30-32 Bank St, Belfast BT1 1HL
A Trip Down Memory Lane
The year is 1955, the place Castle Junction, our starting point for a little 100-yard walk down Bank Street (or Crooked Lane, as it was called in olden times), a walk that will cover over two centuries in our city’s history. One whitewashed building stands out in front of us, namely Kelly’s Cellars, with its beautiful rococo lantern above the lounge door. This is, without doubt, Belfast’s oldest continuous licensed premises.
Once we enter the narrow, almost forbidding, doorway we are stepping straight into the 18th century and all around us, are the authentic relics of a rich and storied past. Here is a building full of memories – and ghosts of other days and other years.
Their shadows flit around this illustrious old bar, in which little has changed with the passage of years. These walls and rafters down the years have rung to the mirth of poets, playwrights, jesters, lawyers and journalists. It’s highly atmospheric, with its vaulted ceilings, barred windows covered with dusty cobwebs, little wooden snugs, old barrels, low whitewashed arches, glittering copper measures, and low, well-scrubbed counter, so low you can sit on it. There is something special about this place: you can feel it in your bones. Here time stands still, and gives you the chance to reflect back to the days when Crooked Lane was only a country lane running beside the river Farset (which actually flows underneath it today), and Belfast was just a village no bigger than Dunmurry, with a population of only 6,000 persons. The year is now 1720, when Jonathan Swift was in his prime, and it was here that Hugh Kelly, a Belfast merchant, built his little tavern. Soon many famous, and not so famous, men made their way down to this whitewashed tavern to enjoy a private drink and the warm hospitality of the landlord.
Kelly’s also was involved in that famous chapter in Irish History: the 1798 Insurrection, for it is said that during those stirring times the great Presbyterian leaders met here. For as long as anybody can remember, an antique portrait of the leaders adorned the wall in the small room – names like Neilson, Dwyer, Shearer, Corbett, O’Connor, Rowan, Jackson, Wolfe Tone, Thomas Russell and Henry Joy McCracken. Here, we are told, these doomed leaders whispered in dark corners, supped ale and plotted deeds which were both heroic and bloody. There is one incident in history we are certain happened here, for it is recorded that Henry Joy McCracken fled into Kelly’s, and hid underneath the low counter, while Redcoats, in hotfoot pursuit, passed by. He eventually led the insurgents at the Battle of Antrim in 1798, was later captured, and was hanged at Cornmarket in High Street. There are still relics of the ’98 there: the old print of the leaders; muskets, pistols and flintlocks on the whitewashed walls, and above the low arch; all authentic and each with its own history and story to tell. Beneath us, is the same hard floor where mead was once spilled from the rough tankards.
The centuries move on, and in one of the quiet snugs there is a signed portrait of Sir Martin John Harvey, a world famous actor of his day, in the costume of Sydney Carton (A Tale of Two Cities). When he played Belfast, it was always to packed houses, and for most of his free time he was to be found with his literary friends in one of the snugs. It is said he was imbued with his celebrated 19th century part, and he found in Kelly’s the only place where he could find the spirit which breathed of the past.
Here also, Hugh McCartan, the famous novelist, was often to be seen in the gloom of the old tavern – here he must have met those folks from whom he made characters in his novels. He often called Kelly’s ‘the only authentic Bohemia I have ever known’. Here is his description of the place:
“After standing for a moment in the throbbing heart of the city, you wander down a narrow thoroughfare, so unobtrusive that few of the citizens are aware of its existence. About half way down the lane you stop before a quaint old fashioned building suggesting a compromise between a farmhouse and a bonded store. You note the whitewashed uneven walls, the antiquated roof, the apologetic windows, the secretive doorway. Having luckily negotiated two or three treacherous steps, you find yourself in what at first sight looks like a cellar, fitfully lit up by whatever rays from the outside world manage to struggle through the grimy windows. You note the damp black walls, liberally festooned with cobwebs, a confusion of barrels and casks and bottles, and something that had once been a counter behind which an elderly attendant, bareheaded and in his shirt sleeves, peruses a newspaper with an air of leisurely detachment from the duties of his mundane calling. Very soon your ears are surprised by the sound of laughing voices emanating from a room to the left which, from its greater neatness, you assume to be the office of the mind that directs the destinies of the quaint enterprise, just as the cellar is obviously the special preserve of the negligent figure behind the counter who, to all appearances, concentrates in himself all the manual labour of which the business boasts. Assuming that the angel with the drawn sword is satisfied with your credentials, you pass into the room, take your place among the group sitting on low forms around the fireplace, and become a freeman of Bohemia. You are struck with the atmosphere of easy good fellowship which pervades the place, an atmosphere all the more gratifying by contrast with the fierce struggle for life and wealth which foams and whirls not many hundred yards away. Here you feel, is a Halcyon calm in a tumultuous sea, a sanctuary in the wilderness, a friendly inn on the mountain top.”
