of scéalta, bréaga, raiméis and tales of yesteryear.
Occasionally, the local character stepped out of line and had to be reined in by the publican. This might lead to a temporary barring order or a cooling off period for a week or so until both publican and outcast felt a longing need for a return to the status quo and apologies were neither sought nor offered. Some characters lived on the edge of the publican’s patience and often relied on the sympathy of the other customers to keep within the fold.
Deniseen Houlihan fell into this category. The local customers loved, tolerated or avoided him depending on the humour he was in. During the early 1970’s he was often the bane of my life. He was about forty years of age. He made an instant and unforgettable impression on many visiting tourists. He was tall, lean, fair skinned and had a shock of long blond hair. He resembled a skewbald pony among a herd of thoroughbred black mares. He came from just west of Dingle from the townland of Milltown. Although Milltown was only one mile outside the town Deniseen constantly reminded us that he was only a poor country lad. He had a bottomless pit of folklore most of which came from his expansive im-agination or his undaunted spirit. Many of his stories related to his adventures in England, his prowess as a fisherman, sheep farming, boat builder, wren boys, ball nights or the hard times of his youth. With the development of tourism in the Dingle Peninsula, especially after the release of ‘Ryan’s Daughter’, Deniseen’s role as a local character developed into stellar proportions. He was accorded celebrity status and tourists were in awe of this Celtic Icon.
In Deniseen’s view, he was the primary reason tourists came to Dingle and he felt he should be granted favourable leeway in relation to rules, regulations and lo-cal conventions. This meant that the usual protocol concerning the relationship between publican and customer were difficult to ascertain. As the years rolled by he became more daring and more reckless with regard to his general behaviour. This coincided with the period I was attending college and I became less tolerant to his nightly capers and idiosyncrasies.
During the summer season he entered the bar at ten minutes to ten. He gave me a cursory glance and a small nod which indicated a pint of Guinness. This had to be poured into his special bulged glass or concrete glass as he preferred to call it. He would chat with the locals, generally Tommy McCarthy (Sráid Eoin), Paul Cashen, Jim McKenna, Kieran Bambury, Mike Highway, Paddy Joe Ferriter, Tommy Sheehy, Patrick Begley, Mike Joe O'Sullivan, Danny Graham and Oliver Dan, while casting an enquiring eye on any newcomers to the scene. By now the music session was in full flow and tourists clapped along to the beat of the accordion and bodhrán. Suddenly, Deniseen would put his hand into his inside pocket and retrieve a mouth organ. Then during the next lull in the music he would give an almighty blast to proclaim his arrival. Instantly, all heads turned in his direction … the game was on and the master was at play. Then a group of tourists would wish to have a photograph taken with the local hero. This entitled Deniseen to throw his arm around one or two unsuspecting girls and asking both of them to marry him. This brought forth great mirth and howls of laughter. Then followed one of his signature lines:
“Jesus Klist Kiddie, if you marry me we’ll have ten babies and live in a bothán on the side of Scrag”… more laughter, more photos, more pints.
Pronouncing the letter r wasn’t Deniseens’ forte, hence Christ became Klist and rabbit became a wabbit. Deniseen had a famous black terrier, which he called Blackie. At the time it was reported that there was a strain of rabbits, which were dark brown in colour and were locally referred to as black rabbits. Furthermore, they were supposed to be much tastier then the ordinary jack rabbit and Deni-seen was determined to have one in the pot for the Sunday dinner. He headed towards Burnham complete with hunting stick and a coarse bag. He spotted a group of black rabbits, near Esk Tower and the rabbits immediately scampered into their burrows. Deniseen jumped over the ditch and ordered Blackie into action:
“Go acwoss there Blackie and earn your dinner!”
With hunting stick at the ready he knelt at the mouth of the burrow to render the fatal blow. For a couple of minutes there was clampar in the burrow when suddenly a black animal appeared. Instantly he let fly with the mortal blow, closely followed by an almighty whelp!
Then Deniseen proclaimed his immortal lines:
“Jesus Klist Blackie, I’m sorry, sure I thought you were a wabbit.” and so ended Blackie’s career as a hunter.
“Jesus Klist Kiddie, the claic is mighty … sure if it was any better we couldn’t stick it at all”.
