Old haunts – An Irishman’s Diary about Dublin ghosts

Very belatedly last weekend I went to see Pals, ANU Productions' fine play about the Irish at Gallipoli in 1915. In fact, I saw what was probably the very last performance. After six months at Collins Barracks, with up to four shows a day, 4pm on Sunday was the final curtain.

Not that there was a curtain. The play used the former military barracks (now the National Museum) as its stage – starting in the square, then moving upstairs to one of the unused barrack rooms – cast interacting with audience along the way and, in the process, bringing the old building back to life.

It may not just have been the building that was brought to life, however. Because in a throwaway remark during the introduction, our guide also warned us about “the ghost” said to inhabit the east wing, now mostly used for storage.

Ghosts

And although alleged ghosts are ten a penny in Dublin, I was impressed by a detail shared with us to the effect that a succession of museum security staff have resigned over this particular occupational hazard.

It isn’t that he does anything violent, apparently. Despite being a first World War soldier, he just walks the corridors and stairs. But I can imagine that might be unsettling, especially at night.

Of course, like all rational people, I don’t believe in ghosts (during daytime anyway). Even so, the possibility that a first World War soldier is deterring recruitment at the modern barracks is poignant.

And whether he exists or not, he must be real at least to the extent of being a concern to the personnel department. Maybe they even have a file on him, although he remains unidentified, except by suspected rank. He’s known, I’m told, as “the Quartermaster”.

If there really were ghosts, I suppose, Collins Barracks would be the sort of place you’d expect them. Likewise a famous pub in Glasnevin, John Kavanagh’s, better known as The Gravediggers. It’s almost as old as the adjoining cemetery, having opened a year later in 1833, to meet the needs of thirsty funeral parties, although it was the thirst of the clientele next door for which it became renamed.

When I was talking to Anthony Kavanagh, a seventh-generation member of the family running it (sad to say, one of the sixth – his father Eugene – has since passed on) recently, he put me straight on some of the pub’s myths.

No, there was never a gable hatch through which drink was served to the diggers; but yes, pints were ordered via knocks on the wall and then passed into the cemetery through the railings. And yes, there is a ghost, or was – a gentleman in Victorian garb, including wing-tip collar and pince-nez. Anthony has never seen him, but it was an article of faith among older generations that they had.

This isn’t hard to believe in the bar, which looks like it hasn’t changed since 1833. By contrast, in a concession to modernity, the neighbouring lounge has taken to serving tapas in recent times.

But that wouldn’t worry the ghost who, like most self-respecting pint drinkers of a certain age, wouldn’t be caught dead in a lounge. If you’re ever looking for him, I’m told he sits down at the back, near the ringboard.

Another thing I did last weekend, by the way, was drive up to Kilakee in the Dublin Mountains. Where from, it being a fine day, I climbed the steep hill to the infamous Hellfire Club, aka Montpelier House. I’d like to claim this was a spooky experience, but it wasn’t. I was mainly struck by the extraordinary views up there, and the wonderful walking trails.

It’s true the ruined house looks a bit strange, but that’s largely because of the rounded stone roof, which has defied fire and three centuries to remain intact. It may have defied other things as well, if half the stories are believed. But actually, its survival tends to undermine one of the central legends.

Roof

It’s said that the house was built (in 1725) using stones from an ancient burial cairn. This meant it was ill-omened from the start, and in popular imagination, explained why the original slate roof was quickly blown off, necessitating the stone substitute.

But I don’t know – if the stone was the offending part, surely it’s the walls that should have collapsed. Instead they, and the roof, look remarkably solid 290 years later. So I’m inclined to think, what with this being an exposed hill-top site, the role of mere weather in the original slate removal can not be entirely ruled out.

@FrankmcnallyIT