Another portrait hangs in the bar, and that’s of Wee Joe Devlin, the famous Nationalist MP at both Westminster and Stormont, a wee man with a big husky Belfast accent and adored by the poor of the city. You could call Kelly’s his political cradle, for here he was manager for a while. Not long after his short sojourn here, he soon rocketed to fame as the MP for West Belfast, and the inveterate opponent of British rule in the North. In an old ledger, dated 21st December 1890, can be seen the following entry ‘. . . Joe Devlin . . . Christmas box . . . 2/6’. In that same ledger, we read prices that are now amongst the memories of this haunted place. Here are just a few to wet your whistle: a pint of good Whiskey was 1/9, a pint of best whisky 2/1, a bottle of best port 1/-, and under an entry for Mrs. Oglive was 2 and half dozen stout for 4/5; under wholesale entries, 1 Hogshead (66 gallons) of best whiskey was 10/6 a gallon, and 1 Hogshead of XX porter was £3.2.6.
The old ledgers went on to tell us that Kelly’s went through 4 hogsheads a week. Remarkable, but let’s not forget those were the days when there was little or no duty. However, it still looks as if our ancestors were big drinkers. Hugh Kelly’s son took over from his father, and on his death in 1863 it was sold to Mrs. Henry Close of Hannahstown (by a strange coincidence, a relation of my late mother’s, whose maiden name was also Close). She in turn sold the premises in 1873 for £1,100 to Mr. Sam Young, the Nationalist MP, and it was this man who was so impressed by the eloquence of his young manager, wee Joe Devlin, at debating societies, that he persuaded him to enter politics . . . the rest is history. In 1895 Sam Young in turn sold to Young, King & Co., Distillers, for £8,000, and in December 1942 my late father, Jimmy Tohill, purchased it from Mr. Charles Lupane, a Director of Young, King & Co., for the sum of £6,000. This was wartime Belfast, with its shortage of food and drink. My father, astute as he was, had agreed with the seller that part of the deal would be a generous supply of bulk whiskey. This certainly enabled father to serve ‘a drop of the hard stuff’, while other bars had gone dry. Kelly’s was now to enter her golden era, and for that full credit must be given to my father. When he first bought it, many people thought he was mad to buy a derelict place but my father did not doubt his own judgement for one minute. He soon proved he had the vision, the enthusiasm and the drive to make it famous. When he sold it 20 years later to my old friend Kevin O’Kane, it was famous not only in our isles but throughout the world.
But let’s go back to 1942 when father took over Kelly’s. It was, literally, dying on its feet. Sales were non-existent: in fact, the first week’s takings amounted to only £25. The very first thing father did was to change its name. Up till then it was called Kelly’s Wine Stores, but as his old dear friend Jimmy Kelly in East Belfast also called his bar and his chain of Off Licences by the same name, he changed the name to what it is known as today, Kelly’s Cellars. From then on the regulars called it simply The Cellars. Father proceeded to clean up the place by whitewashing the walls inside, touching up the original mahogany wood, but was careful to leave the centuries-old cobwebs on the small windows, later to be removed by the health authorities. There was no structural change, everything remained the same. As my father said, ‘You shouldn’t pull down history’.