A couple of more blasts from the mouth organ, clapping and wild excitement and Deniseen was soon in cloud cuckoo land. Last orders from the customers were before 11.30pm and Deniseen would raise two fingers. Two pints were poured and left on reserve on the counter. Then my brother Fergus would play the National Anthem and this signalled the end of the night’s proceedings … but not for our hero. Just as Fergus played the final two bars of the anthem Deniseen would accompany him with a ferocious gusto from his mouth organ. Timing is essential in these circumstances and Deniseen ensured that he was still playing on his own for the remaining ten seconds. Immediately, the tourists turned and forlornly listened to the final notes of the night’s performance. With an exag-gerated wave of the hand he withdrew the mouth organ from his mouth and instantaneously proclaim:
“ … agus an scór anois … Ciarraí deich cúl agus fiche pointe agus níl aon scór fós ag Corcaigh … ”
This brought forth a great response and especially if a contingent of Cork tour-ists were in the audience. Then followed the thankless job of clearing the public house. The logic of serving pints of alcohol to the public and then expecting them to vacate the premises within ten minutes proved utterly implausible. Hol-iday makers were soaking up the ambiance while locals just ignored all appeals. The bar staff gathered glasses, emptied cigarette trays on to the floor, opened all doors to allow a cold draught through the bar, while shouting, roaring and bawl-ing to encourage customers to move on, but to no avail …
“Come on lads finish up your drinks please … ladies and gentlemen you don’t need to go home but you must leave this pub now … come on then, please, you’ll miss the ceilí … Brostaigí anois, caithfimíd an áit a glanadh … óiche mhaith, coladh sámh agus na fliuchaigh an leaba”.
I rattled out these words a million times but to no avail. Tourists kept taking photographs, locals chatted away and I was totally ignored.
Too often the Gardaí parked the squad car outside the door and now an extra effort was made in order to remove the last die-hards and hangers on. Occasion-ally, the Gardaí came in and cleared the premises. Deniseen was always the last patron to leave and often the Gardaí got annoyed with his total indifference to the law, furthermore he often reminded the Gardaí that had they nothing better to do than harass the country’s law abiding citizens. These remarks in front of tourists made the Gardaí annoyed and they in turn would question my ability to run a licensed premises. England, his prowess as a fisherman, sheep farming, boat builder, wren boys, ball nights or the hard times of his youth. With the development of tourism in the Dingle Peninsula, especially after the release of ‘Ryan’s Daughter’, Deniseen’s role as a local character developed into stellar proportions. He was accorded celebrity status and tourists were in awe of this Celtic Icon.
In Deniseen’s view, he was the primary reason tourists came to Dingle and he felt he should be granted favourable leeway in relation to rules, regulations and lo-cal conventions. This meant that the usual protocol concerning the relationship between publican and customer were difficult to ascertain. As the years rolled by he became more daring and more reckless with regard to his general behaviour. This coincided with the period I was attending college and I became less tolerant to his nightly capers and idiosyncrasies.
During the summer season he entered the bar at ten minutes to ten. He gave me a cursory glance and a small nod which indicated a pint of Guinness. This had to be poured into his special bulged glass or concrete glass as he preferred to call it. He would chat with the locals, generally Tommy McCarthy (Sráid Eoin), Paul Cashen, Jim McKenna, Kieran Bambury, Mike Highway, Paddy Joe Ferriter, Tommy Sheehy, Patrick Begley, Mike Joe O'Sullivan, Danny Graham and Oliver Dan, while casting an enquiring eye on any newcomers to the scene. By now the music session was in full flow and tourists clapped along to the beat of the accordion and bodhrán. Suddenly, Deniseen would put his hand into his inside pocket and retrieve a mouth organ. Then during the next lull in the music he would give an almighty blast to proclaim his arrival. Instantly, all heads turned in his direction … the game was on and the master was at play. Then a group of tourists would wish to have a photograph taken with the local hero. This entitled Deniseen to throw his arm around one or two unsuspecting girls and asking both of them to marry him. This brought forth great mirth and howls of laughter. Then followed one of his signature lines:
“Jesus Klist Kiddie, if you marry me we’ll have ten babies and live in a bothán on the side of Scrag”… more laughter, more photos, more pints.
