“People have this preconception that it’s a closed club – a political group. That, as my younger son says, the IRA wants you in it and it’s this terrorist thing.”
Darina O’Byrne explains the dilemma facing the Home Rule Club. She and other members of its organising committee are seated at its front bar, a cosy, low-ceilinged room, adorned with depictions of John Redmond, the former MP and leader of the movement.
Whether it’s distaste for politics or ahistorical presumptions, the club, which is owned by its members on a not-for-profit basis, faces challenges as it celebrates its 125th anniversary.
It was set up by Catholic businessmen in the city in July 1894, with the intent being the 'advancement of Catholic and national interests'
One of these is that the movement which gave the club its name lost much of its power a century ago. The title of Home Rule continues to feel like a drawback for some members.
“A lot of people make the mistake that they think the Home Rule Club is a political club,” says Roger O’Reilly, “but it’s not political at all”.
‘Behooved’
Nonetheless, chairman John Kelly says, owing to his role, he is “behooved” to focus on the club’s original political aims.
He has prepared a detailed timeline tracing incidents and legislative movements in the build-up to Home Rule receiving approval, before the outbreak of the first World War delayed its implementation, and then its overtaking by the Easter Rising and independence.
Its origins can be traced back to the 1890s, when a Bill introducing Home Rule for Ireland was brought before the House of Commons at Westminster. It was the second occasion it came in front of MPs, and the result was the same: defeat.
That still served to intensify efforts in Ireland at achieving a parliament in Dublin. Numerous local organisations were formed across the country to provide spaces to organise and network.
One of these was the Home Rule Club in Kilkenny. It was set up by Catholic businessmen in the city in July 1894, with the intent being, according to the club’s original rules, the “advancement of Catholic and national interests and providing rational amusements for its members”.
The latter aim was mainly provided primarily by a billiard table.
“Obviously by the time of independence it started becoming more of a social club and that’s what it is today, with no affiliations whatsoever,” says O’Reilly.
But it may have been inclined towards being a social club well before that. Darina O’Byrne, who has been examining the minutes of the early meetings from 1894, says: “Even when it had a political purpose, it was only a fraction of what they were about. If you look at their activities, the first meeting was all about the billiard table. [They were wondering] how they were going to light the billiard table. Would they light it with gas? That sort of thing.”
Darina says the minutes do show that there was an emphasis on education for the club, through its library and reading rooms. Excursions to parts of the country were also a feature of the club’s activities.
Now located on John’s Quay by the river Nore, its remit goes well beyond Home Rule. As well as operating as a public house, it hosts community groups from across the city, covering film clubs, dancing classes and tai chi groups. It’s a fully fledged community hub, say members.
For the year that’s in it, a series of political and historical talks are being held. This July has brought a look at a violent confrontation in 1830s south Kilkenny, known locally as the Battle of Carrickshock, which saw 14 members of the Irish Constabulary killed by tenant farmers while attempting to collect tithes.
The best known modern day supporter of the Home Rule movement, former taoiseach John Bruton, visited last month. He became a member following his talk on John Redmond, the leading figure of the movement, who was an MP for neighbouring Waterford.
It doesn’t take much to become a member, explains Kelly: “It’s €10 for membership for the year. It’s essentially run on a shoestring.”
A bar manager is employed full time alongside several part-time bar staff. Renovations were carried out on the bar and beer garden three years ago.
In the generations subsequent to the collapse of the political movement, the building had a reputation as a “dingy” workman’s club and was a favoured spot for snooker players.
The premises was set to be sold off earlier this decade, as a way of covering a revenue bill of €30,000. There was a fear that the club could disappear altogether.
But, says Kelly, “the word went out that it was going to disappear off the face of the earth and it led to a surge in membership to retain the club”.
While many of those new members have since “melted away”, there are still about 130 people paying their yearly dues.
Roger O’Reilly reckons that brief swelling in membership was a “vote of confidence in the club” and its plans for the future.
An artist, best known for last year’s illustrated look at Ireland’s lighthouses, O’Reilly popped in the doors a decade ago inquiring whether they had any space he could rent as a studio.
It's the kind of place you'd walk in on your own. The minute I walked in and came in that door, somebody said: 'sit down there and sing a song'
“They had just done up the top room in the club, so I’ve ended up painting there for the last 10 years. Eventually they managed to twist my arm and get me on to the committee earlier this year – after only nine years.”
It has managed to be more accessible than the building’s previous function, an elite school for young women. The boarders had to bring with them three items upon entry, says O’Reilly: a pair of sheets, a change of clothes and a silver spoon.
Other people had a harder time joining. Nuala Culleton was introduced to the club by her husband Paddy when they were teenagers, but only Paddy was allowed to become a member.
Culleton sought to change this when she was older: “There was a campaign to allow women to become members. I think it was 1989 when they agreed to let us join and then I was secretary five years later.
“It was only when we were campaigning for us to become members, that we discovered that it wasn’t written anywhere that women couldn’t become members,” she laughs.
There was another group barred from membership: Parnellites. The Irish Parliamentary Party leader Charles Stewart Parnell’s personal life, crucially his adultery and divorce proceedings, caused a split within the party in the 1800s.
“There were Catholic priests on the board for the early years,” says Clare Griffin, who has researched the club’s formative period.
“A lot of the members were Catholic and considering the split happened just a few years before the club was founded, it would make sense that they were anti-Parnellites.”
Indeed, according to O’Byrne, the minutes of one early meeting showed a man’s loyalty to the Parnellite faction being used as a factor against him gaining membership.
“Ironically, even though the [pressure group] Home Rule Government Association was formed by a Protestant barrister, this club was a Catholic club. I think really there was all sorts of disparate groups looking for self-determination and scrambling to get some control of their lives,” she says.
The next challenge for the club, she says, is to continue attracting and retaining members so they can “regenerate from below”.
The combination of the club’s hillwalking, meditation and its regular music nights attracted her, and she hopes its wide offering will appeal further.
“It’s the kind of place you’d walk in on your own. The minute I walked in and came in that door, somebody said: ‘sit down there and sing a song’.