‘I intend to follow in my father’s footsteps and teach my grandchildren the art of political incorrectness’

Daddy’s Dundalk accent was always at its flat best when he was expounding on a matter of importance with the aid of expletives. He was a rogue and a rapscallion — favourite monikers of his — just like his alter ego in his book, No Time for Work. When Saoirse, the youngest pirate princess, read an excerpt from it at the recent memorial we held at his graveside here in Westport, I could hear George’s distinctive timbre again. Not from the cavernous silence of his grave, but from out there across the cosmos.

“An assistant teacher I am, who never sought assistance from, nor gave assistance to, any of those 14 headmasters, 17 parish priests, and 28 inspectors, whom with the minimum of fuss, and the maximum speed, I’ve deftly managed to put through my hands to date. Headmasters, god love them, they have their own troubles and I was often one of them.”

Ah! yes, George could never have been accused of being politically correct.

We are so fortunate here on the wild western seaboard that the magic of our natural world is always apparent. It didn’t matter that a silent mist encased the peak of Croagh Patrick or the drowned drumlins of Clew Bay were like chimeras on that early August day. The sense of nature’s poetic expanse was still tangible and offered a moving backdrop for our gathering of 21 people, across four generations from George’s extended family,

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He had died at the beginning of the pandemic and his funeral had to be a remote affair for many of his loved ones.

Now the cousins from Dundalk and Belfast could attend: Moira with her vase filled with a bouquet of straw from the old thatch on the cottage that has remained in the family since the 1840s.

‘Going to see grandad George was always a lot of fun and excitement, even though oxygen masks were always a requirement to survive’

It was so wonderful too that his grandchildren Patrick and Liam could attend. Whilst their home is in Mozzate, near Lake Como, and their Daddy, Dermot (my baby brother) died in 2017 aged 48, they and their Italian mama, Barbara, have forged deep connections with Ireland. It is so wonderful that it has resulted in both boys attending university here.

Unsurprising really, from an early age they were infused with a fun sense of their Irishness by Grandad George.

Indeed, Patrick’s graveside tribute encapsulated the divilment that peppered their visits to his smoke-filled apartment in Inchicore where their many golf tournaments involved teeing off into a chipped mug and visits to the local sweet shop for bags of treats.

“Going to see grandad George was always a lot of fun and excitement, even though oxygen masks were always a requirement to survive,” he mused.

“One of our favourite memories is you, Grandad, teaching us the secrets of golf, in your livingroom,” he continued. “‘Now five euros for the best and five euros for the second best’, Grandad would say.”

Every shot was “the best in history” and was dissected afterwards as Grandad took their little hands and brought them to a little shop on Tyrconnell Road for their five treats. He would then insist, much to their parents’ disapproval, that they must eat them all in one go.

We will toast him with a picnic of Mr Kipling cakes and a flask of strong coffee

“We cannot put into words how wonderful it was to visit you, Grandad. Even when you started not feeling well, you never lost your brilliant humour and sharp wit. You were cleverly hiding not remembering our names by inventing funny nicknames for us: ‘Oh I know who you are! You are my aunt Angela’.”

Now that I am a grandparent myself of two mini munchkins — both in attendance at the memorial, albeit oblivious to its meaning — I fully intend to follow in my father’s footsteps and teach my grandchildren the art of political incorrectness, rebelliousness and roguery. When they are a little older I will bring them to their great-grandad’s grave and tell them stories about him.

We will toast him with a picnic of Mr Kipling cakes and a flask of strong coffee. I might even sing Patrick Kavanagh’s Raglan Road, just as I did over the phone to him moments before he died on April 21st, 2020, and repeated at our family celebration.

Sure there is no better place for “old ghosts” to merge with those of us still breathing in fresh air than in the shadow of our ancient holy mountain.