Pronouncing the letter r wasn’t Deniseens’ forte, hence Christ became Klist and rabbit became a wabbit. Deniseen had a famous black terrier, which he called Blackie. At the time it was reported that there was a strain of rabbits, which were dark brown in colour and were locally referred to as black rabbits. Furthermore, they were supposed to be much tastier then the ordinary jack rabbit and Deni-seen was determined to have one in the pot for the Sunday dinner. He headed towards Burnham complete with hunting stick and a coarse bag. He spotted a group of black rabbits, near Esk Tower and the rabbits immediately scampered into their burrows. Deniseen jumped over the ditch and ordered Blackie into action:
“Go acwoss there Blackie and earn your dinner!”
With hunting stick at the ready he knelt at the mouth of the burrow to render the fatal blow. For a couple of minutes there was clampar in the burrow when suddenly a black animal appeared. Instantly he let fly with the mortal blow, closely followed by an almighty whelp!
Then Deniseen proclaimed his immortal lines:
“Jesus Klist Blackie, I’m sorry, sure I thought you were a wabbit.” and so ended Blackie’s career as a hunter.
“Jesus Klist Kiddie, the claic is mighty … sure if it was any better we couldn’t stick it at all”.
A couple of more blasts from the mouth organ, clapping and wild excitement and Deniseen was soon in cloud cuckoo land. Last orders from the customers were before 11.30pm and Deniseen would raise two fingers. Two pints were poured and left on reserve on the counter. Then my brother Fergus would play the National Anthem and this signalled the end of the night’s proceedings … but not for our hero. Just as Fergus played the final two bars of the anthem Deniseen would accompany him with a ferocious gusto from his mouth organ. Timing is essential in these circumstances and Deniseen ensured that he was still playing on his own for the remaining ten seconds. Immediately, the tourists turned and forlornly listened to the final notes of the night’s performance. With an exag-gerated wave of the hand he withdrew the mouth organ from his mouth and instantaneously proclaim:
“ … agus an scór anois … Ciarraí deich cúl agus fiche pointe agus níl aon scór fós ag Corcaigh … ”
This brought forth a great response and especially if a contingent of Cork tour-ists were in the audience. Then followed the thankless job of clearing the public house. The logic of serving pints of alcohol to the public and then expecting them to vacate the premises within ten minutes proved utterly implausible. Hol-iday makers were soaking up the ambiance while locals just ignored all appeals. The bar staff gathered glasses, emptied cigarette trays on to the floor, opened all doors to allow a cold draught through the bar, while shouting, roaring and bawl-ing to encourage customers to move on, but to no avail …
“Come on lads finish up your drinks please … ladies and gentlemen you don’t need to go home but you must leave this pub now … come on then, please, you’ll miss the ceilí … Brostaigí anois, caithfimíd an áit a glanadh … óiche mhaith, coladh sámh agus na fliuchaigh an leaba”.
I rattled out these words a million times but to no avail. Tourists kept taking photographs, locals chatted away and I was totally ignored.
Too often the Gardaí parked the squad car outside the door and now an extra effort was made in order to remove the last die-hards and hangers on. Occasion-ally, the Gardaí came in and cleared the premises. Deniseen was always the last patron to leave and often the Gardaí got annoyed with his total indifference to the law, furthermore he often reminded the Gardaí that had they nothing better to do than harass the country’s law abiding citizens. These remarks in front of tourists made the Gardaí annoyed and they in turn would question my ability to run a licensed premises. In fairness, the Gardaí gave us enough leeway. They never prosecuted us for the nightly infringements and were quite considerate. However, during a very busy period in August the Gardaí’s patience gave way and we got a good dressing down. On each occasion Deniseen and his entourage were the last to leave. After discussing the problem with my brother Fergus I decided that drastic action was needed. The following evening I cautioned Deniseen and warned him as to his future behaviour and that sanctions would be forthcoming if he didn’t cooper-ate. That same evening we were under severe pressure to clear the bar. It was well past midnight and the squad car was again parked outside . Again we appealed to the customers but Deniseen was playing his mouth organ for a group of Dutch tourists and ignored us. I grabbed his drink and poured it down the sink. His heart sank to his boots, furthermore I informed him that he was barred for the remainder of the summer. His only reply was:
“Jesus Klist Kiddie, you must be joking … go piss up my leg Kiddie …”
Next evening Deniseen arrived at his appointed time and nonchalantly nodded for a drink. I had my lines well-rehearsed.
