OZ.

Osbourne’s Pub

Clonegal

Co. Carlow

Osbourne’s pub in Clonegal. Mid-afternoon, mid-winter, and the bar is empty. The village itself is uncanny in its desolation, the wind and the gurgling of the river Derry under the nearby bridge the only sounds to be heard.

It’s a long and winding road that takes you to this place. It is also a confusing one, for Clonegal sits at the point where the three counties of Wicklow, Wexford and Carlow meet. And for a long time that bridge, presently in danger of crumbling, provided the only river crossing for the only road that led from Dublin to the port of Wexford. Better to walk here, as most people do. For Clonegal is the last stop on the Wicklow Way, the jaded travellers having to place their hands on the map in the village before proceeding to  Osbourne’s, the first pub in Carlow coming from Wexford, or, if you like, the last pub in Carlow if you’re heading to Wexford.

If confusion isn’t enough, try a bit of mystification.

Clonegal began its life as a plantation town when the first Lord Esmonde was granted large tracts of land by Charles II. In 1625 he completed Huntington Castle and later established the row of houses that sit neatly at its gates.

Fast forward to 1976, and resident Olivia Robertson had what you might call a revelation, whereby it was made known to her that God was not in fact a man but a woman. It was good enough for her brother Lawrence, then a clergyman for the Church of Ireland, to convert and between them they founded The Fellowship of Isis, the HQ of which is now located in the basement of the castle together with twelve shrines and five chapels. With initiation ceremonies and festivals at the castle, cult members now jockey with hill walkers for a stool in the local pub. Add in the mysterious circles that appeared on the playing pitches of the local Ben Mulhall Park as reported in the local paper, and what you have is one very odd but very quaint Irish village.

            The door of the pub is washed in a pea green and a colourful stained glass prevents the curious outsider from peering in. A heavy latch requires the force of a strong thumb, helped on its way from inside by a friendly man whom I discover is the owner, Kevin Osbourne.

The first object to greet you inside is an old stove that sits on stone grey tiles. It’s one of those stoves that emanates warmth just by its appearance, regardless of whether a fire is burning in it or not.

The timber that decorates the ceiling is the colour of aged beech and there is that pleasant mid-morning pub smell from the ghosts of cigarette smoke, matured alcohol and soapy water. Ashtrays that look like relics and advertise cigarettes that are no longer available are scattered on tables and the ceiling above the bar is the colour of a rotten lung. An old Guinness sign made of a pliable metal of some sort is pinned to the wall near the windows, the bottom half of which contain a gauze, the type that sat on Bunsen burners, and behind the gauze, odd-coloured bottles of blues and greens with no markings whatsoever. They could have held drink, they could have held chemicals, or, as I’m soon to discover, medicinal tonics, since the place was an apothecary among other things.

An old black phone occupies a spot near the door, one of those phones that requires the “A” button to be pressed when answered. Even as a kid I could never figure out why. I thought about making a call, just for the memories, but Euro coins and old black phones are in two very different time zones.

Behind the bar, a set of shelves made from coffin-lids groan under the weight of ancient biscuit tins and an assortment of bottles. This was a pub first and a business second; the business being undertaking. Bodies dressed in the front, drink served in the back. Last orders anyone? It would later become a general store and an apothecary, but it was while it was an undertakers that the coffin-lids were fitted to act as shelves. If they were strong enough to take a few tons of earth, then they could withstand a hundred pint bottles. God knows what they drank in those days in these bars. The living dead must have been a constant worry.

Pubs doubling as undertakers were not uncommon. They had cool storerooms, ample space and could give a dying man his last song and his final drink. In fact, in 1846 The Coroners Act meant that a dead body could be directed to the nearest tavern or public house and all owners were obliged to consent. McDaid’s pub in Dublin was once a morgue, and the pub bearing the name The Morgue in Templeogue, Dublin, was situated near such a treacherous bend that dead bodies were as common as live ones in the bar. It wasn’t until the 1960s, when the car took over from the coach and dead bodies could be dispensed with more quickly, that the provision was removed.

I ask Kevin for a coffee and he looks slightly bewildered. But it’s cold, I’m driving and all the talk of formaldehyde has me nervous. He disappears out through a door that leads into a larger lounge and the last I see of him is when he is out in the yard going in the direction of a house next door. Will he return with an axe, I wonder? No. Ten minutes later he returns with a tray of coffee and biscuits, which I realise has come from his own kitchen.  Hospitality at its finest.

For the local history, Kevin advises me to visit one Willie White, a retired man who writes a column called ‘Times Past’ for the Carlow Nationalist, and has published several books on local history. I did arrange a visit afterwards and met Willie in his home, a man who had so much information it would warrant a separate book. But he'd already done all that. He invited me to return at some point and promised a tour of that oddball cult in the castle. I might take him up someday when my faith needs a change of direction.

After a general chat with Kevin Osbourne, I ask the best and quickest route out of town, hoping it’s the opposite way to the torturous road I had just come in on. Unfortunately, he tells me that if I’m heading back to Dublin, then the way I came in was the only way out.

He watches from the door as I wave, then head the opposite way once he goes back in. Can’t face that road twice in the one day. But I should have taken the advice of Willie White, offered in one of his columns for the Carlow Nationalist. “If you want to know where you are going, the best thing to do is to look back and see where you came from.”

Over an hour later I find myself frustrated, approaching Clonegal once more, having done an annoying and very peculiar circle that didn’t seem to be there on the map. Much like the large circles that appeared on the playing fields. But aren’t there large circles on every playing field?