The extras have been pared away – down to the air fresheners in the toilets – but country weddings are keeping the Tullamore Court afloat, writes KATHY SHERIDAN
THE PLAQUE, dated January 15th, 1998, proudly proclaims the grand opening of the Tullamore Court hotel by Bertie Ahern. The owner, John Flanagan, is a former Fianna Fáil county councillor and was probably well-got in Mount Street’s happier days. Nowadays, however, Flanagan seems less than gruntled with his old muckers: “I’d be the last to criticise the present Government. They’re trying to get a handle on things.” If those walls could talk . . .
Still, at least Tullamore Court remains afloat, under the stewardship of managing director, Joe O’Brien, a shrewd and bright-eyed 51-year-old – “My age? the guards wouldn’t ask me that”. O’Brien drives a non-flash car with an ash-tray stuffed with fag-ends. So how many a day, Joe? “The guards wouldn’t ask me that,” he says again. “But I suppose the fact is that in this business, you’re never off. It’s seven days a week. Even when you are off, you’ll be getting calls to ‘look after’ someone.” What does that mean? “Give him an upgrade, put a bottle of wine in the room.”
But O’Brien, of all people, knew what he was getting into. At 14, he was working in Kelly’s in Rosslare, where his father, Tommy, was head chef. He opened the 50-room Tullamore Court when “you’d do well to get a cup of tea and a sandwich in the town”, as Flanagan puts it. The last big hotel investment in Tullamore was about 200 years before that, in 1801, according to local historian, Michael Byrne, when the Grand Canal Hotel opened, then closed after seven years, killed off by the bypass to Shannon Harbour.
Now, Tullamore is seriously “over-bedded” again, by about 35 per cent. O’Brien counts nine, furiously competing hotels within 30 miles. “I used to look at the planning applications and you’d know how much those buildings were going to cost. And after so many, I started asking myself – was there something I didn’t know? Now the chickens are coming home to roost.”
Flanagan blames the tax incentives and says Tullamore Court is “at the pin of its collar” to repay the €10 million borrowed in 2006 to double the size. Demand is back to 2000 levels and they’ve had to reduce rates. Rooms on average “are in the low €60s now”, says O’Brien, “down about 25 to 30 per cent from a few years ago”. A regular guest says she always gets BB there for €60. The Court is currently offering five nights’ BB for €150 per person. “We definitely won’t go below that. The challenge once they’re here is to get them to eat in the hotel and drink in the bar.”
“We’re covering our costs but it’s not sustainable. You need a reasonable profit to re-invest. If the situation were to get any worse, that would be a potential difficulty,” he says delicately. “In the good times, what people were spending was probably unnatural – now it’s back to less than natural.”
ALL AROUND US, IS A timely reminder of the unheralded contribution of country town hotels. It’s in the lively flow of locals and business people, ensconced on the numerous sofas around the large, attractive lobby. Local women, Deirdre O’Connor, Ita Kearney and Lorraine Walsh are meeting here before heading for Achill. “You can’t get a seat here on Sunday with the locals,” they say. “It’s the same in the Bridge House [hotel]. It would be a big loss to the community if it went.”
Further up, a man with a laptop looks like a visiting businessman. He turns out to be a local retired teacher, Oliver McCormack, in for his daily circuit with his pals. “I’ll have a swim in the leisure centre, and then I’ll sit here for about an hour with the computer. The coffee and scone costs €4.25 – it’s a fiver anywhere else – and you get a free read of the paper. It’s real value for money.”
McCormack particularly appreciates how older people can get half-portions for lunch. “That’s a kind of thoughtfulness you don’t see so much.”
Between meals, snacks and drinks, the dining and lobby area yields an average of €10 a head, says O’Brien. But the big cash cows – conferences and weddings – are vital. The hotel’s outgoings, O’Brien says, are upwards of €335,000 a month and he is no fan of targeting the wages of lower-paid staff. “But there’s a huge onus on Government to reduce costs in the rest of the economy.”
So they’ve shaved off non-essentials, down to the air freshener in the toilets. And wedding organiser, Martin Tempany, has taken to buying the flowers from the market and arranging them himself – no small thing given the significance of weddings in the Court’s bottom line.