“Unfortunately sir, you’re not been served on these premises anymore” I uttered in a stern voice.
Time stood still as he stared at me with murder aforethought in his mind and surprisingly walked out the back door without issuing forth a single syllable. What followed was a unique barring order. I refused to serve Deniseen by night but Fergus served him during the daytime. This state of affairs continued until I left for the commencement of the new academic year. I was no sooner entering through the hallowed gates of Trinity College when Deniseen was fully reinstated in O’Flaherty’s with full remission. However, I wouldn’t bury the hatchet. I had suffered too much grief because of his antics and I foolishly reimposed the ban forthwith during the Christmas vacation. The situation was now totally bizarre. My brother didn’t give a tinker’s curse and my stupid pride wouldn’t allow me to surrender to Deniseen’s trite arrogance. The whole situation became a battle of wits between the college undergraduate and the wiley old playboy. I was way out of my depth and there could only be one logical winner. However, my youthful folly wouldn’t allow me to surrender without a battle. And so continued a war I was destined to lose.
The locals enjoyed the discomfort that we both endured. Occasionally, he got his signals crossed and entered the bar when I was on duty. He didn’t even bother to request a drink but addressed the regulars with the immortal lines:
“Jesus Klist Kiddie, there’s blights around”.
This no doubt was an unsubtle attack on myself. The concept of blight, potatoes and famine in a town that suffered dreadfully during the famine left no one in any doubt as to my standing in Deniseen’s eyes. Regulars duly nodded in agree-ment with him while then suggesting that I was correct in upholding the bar, “Sure he was nothing more than a yahoo and a layabout, an out and out scaothaire!’ It is often said that time is a great healer. There was no doubting the fact that Deniseen was a double edged sword. Undoubtedly, he was a right nuisance at closing time but I couldn’t deny that he was a star attraction to the tourists espe-cially his loyal following from Cork. Secretly, I enjoyed many of his nonsensical yarns. As well as been a self-appointed entertainer he also held down a number of part time jobs. Gardening, white washing, tarring, releasing congested sewers, setting rat traps, painter, decorator, sandbag filler during flood alerts, in fact Deniseen was the first line of defence for many of the towns people. He had a loyal customer base. He could find a home for a pup, drown a kitten, tickle a salmon and pluck a turkey before noon and to make matters more complicated my mother was one of his best customers. Each day during the winter months she made soup and Deniseen had express permission, ban or no ban, to go into the back kitchen and pour out a bowl of soup.
The final episode in the struggle of wits commenced on the following St. Patrick’s weekend. I arrived home from college with my classmate Kieran Bambury and threw my battered suitcase into the kitchen. There had been a severe storm and some of the slates had come undone. There was a bucket in the middle of the floor to catch the water from the drop down. My mother was in conversation with somebody up in the attic who was surveying the damage and sticking out little pieces of twigs where both the light and water were coming through. After-wards he would climb the roof with a bucket of cement and trowel. He would identify where the twigs were and fill in the leaks. This was a temporary measure which was to last a lifetime or perhaps the next storm if we were lucky. I could hear Deniseen’s familiar voice in the attic as he conversed with my mother,
“Jesus Klist Molly, there’s so much light coming through that I’m dazzled, you’d swear I was lamping hares.”
I was a little tired after the long journey and I checked the fridge to determine the prospects of a wholesome meal. My mother relied on others to bring home messages from the shop and stocks were fairly low. I sprinted up to Patty Atty Moriarty’s butcher shop and purchased a sizable sirloin steak which I placed in the fridge for later on. I made my mother aware of my arrival but left immedi-ately on the pretence of purchasing lemons to be used for hot whiskeys later on in the evening. In fact, I headed for the pier-head and then walked around the town, hoping to rendezvous with the local lads and to hatch out some plans for the festive weekend.