In the loft above, he discovered many historic items that formed the nucleus of his private museum, that was to develop in the years that lay ahead. Among the dust and cobwebs were found two coins of historic importance. Firstly was a George III Irish halfpenny, and the second a twopenny piece of 1765. Another historic find was a remarkable wooden projector with reams and reams of painted canvas that was once the famous Diorama, the very first moving pictures of that distinguished physician and showman Dr. Corry of Chichester Street . . . so if we let our imagination wander, maybe the very first moving picture show in Ireland was held here in Kelly’s. In the 60’s old chinaware, two reindeer heads, copper measures (originally used in the premises centuries before) still adorned the walls. There were sporting prints of famous races, and an old map of Belfast. The big key on the wall was once the main key for the now defunct Smithfield Gaol, and there was even an elephant’s gigantic tooth presented to father by an enthusiastic big game hunter. Kelly’s has always had theatrical associations. At one time there were two theatres in Smithfield, and Kelly’s was the actors’ rendezvous. Many famous players, poets and dramatists have talked there around the low counter, or in one of the little snugs. The old theatre and playbills have been there as long as people can remember. When Sir Tyrone Guthrie wanted an 18th century pistol for one of his London productions, he found one in Kelly’s Cellars. International soccer caps adorn the walls, donated by the greats of Irish football, including the great Elisha Scott, the legendary Liverpool and Celtic keeper. There was other bric-a-brac far too numerous to mention, but all carefully collected by my father.
Memories of Kelly’s Cellars
It wasn’t long after the war years that Kelly’s gained the international reputation as being the haunt of journalists, the sporting fraternity, prominent bankers and businessmen of all types. You’d never know who you would be rubbing shoulders with, maybe a judge or an M.P., or a shipyard worker, and yet they all blended in harmoniously. Many a big local football signing took place down in the cellars in one of those little snugs. All the formalities were agreed over a few bottles of Red Heart stout. The official signing took place later. In fact, so many visiting scribes and sportsmen came from all over the world, that father got a brainwave to install a visitors’ book in the early fifties. Last year Kevin O’Kane presented me with it, and what a wonderful nostalgic trip I had in turning over the pages. They are all there, the famous and the not so famous, like some of the barmen, Con Neeson, Hugh Magee, Eugene Lynch, Sean Bannon and Jimmy Gilmartin, to mention a few who have passed through these hallowed arches. Show business people are well represented: as I flick over the pages I see names like Wilfred ‘Have a Go’ Pickles, Stephen Boyd, of Ben Hur fame, Guy Mitchell, G.H. Elliott (the Chocolate Coloured Coon). A smile came over my face when I saw the signature of Buck Alec, and written beside it ‘the world’s greatest lion tamer’. Then there are the football managers and directors, like Jock Stein, Jimmy McGrory, Bill Shankly, Matt Busby, Stan Seymour and Bob Kelly, to mention just a few. Our first local snooker hero is there – Jackie Rea (his father grew up with my own father in his native Stewartstown, Co. Tyrone), against his name ‘News of the World Winner in 1955’. The Rugby fraternity are represented, with legendary names like J.W. Kyle, the gifted out-half with his rugby partner, the late Ernie Strathdee. The Instonians Rugby XV of 1949-50, the Springboks of 1954 and the Balmy Beach Rugby Team of 1963 all enjoyed the hospitality of Kelly’s. The boxers included Sonny Liston, the flamboyant Jack Doyle, Rinty Monaghan, Floyd Patterson, and Two Ton Tony Galento, the rolypoly heavyweight who dared to challenge the great Joe Louis in his prime. Don’t you remember his wild boast before the fight: “I’ll moider the bum”? The football immortals are there, Len Shackleton (the crown prince of soccer), Peter Doherty, Charley Tully, Sir Stanley Matthews, Ernie Taylor, and the entire Blackpool F.A. Cup winning team of 1953, Nat Lofthouse, Charley Buchan, Jackie Vernon, John Charles (the Welsh giant), Harry and his father Jap Walker, Danny Blanchflower, Fred Roberts (record goal scorer in the Irish League in 1931), the Hibernian Football Team of 1957, and even the entire Portuguese soccer team of 1957, all quenched their thirst here. The golfers included Fred Daly, celebrating his Open triumph, and still the only Irishman ever to win the British Open, with his old friends Dai Rees and Sammy Moore. Our local artists are well to the fore, like Willie Conor, Alfie Woods, Richard Hayward, Louis MacNeice, Joe Tomelty, Harold Goldblatt, Jack Loudan, J.G. Devlin and Albert Sharp.
