STROLLING ALONG Johnson’s Court – an alleyway off Dublin’s Grafton Street – one Sunday morning recently, I found myself eavesdropping on an argument. It was between two men begging and it appeared, essentially, to be a turf dispute.
One man was positioned inside the gate of the tiny courtyard at the back of Clarendon Street Carmelite Church. The other was opposite the gate, sitting in the alleyway, near the side entrance of Bewleys.
From what I heard, the gist of it was that the man in the alley claimed to have been there first; alleging that the other man had leap-frogged him; and that if the latter stayed where he was, the former would shortly return the compliment by moving into the church doorway.
Anyway, as I walked past, out of earshot, it struck me that for pan-handlers, the location must be prime real-estate: “tucked away” – as property ads always say – just off the main shopping district and enjoying a quiet ambience, yet also offering easy access to Christians, tourists, and all major amenities.
But I was just about to turn the corner into Grafton Street when the argument behind me turned suddenly violent. The apparent defendant in the case – the man in the church courtyard – had turned attacker and was now raining thumps down on the man outside, who was still in a sitting position.
A busker who’d been playing nearby (Johnson’s Court is also popular with musicians for some of the same reasons, plus acoustics) had fled the alley for safety and together we looked around to see if there was a Garda nearby. There wasn’t.
But in any case, the row was over in seconds. After receiving a few kicks too, the man in the alley scrambled to his feet and hastily retreated in the direction of Clarendon Street. He had apparently withdrawn his objections, at least for now.
The victorious party meanwhile resumed his position in time to greet worshippers at 11am Mass. His spot was overseen, I noted later, by an Imogen Stuart sculpture on the church bell-tower. Its title, according to a plaque: “Methos – the Angel of Peace”.
MOST OF THE TIME, it must be said, any sense of tension in Johnson’s Court is of a milder variety. As with all streets, its business profile has changed over the years. But in recent times, the alleyway has resolved itself into a polite confrontation between God and mammon, with the church on one side (literally and metaphorically) and half a dozen jewellery shops on the other.
Whatever the reason, the only non-jewellery businesses on the street now are Bewley’s, via an unused side entrance, and Barratt’s shoe store on the Grafton Street corner.
It is, I suppose, a romantic little thoroughfare: narrow and slightly winding. In other European cities, it might be part of the barrio gotico. And it sometimes smells a bit a medieval too: possibly because, although it’s one of the few Dublin streets that doesn’t have a pub, it’s a popular option for late-night urinators from the streets that do.
But it takes on a magical quality at Christmas, in particular, when covered from end to end by a canopy of fairy lights. Then, if you’re looking for an engagement ring or a bejewelled present, Johnson’s Court is an obvious place to linger. So maybe the Christmas trade alone sustains all these competing outlets huddled together.
STRANGE TO SAY, Johnson’s Court does not appear to have merited mention in Ulysses. But a year after the events described in that book, it did feature in a landmark court case: a case that, to one degree or another, involved drinking, jewellery shops, and the church, and that may have set the tone for the street as it is today.
It centred on what is now the shoe shop. Which premises, for a time during the late 1800s and early 1900s had been a “gin palace”, with entrances on both Grafton Street and Johnson’s Court. By 1905, however, new owners had divided the lease, renting the Grafton Street frontage to a “diamond merchant”, but seeking to sublet the Johnson’s Court end to a publican.
In what The Irish Times headlined as “Important Licensing Case”, the police and the Carmelite Church were among those objecting to the plan. And the Carmelites, at least, had heavyweight representation – the MP, journalist, and lawyer Tim Healy, leader of the anti-Parnellite faction in the split and later to be first governor general of the Irish Free State.
An effect of recent changes to the premises, it was pointed out, was that the gin palace’s Johnson’s Court entrance, which had been “24 feet” from the church door, was now only “20 feet”. It was a “most objectionable site” for a pub, protested Healy. The lease-owner countered that the new man intended to serve food to his patrons and that split-use plan was an improvement on its predecessor.
But the judge ruled against him. In a biblical turn of phrase, he said that having “cut off the head” of the premises, the owners were now trying to license “the tail”. He would not allow it. Thus the drinking emporium was removed from the church’s presence and the modern ambience of the street secured.
There was an amusing irony, incidentally, in the fact that the pub would one day be replaced by a shoe shop. The Clarendon Street Carmelites are a mendicant order, also called “discalced”. It’s an old-fashioned term, from the Latin, and refers to the members’ one-time habit – no longer required – of going barefoot.