On my return I had expected Deniseen to have completed his aerial exploits and to have gone on his merry way. But lo and behold the lord had contrived my final humiliation. The succulent whiff of fried steak and onions had my mouth salivating in anticipation. I opened the kitchen door and there sitting at the top of the table was the bold Deniseen grinding his way through my steak.
“Jesus Klist Kiddie, I loves the fat, sit down there and have a bite to ate” … Game, set and match to Deniseen.
I retreated to the safety of the bar and allowed Fergus to take a well-deserved break. After a couple of minutes my mother came out with Deniseen in close attendance.
“Give Deniseen two pounds and serve him a couple of pints”.
I could have balked but in truth I was war weary. Deniseen scuffed down the first pint with relish.
“I’ll have the other pint later on” were the parting words of the cunning old fox. There were no words exchanged, the embargo was over. He left in a hurry to catch up on his early evening rounds of the pubs in Main Street. He’d be back tonight for a triumphant return and another virtuoso performance. I got up the following morning and the kitchen floor was flooded. Deniseen had fixed the wrong slate. I enjoyed his company for many years afterwards.
Whereas Denisheen was the main celebrity a number of other customers had a uniqueness which both locals and customers enjoyed. Martin Flannery, unlike Deniseen was quiet and unassuming but undoubtedly fell within the realm of pub character. He came from good fishing stock and had a great store of fishy tales. Small in stature, he always wore a sea captains cap and was eternally trying to light his pipe. He was the picturesque subject of many a tourists camera and he always reminded me of a sailor from the film Mutiny on the Bounty.
He was accompanied by his wife Philomena most Sunday nights and I would have his pint of Guinness and bottle of orange ready by the time he came through the crowd. During this period Martin brought tourists sea angling on day trips. He knew the successful baits and secret spots where mackerel, pollock, skate or small sharks were most likely to be found in Dingle Bay. He also brought groups on day visits to the Blasket Islands.
I often noticed that Deniseen and Martin avoided each other during the tourist season. In wintertime they collaborated with each other in relating stories of yes-teryear but after Easter Deniseen struck out on his own. Occasionally, the lines became blurred when Deniseen and Martin were hosting the same group. Den-iseen took exception to any interference in his home domain. Whereas Martin had a sweet warm singing voice, Deniseen held the upper hand with his mouth organ. Nobody could play or even contemplate playing the mouth organ like Deniseen. His whole performance was a ritual which relied very little on his musical prowess. His unique style was raucous in tone and always out of tune. After the signatory blast he would tear into a couple of bars from the only two tunes he knew.
At this stage all local patrons standing in the immediate vicinity went into self-preservation mode. They automatically shut down their ear valves in similar fashion to an otter when it submerges underwater. His favourite piece included a snapshot of both melody and lyrics called ‘Hang Me High from a Gooseberry Tree’. He never completed either version. There was neither rhyme nor reason to the lyrics but by now the tourists were hooked. Where else could you find a middle aged man with blond flowing locks of hair putting on a spontaneous one man show without a care in the world? This was immediately followed by a number of nonsensical proclamations in both English and Irish. “Jesus Klist Kiddie, we left Dingle with red faces and suitcases and when we returned home we were nutcases with pale faces … bíonn duine ina leanbh dhá uair … an Ghaeilge atá agamsa fuaireas i Sasana”.
Many years before Bord Fáilte had a tourist office in Dingle, groups of English sea anglers came holidaying to the area. They soon discovered O’Flaherty’s Bar and settled in to sample the local culture. A new group had just arrived and Deniseen had installed himself as ambassador, tour guide and connoisseur of all matters relating to Irish culture. Again the mouth organ was whipped from the inside pocket and waved about like a magician’s wand. After the ceremonial blast he would tell the impatient group that the instrument needed adjustment. Then the mouth organ was reverently dipped a number of occasions into his pint glass. He would stir the remainder of his drink with the mouth organ and proclaim “Guinness is good for Denis”.
His next blast of the instrument caused wavelets of Guinness to explode in all directions. All unsuspecting patrons were drenched with a creamy mixture of saliva and Guinness. The show had just begun. Deniseen was in full flow and the pints were stacking up.