“Ah yes,” sighs O’Brien, “people are still getting married, thank God.” And the midlands is bucking the trend for reduced guest numbers. There’s one coming up in the Court for 350. Today’s will bring in 180, says Tempany, who is on to his 1,300th-and-something bride.
He is quite clear on why and when the “madness” set in; it was in 2006/7 and it was directly down to the SSIAs. “They drove everyone nuts. Couples were timing their weddings for when the schemes matured. No-one mentioned prices until they had to look at menus.”
General manager, Philip O’Brien (no relation to Joe) remembers that time for different reasons. “We were paying 10 per cent above the minimum wage, but trying to get young people to work was a nightmare. I remember someone saying why work here in a hard waitering job when they could get one brushing a building site for €17 an hour?”
While agencies made a killing sourcing staff, the bridal couples danced merrily on. “It went from family cars to Beauforts and stretch limos. Everyone was going to the Seychelles and Mauritius, via a week in Dubai for the shopping. Well, you’d have to, wouldn’t you?” says Tempany, with an arch grin.
Suddenly everyone wanted chocolate fountains, and the Michael Bublé impersonators to accompany the canapés, and covers and bows for the chairs (a fiver a pop), and favours such as the Lily O’Brien chocolates or the spoons with the coat of arms, and a drink of choice for the toast, and beef fillet and sea bass rather dull old sirloin or salmon.
“I think there was one wedding with turkey and ham that year,” says Tempany. And now? “Now we’re back to turkey and ham for every second wedding. And you’ll get love hearts instead of the chocolates.”
The average menu per head now is €47.50, says Joe O’Brien, and that includes the once-posh chair covers and bows.
For the hotel however, there is potential for more. “We’d get an average of 35 rooms per wedding, a bit at the bar, and a bit next day when people are sitting around having coffee and sandwiches.” But to an outsider, it looks like hard labour.
TODAY’S BRIDE IS EXPECTED at 4pm. The lobby has been transformed, basically by whisking away the sofas and tables near the door, creating space for a grand entrance and a drinks bar with cocktails and canapés. A pianist is tinkling away with She Moves Through the Fair. In the kitchen, Maureen Larkin is deftly turning out 120 rounds of sandwiches for the afters. All on schedule so far.
Come 5.30pm, there’s still no word from the bride. Head chef, Michael Kelly, says equably they would normally be calling guests to the meal by now. And those 20 kids they’re hearing about – are they plus or minus the 180 head count? Come 5.45pm, the pianist, eyes fixed, is still thrashing away on When I Fall in Love. Tempany is hovering in the lobby with his red carpet. Does he ever want to give a bride a slap? “Never entered my head,” he giggles.
At 6.15pm, he moves outside, finally unfurling the red carpet in the spitting rain. A vast stretch limousine pulls up. The guests line up. The kids’ excitement escalates to deranged small terrier proportions, as they make frantic circuits of the lobby.
At last, the radiant bride pushes through the revolving door, preceded by a video-operator and a crouching photographer throwing Mario Testino shapes. So Martin, would you like to give anyone a slap now? “The photographer – YES!” he says, rigor mortis grin in place.
The pianist packs up.
At 6.50pm Tempany finally gets to ring the bell for dinner. Twenty minutes later, a quick recce of the hotel bar reveals dozens of stragglers as the speeches start inside. At 8.15pm, the main courses – 125 turkey and ham portions, 32 salmon, four vegetarian dishes and a few dozen so-called “oddities”, such as chicken nuggets and pasta – make their way to table.
All in the kitchen are managing to appear sanguine. They swear it’s not because The Irish Times is lurking.
Early next morning, Tempany is back on duty, setting up for a two-teacher wedding. “Last year was the year of the guards. This is the year of the teachers,” he says cheerfully, possibly because “teachers are usually very organised”.
Out front in the sun, a few of the over-nighters are having a smoke or taking desperate gulps of air after a few hours’ sleep. They are united in praise: “Food fabulous . . . great salmon . . . first hotel where we were offered second helpings.”
Soon after, here comes the bride again, in her civvies, with a bunch of keen followers, back in the lobby, doing their bit for the barfood revenue. Joe O’Brien will be happy.
