Beautiful Affair

Myself and Bebke ultimately drifted apart and she went home, got married and seemed quite content until suddenly, out of the blue, she contacted me around 1981. She was in Dublin, distressed following a very acrimonious break-up. We met at the People’s Park in Dún Laoghaire and found our way to Walter’s pub on the corner. As we entered, the barman called me aside to say it was men only in that section and he could not serve my girlfriend. We were stunned. Beb stood up and let him have it, refusing point-blank to leave without having a drink. He eventually poured her a glass of stout and we sat in a pub full of astonished old men either in awe or aghast at this feisty young lady dressed in purple, with beaded auburn hair, bedecked with all sorts of bangles and rings, speaking with a very strange accent.

It would be years before we met again, when she wrote to say she was taking her new partner on a trip to Clare to show him her place of youth and magic. We sat together for hours remembering the days of music and love, Narcissus and Goldmund again.

Her purple dress in slight decay,

Winter weaving its weary tale.

Outside swallows fly,

Moving out on a twilight sky.

– ‘Black Hill’, The Crooked Rose (1994)

MICHO RUSSELL, STAR OF THE LISDOONVARNA FOLK FESTIVAL

One of Tommy’s crazier notions was an open-air festival, in his mind’s eye featuring us alongside Van Morrison. Though that never came to pass, he had been on to something; the Lisdoonvarna Folk Festival did happen two years later, and Tommy was right in the thick of it all, running the bar and dishing up his simple but legendary beef stew. He made so much stew that first year that every neighbourhood freezer was commandeered for storage, and it was so popular that it stayed on the specials board for most of that winter.

Over the fireplace in the pub hangs a motif that says, ‘Everyone who visits this place brings happiness; Some by coming in … some by going out.’ How true those words ring now as I scan the walls. Among the photographs I spot the famous Russell brothers, Micho, Pakie and Gussy. They came from a family of musicians and storytellers and played for many house dances, céilís, and were regulars at O’Connor’s pub on Fisher Street. In the early 70s Micho singlehandedly put Doolin on the music map with his deceptively simple style, engaging humour and legendary charm. Micho loved the road, the theatres, audiences and the adulation – especially that of the young European ladies, who were enchanted by his eccentricities. Their arrival in Doolin to visit him was well reported locally, often leading to much whispered speculation about the ‘goings on’ at the cottage by the sea.

For me, his crowning musical moment had to be an appearance on a beautiful sun-drenched Saturday afternoon at the Lisdoonvarna Folk Festival. Micho sat centre stage, nonchalantly playing away on the whistle, when suddenly, mid-tune, a beautiful young Swiss woman dressed in translucent pink chiffon sashayed onto the stage in a freestyle ballet, gliding around a seemingly oblivious Micho. She drifted effortlessly across the entire stage, looping back to Micho, now beaming and winking in her direction. A sleepy afternoon crowd quickly awoke to the emerging scene, and the noise grew as people clapped along and cat-called. When the dance finished, Micho stood hand in hand with the dancer, who gave a graceful ballerina curtsey, and they walked off the stage, leaving a festival in consternation. It was all people could talk about for weeks, with reviewers relegating headline acts into the ‘also ran’ bracket as they honed in on the spectacle of Micho Russell and the girl in the pink nightdress. It was the only show in town.

TOMMY IN AMERICA

In early 1978 Tommy McGann, having spent a day in his pub drinking with a group of Americans, decided to join them on their return journey to Connecticut. He had neither luggage nor a passport. On his arrival in the US, he talked his way through customs. Back then, American customs and the world in general were a little less suspicious of the traveller. Tommy phoned his mother to announce that he was now living in America for a while and to please tell Tony to mind the pub while he was away. He would be home soon. Though it was a spur-of-the-moment move on his part, it proved to be the beginning of an adventure that lasted many years, a move that positively affected the lives of the thousands of people who connected with him directly or indirectly either in Doolin or on the shores of America.

He moved to Boston to work at the Purple Shamrock, a downtown Irish bar that was the first port of call for many Irish immigrants. He then opened his own bar in Cape Cod called the Irish Embassy, which quickly became a consular office of sorts for countless Irish visitors. He renamed it McGann’s, then opened a second Irish Embassy in Easton, Massachusetts, and relocated back in downtown Boston on Friend Street, a short walk from the famous Boston Garden, home to the Bruins and the Celts. He settled in there for the rest of his short life.

A second McGann’s pub was opened next door, which included two youth hostels. The hostels were an inspired addition and welcomed by many Irish immigrants, including my own brother-in-law Stan, who to this day regards Tommy as his saviour. Having arrived in America, almost penniless and jobless, Stan worked as the doorman and in true McGann fashion was available for any other duties that might arise. Tommy worked a very simple system for immigrants: new arrivals were taken in by Irish people and looked after; months later, you returned the favour to the next wave. It was an unwritten rule that was never questioned or considered, and everyone who came through was guaranteed a solid, friendly and dignified beginning to their new world far away from home.

Tommy was very particular about his menus in the pub. He used many local ingredients, but also imported Irish goods like sausages, beef, bacon, Tayto crisps and, at one stage, brown bread. I still recall our first visit to the Purple Shamrock all those years ago. When we arrived, Tommy had us leave all our bags down in the basement and then treated us to a feed of eggs, sausages and baked beans – Boston baked beans.

Quick Boston baked beans

Serves about 8

Oil or butter, for frying

600g thick streaky bacon, chopped

1 small onion, peeled and diced

1 tsp mustard seeds

1 × 400g tin of cannellini beans

1 × 400g tin of kidney or pinto beans

200ml homemade tomato sauce or passata

3 tbsp molasses

1 tbsp maple or golden syrup

A pinch of dried oregano

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 Preheat the oven to 150°C/130°C fan/gas 2.

