Pat McPadden publican, Main Street, Dromahair – ah there was a man! My father told us that when Pat had drink on him he would start boasting about his footballing prowess as a youth. On one final day he particularly excelled and in fact won the day for Dromahair by scoring the winning goal. The following week on the Leitrim Observer the headline jumped out at him “McPaden scores Again!” An unusual publican Pat. While most purveyors of drink want to get people into their premises and keep them as long as possible. In fact one public house in Dromahair was known as the ‘gluepot’, the reason being when you went in it was difficult to get out. But not so with our man. On fair days Pat’s bar would be filled to the brim until afternoon, when his helper Joe McGonigle and himself would get fed up of the noise and start serving themselves – on empty stomachs. They then wanted to be rid of their clients. We children would wait for the inevitable “Get out o’ me house, Get out to hell o’ me house.” He would start pushing and shoving them . They, of course took no heed of Pat, asking for one more for the road. After several more efforts without any movement he would then go up to the Barrack for help in putting his customers out . Needless to say the Guards had more sense than to accede to this unusual request. They listened for a while and then changed the subject. We children had our own dealings with Pat. He was a source of income for us and would buy any Guinness bottles we found. In those days publicans bottled their own stout and re-used the bottles. We knew where to look for same – up past the Protestant Church where late night revellers would chuck them across the wall after a night on the town. Pat would tap the bottles for cracks. Then he would smell them for paraffin oil. You could never get the smell of paraffin out of a bottle, we were assured. All going well we got our penny per bottle and immediately made our way to The Corner Shop on the Back Line. Our pocket money was one penny per week, two pence if we did some jobs such as collecting eggs from the henhouse.
Best of all were the fights on fair days
When I was about eight or nine years old ballpoint pens, or biros as they were better known, came on stream. They were a big improvement on the inkwell and nib method of writing and even the fountain pen. They didn’t blot and didn’t need a refill for ages. Master O’Hara had a very impressive one. My sister Agnes was going to the Mercy Convent in Sligo at the time and told us that biros were on sale in Woolworths for 1/3 or 15 pence each. I was determined to get one and saved up for a few months. Eventually the great day came and Agnes arrived back with my biro. Everyone had to have a go at it. It was a wonder! We wrote our names and addresses over and over.
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