On the following evening, he arrived to perform a repeat performance but was taken aback when his group had strayed into the capable hands of Martin. Much earlier in the day Martin had brought the anglers to the fishing grounds and they were very pleased with their days sport. A tope had been landed and the fishermen were in high spirits. They invited Martin for a celebratory drink in O’Flaherty’s and he duly engaged them with a host of fishy tales. I noticed the disappointment in Deniseen’s demeanour as he drank his pint in splendid isola-tion. Would he relinquish his prize group or participate in a battle for their hearts and minds?
Meanwhile, Martin took his pipe from his top pocket and lit a match. He made a couple of coughs, cleared the throat and spit on the ground before speaking in his unique droll baritone voice. Everyone was mesmerized with the pipe. He filled it, coughed, cleared his throat, lit a match, spit on the floor, lit another match, until the whole group wondered if the pipe would ever be lit.
After many unsuccessful attempts the pipe was eventually ablaze and Martin commenced to tell one of his many stories.
“Do you know lads that one day I caught a blind lobster”.
The billowing smoke rose in all directions. He coughed, spat and pulled on the pipe and reeled in the group in a similar fashion to how they had earlier reeled in a tiring dog fish. The idea of a blind lobster fired their imaginations.
“A blind lobster!” one of them exclaimed in disbelief.
And he appealed for good order so that the mystery could be resolved. Suddenly, the inattentive Deniseen sprung to life at the other end of the bar.
“Jesus Klist Kiddie” he roared sarcastically, “how could anyone tell whether the lob-ster was blind? For Klists sake Kiddie surely he wasn’t wearing black glasses or holding a white stick in his claw, for Klists sake Kiddie don’t be codding the people”.
The anglers dutifully laughed but then an eerie silence prevailed. Was this the shoot out of the O.K. Corral revisited with Colt 45’s been replaced with a mouth organ and a pipe.
“Well, Martin” (which sounded more like Morton) said Clive in an accentuated Bristol accent, “How could you tell the ruddy lobster was blind?”
All eyes were focused on Martin. He remained silent and lit a match. He cleared his throat, spat on the ground and took a deep draw from his pipe. A cloud of smoke sallied forth.
He turned towards Deniseen and issued his words of wisdom:
“Sure any fool would know the lobster was blind, sure didn’t he go into a pot with no bait”.
The anglers laughed uncontrollably at the simplicity of the logic while Martin puffed away to his heart’s content. Deniseen quietly sipped his pint before slip-ping out the back door, Martin had taken the spoils.
I last met Martin on the morning of the Wren’s Day 1998. Martin was a stal-wart member of the Green and Gold Wren. He played the side drum and never missed a beat. I had left my home in Dublin early in order to be in time for the annual pageant. Kevin O’Connor had my straw suit in good repair. As I entered Dingle at twelve noon I could hear the shrill echo from the fifes and the clattering of the drums. I walked towards the bar and a large group of wrenboys were lining into formation. Wren captain Noel Ó Murchú raised his sword and ordered the remainder of the wrenboys to vacate the bar and line up. I hurried to get my straw suit on and to line up behind the banner. Just then I noticed Martin smoking his pipe as he leaned against the bar door. A persons age was no bar to Martin’s or indeed anyone else's participation in the wren. This was decided by ones spirit and willingness to uphold our town’s tradition irrespective of age or station in life. I was surprised to see him without his straws.
He put out his hand to greet me, “Fair play to you boy for coming, you never let us down yet …”
I wished him a happy Christmas and wondered why he wasn’t in his costume. As usual he lit a match and then informed me that he was grounded because of medical advice.
“I can’t walk or march’” he continued … “I hope it’s not too serious Martin” … “Oh no thanks be to God … I wouldn’t be able to march around the town because I’m killed by a homegrown toenail”.
I laughed and we agreed to meet later on in Jack Neddy's. It never happened. Later on in the New Year I heard of Martin’s untimely passing on Radio na Gaeltachta. I immediately rang my mother. She began relating stories about Martin and began reminiscing about Dingle long ago. I had heard all the stories previously but listened in respect to Martin’s memory and wasn’t expecting anything new from her archive. I was wrong.