2 Heat the oil or butter in a frying pan. Add the bacon and onion and fry until golden, then add the mustard seeds.

3 When the seeds begin to pop, stir in the beans, tomato sauce or passata, molasses, syrup and oregano. Taste for seasoning.

4 Place in an ovenproof dish, and bake in the oven for 40 minutes.

Note: The traditional method is a very slow cook using fresh beans or part-boiled beans. Traditional recipes also use either molasses or syrup, but I added both to keep everyone happy.

Tommy’s pubs on the Cape and in Boston also played host to countless touring Irish musicians, who regarded them as recharge stations during long, arduous tours. He was well established as a businessman there, and, crucially for someone dealing with a lot of young messers far from home, he was also well connected to the authorities. I remember one occasion when a member of our band decided to go for a midnight swim at a Quincy motel, only to be arrested for trespassing and taken away in his soaking underpants to spend the night freezing in a local cell. The following morning, he was arraigned in the same attire, but Tommy’s successful plea for clemency meant we could carry on with our tour, as long as our swimmer remained on dry land and donated a few dollars to a local church fund.

SAD FAREWELL

Clearly, Tommy’s greatest legacy is his generosity to friends and strangers; there was no dividing line between the two for him.

He died tragically in a car accident in County Clare in 1998 when he was only forty-five, having already survived cancer. The city of Boston and the people of Clare alike wept in each other’s arms at his passing. For one St Patrick’s Day, the city named a street in his honour. I, like thousands more, owe much to his friendship, spirit and character. The years pass swiftly now, but every time I return to Doolin memories are still strong, and Tommy is always present in my thoughts, audacious as ever, smiling, jibing and dreaming up his next crazy adventure.

TOMMY PEOPLES AND CHRISTY BARRY’S FLUTE

One particular set of photographs on the wall in McGann’s really caught my eye. There’s cockney Tom Thomson, driving his old red bus with an engine that constantly howled in pain, almost longing to be decommissioned. Next to Tom, fiddle supremo Tommy Peoples, who worked with my dad at the County Council and toured with the ground-breaking Bothy Band. Tommy’s playing was on another level, from a different place, sometimes dark, sometimes melancholic, but always exciting and performed with such panache. He was an introverted character and, in those days, insisted on taking me along to play guitar at all his gigs. I was only a novice with very few chords, but he said he loved my rhythm and the way I accompanied tunes. That meant more than I could ever express in words, and unfortunately he’ll never know the effect he had on my confidence as a young musician.

Next to Tommy is Christy Barry, who played concert flute and whistle from morning to the late hours, regaling tourists with countless tales. When a crowd had gathered, Christy dipped the flute in his pint, proclaiming to the young ladies gathered round that the Guinness was very good for his flute. Christy had a glint in his eyes that could woo a stone. I hear he still plays wonderful music at house concerts around the county. I also hear the Guinness has been replaced by large pots of tea.

THE THREE AMIGOS

I scan along the wall and stop at three delightful characters. I immediately break into laughter. It’s the formidable Donegal/Dublin trio of Skippy, the Sheriff and Rory O’Connor. They arrived in Doolin in the late 70s and held court daily at McGann’s, entertaining the masses with their wit and beguiling charm, snaring many tourists for free drinks and food. They easily passed a day’s drinking without spending a penny. Tony ‘Skippy’ Reid had that acerbic Dublin sense of humour delivered with impeccable timing, sparing no one in the process. One day a customer enquired about McGann’s ‘world-famous Irish stew’. The barman talked up the stew, explaining its popularity among locals and tourists alike. ‘Some say it’s the best stew in the world,’ he boasted. At the time Tony McGann ran the kitchen and he was very proud of his stew, and with Tony well within earshot, Skippy stood up from the stool, turned to the customer and said, ‘Stew me arse … they should have called it Aran Islands stew, ’cause it’s just three small pieces of meat surrounded by fuckin’ water.’ He may have been barred on that occasion but his expulsions were never long served. On another occasion Skippy hurt his knee and was walking around on crutches. The locals organised a benefit dance to cover medical expenses under the banner ‘The Needy Knee’ at the Hydro Hotel in Lisdoonvarna. As the evening wore on, the music got the better of him and he rose to his feet and started dancing. The Sheriff grabbed him and sat him back down: ‘Will you sit down, you eejit, we’ll get lynched!’

He is literally part of the furniture at the Hydro, where a bar stool engraved ‘Skippy’s Seat’ stands proud in his preferred position at the end of the bar with a full view of all proceedings.

Whenever I stayed at McGann’s, I mainly played music and when required, I served beer, made the sandwiches, soups, stews, swept the floor, collected glasses or carried out whatever task was presented. There was no question of any kind of demarcation, which was in total contrast to my job at Shannon Airport. Everyone just got on with it. On occasion when customers wished to speak directly to the chef, Tommy chose whichever one of us looked the most respectable, and urged us to say by way of an opener that we were trained as chefs at the Ritz in London and gave it all up to live the life here in Doolin.

McGann’s world-famous Irish stew

Serves about 4 to 6

I often cooked their stew, and in later years included it on several of my menus. I like a simple stew, but good meat, veg stock and herbs are essential. I use lamb neck or shoulder pieces, but I have used gigot chops. I like to use lamb stock if I have some stored in the freezer, though chicken stock is fine too. Fresh thyme is essential.

Olive oil

1 large onion, peeled and finely chopped