“Did you know I nursed Martin in Dingle hospital when he was a young boy?” This news surprised me. “I wasn’t long trained when Martin was admitted into casualty. He was complaining about a severe pain in his tummy – acute appendicitis was suspected and arrangements were immediately made to remove the patient to Tralee for an emergency operation. The next day the priest read a special attention at Sunday mass and asked the congregation to pray to Our Lady for Martin’s full recovery. Well the Lord works in mysterious ways because on Monday afternoon Martin hopped off the bus outside Dillon’s shop in Main Street without a bother in the world”.
Had he defied medical science or perhaps there was a simpler explanation to his dramatic recovery? The latter proved to be the case. Martin had originally com-plained of severe abdominal pains, however, he omitted to inform the doctor of his earlier escapades. Himself and a bunch of other likely lads had just divested the nuns orchard of its partly ripened apples. The youthful garsoon had feasted on a few too many and had suffered from a severe bout of gripe.
The ubiquitous pint has various effects on different people. For the majority who imbibe in a couple of scoops the consequences are general-ly pleasant. A small minority experience dramatic character changes and should avoid all watering holes in case of contamination. Still another group who are ordinarily shy and reticent become liberated from their torpid state and experience joy and mirth after an hour’s grog. A customer who shall be known as Apache fitted snugly into this group. When it came to discussing wethers, ewes, footrot, corrabobs, galor cam, wool prices or colair ullagh, Apache was a knowledgeable expert. Should you meet him on the hillside or in town purchasing household goods he was courteous, shy and avoided any small talk.
But, Apache’s lifestyle took a sea change on a Thursday and Sunday night. He was always smartly dressed. He wore a collar and tie or a polo neck jumper and blazer. He had dark hair, side locks which resembled lamb chops. One could easily ignore his presence in the bar during the first half hour, however after the third drink his eyes began to light up and soon he entered the fourth dimension. At this stage he gave the odd warning sway in similar fashion to a field of oats on a breezy day. By now he was well entrenched and was nearing his peak. Then he’d call for another drink:
“Hi Carl, throw us out a pint of sheep dip!”
This was my alarm call to monitor Apache’s future behaviour. There now followed a transformation which resembled a night out at the bumpers at Turbett’s fairground located just outside our back door. Should any of the locals be lucky enough to be engaged in conversation with a visiting young lady then disaster was just around the corner.
It was the critical stage of the night and all the chatting up lines were well exhausted.
“Where do you guys go at midnight?” a group of American girls would enquire. “Oh there’s an Irish dance in Muireach which we call a ceilí’.”
“Hey Betty Anne, that sounds interesting … can we catch a lift with you guys?”
Spins are arranged and everything is hunky dory when out of the blue Cindy and Betty Anne are treated to an almighty shoulder charge as Apache announces his arrival.
“Lads is there any chance of a lift?” he enquires with a roguish smile. Betty Anne is drenched from a displaced pint and Cindy is left floundering. At this stage Apache has commenced his Marcel Marceau routine. He pulls three or four different faces and poses which have yet to be mastered in the Abbey Theatre. Betty Anne shrieks and Cindy is doing ninety towards the front door.
“Jesus Apache will you cop on boy!” cries one of the lads with despair.
But it’s too late, the damage is done and the birds have flown the coop. They take a final glance at Apache who bids them goodnight with a line from a popular song “Hey baby, if you happen to meet the most beautiful girl in the world, tell her Apache loves her”.
The local lads don’t know whether to laugh or cry, Apache has struck again! On some occasions I’d warn Apache with a yellow card or a warning glare especially if he was doing his swaying hurricane impressions. He’d look at me with pen-etrating eyes and threaten to break every bone in my body. He’d order another drink but I’d only serve him with Cidona. This was humiliation and he’d tear out the door under protest. After closing time the staff did a quick clean up and we all headed for either the Phoenix or Western Ballrooms. Many of the lads loitered on one side of the ballroom while the girls waited impatiently at the op-posite end hoping to be asked out to dance. Then one or two brave heroes made a break across the dance floor to request a dance, everyone followed and a good old scrimmage ensued.
However, there was one group of lads who never budged. They had no intention of having a dance or asking a girl out on a date. They enjoyed observation status. They held their ground on the dance floor like a group of musk oxen protecting a calf from a wolf attack. In the meantime the lucky dancers circumnavigated the stationary unit of men and got on with the heartbreaking task of finding puppy love.
Apache was an honorary member of the former group. I spent four or five years on the dance floor before I gracefully retired. Never once did I notice Apache having a dance. However, if I was ever in close proximity and happened to be dancing with a Lá Breá (student) he would never fail to give me the royal treat-ment. This involved an unwelcome clap on the back or a shout of encourage-ment which was followed with a great roar of laughter.
In truth, he never caused an ounce of trouble in his life. He was a likeable char-acter who yearned for a bit of craic. In spite of a lorry load of warnings, yellow cards and weekly tirades directed towards me, we always remained good friends. I can only look back and reminisce about his unique antics. It’s funny how life carries on regardless of one’s youthful folly!
All too soon Ryan's Daughter came to town and we were engulfed with an influx of new people, new ideas and a bucketful of money. Old Dingle awakened from it's deep slumber. The days of the donkey carts, horse carts, bellman Jim Cron-seberry and animal markets on the street lingered on ‘til the early seventies. A new era beckoned. Tourists began to descend on the area in increasing numbers. The Skellig and high quality bed and breakfasts were opened to cater for the new market. Dingle had been discovered by both Irish and foreign tourists alike.The Whelan brothers John and Billy who had arrived as caterers with the film crew remained in Dingle and opened the first restaurant which they named The Four and One. I remember well listening to the lads discussing this new development. We had zero understanding as to why people would want to go to a restaurant af-ter eating their dinner earlier in the day! The general consensus was that it would be closed down by Christmas.
“Jesus Christ boy are you codding me?”
“They must be stone mad if they think locals will pay good money for a fish dinner” “Cop on boy!”
I was sixteen years of age and I had only been to a restaurant on one occasion. During the 1970 All-Ireland weekend, ten of us went into Caffola's restaurant in O’Connell St. We all ordered chicken and chips which we saturated with toma-to sauce and vinegar. Such gourmet fare! Soon more restaurants began to open in Dingle; Doyles …The Half Door …The Armada and Beginish. There was an upturn in the local economy and the public bars were enjoying a healthy turn-over. O’Flaherty's was already established as a singing pub. Ballad sessions were in vogue and the familiar sounds of The Jolly Ploughman, Joe Hill, The Boston Burglar and The Four Green Fields filled the air. If I got a dollar for every time I heard the Wild Rover I would be as wealthy as Bill Gates. After many years I began to despise this song. It seemed to attract every half-drunk and gravel voiced non singer to murder it …
“And it's no nay never, no nay never no more will I play the Wild Rover …”
I'll die a happy man if I never hear that song again! More and more pubs were expanded and renovated. Dave Geaney revamped Tomás Callaghan's and re-named it The Ramble Inn. Soon a likely bunch of lads from over the hill namely Laurence Courtney and Des Kelliher were thundering out the music and the joint was rocking. Martina and Paddy Flannery did likewise with Mikey Long's at the pier head and named it The Star Inn. Benny Moore opened the Faraway Haven and Maud and John Sheehy had a niche clientele in their updated lounge bar in Main St. After my Leaving Cert I secured a summertime job as the sole employee in Dingle's Tourist Office which occupied a corner in the Carnegie Library in Green St. I was the public face of Dingle tourism at the pricely sum of eighteen pounds and ten shillings (before tax) for a six day week. Each evening at five thirty I shut the office and rambled down as far as the pier to clear the head. I grabbed a quick bite to eat and clocked into the bar to begin my next shift until closing time. My brother Fergus having finished his daytime job in Neodata in Cooleen soon arrived in to begin the night shift. He was also double jobbing and although it was a tough station for both of us, every opportunity had to be grabbed with both hands. This was the era of long hair, long beards and long working hours behind the bar. There were never any thoughts or suggestions of time off, days off or holidays. In fact, I never heard of any Dingle lad going on a holiday. This concept was alien to us, holidays were for rich people from other places. All the lads were gainfully employed in the new bars, hotels, restaurants, Ashe's mineral and Guinness suppliers, salmon fishing … wherever there was a bob to be turned over it was nailed down for that bloody rainy day which our parents kept harping on about. Our lives were changing without us realising … old Dingle was disappearing and my era in O'Flaherty's bar was coming to an end.