The sporting scribes are too numerous to mention: they, in fact, take up more than 60 per cent of the book. I like Willie Clarke of Glasgow’s comment ‘It was a great day for the Irish’, commenting on that wonderful triumph of the no-hopers Irish League team against a very talented English League, the result: Irish League 5 – English League 2, and below it a local scribe Hammy McDowell wrote ‘To quote from a famous song – “and when I tell them how wonderful it was, they’ll never believe me”’. Here’s more comments: the finest house and landlord we ever met (the Chief Commissioner of Police for Auckland). Of all the 2,500 signatures one certainly intrigued me, and that was the self-proclaimed Ard Ri (High King) Gilmore of Ireland, with an address of Port Anne and Royal Tara, who wrote a letter thanking management and staff for receiving him so regally and cordially. One comment sums up what Kelly’s meant to its patrons, and that was from Stuart Surridge, the former England and Surrey Cricket Captain, when he penned these words: ‘What a wonderful pub, or should I say Club’, and in many ways that’s what it was – a meeting place for friends, a club atmosphere where everybody knew everybody else, and if you walked in a complete stranger, then my father wasn’t long in getting round to you to welcome you and introduce you to some of the locals . . . you were a stranger no more. Almost anybody who was anybody, passed through this ancient monument of a pub at one time or another, although some would be too proud to admit being there. As one wit remarked ‘This place would even charm a teetotaller’.
Kelly’s was unique in other ways. I believe it had the only daytime Men Only bar in Ireland, but to the left as you entered there was an oversized snuglike room catering for the females, and many of these were the last of the ‘Auld Shawlies’. I could never understand why, but ladies had never equal status in Kelly’s, even when the two lounges were opened upstairs. Father not only had a commissionaire on the door, but a notice stating quite clearly that ladies would be refused admittance unless accompanied by a gentleman . . . you wouldn’t get away with that now.
Every pub has its characters, and Kelly’s was certainly no exception. Names run through my head, like wee Dominic Woods, Dick Meek, Honest Joe (so called because he wouldn’t rest until he found the rightful owner of a substantial wage packet he found), but by far the greatest character of them all was the small rolypoly man (having consumed so much of his favourite tipple, Red Heart Stout) with the perpetual red face, none other than Johnny Shanks. I can see him so clearly now sitting in the last barrel stool, around the Arch, holding court with his ever ready audience.
Evidence of many stubbed butts was a testimony of his presence at the counter. He worked in the assistance board all his life, and in his youth he was a cross-country champion, but in later years he became better known for his activities in the local football scene. Secretary of Linfield Swifts and a member of the I.F.A. for over 30 years, and a local scribe for Thompson’s Weekly News, his stories and leg pulls have become part of the folk lore of Kelly’s. I remember one night on the eve of an away soccer International with England. The bar was packed with intending commuters, big Bob Hillock from the GPO was organising the trip and had prearranged with everybody who was going that when he clapped his hands everybody was to drink up and make for the boat. At that particular time a visiting Englishman happened to be sitting beside Johnny. He didn’t know him or anybody else for that matter in the place, and when Big Bob gave the expected signal, you should have seen the mad rush to get away. Within five minutes the place was empty, except for Johnny and the Englishman. The latter, not knowing what happened, couldn’t understand it and politely asked Johnny the reason for the exodus, to which Johnny replied ‘The bloody Sassenachs are to blame for it, they are all emigrating, sure there’s nothing like it since the Potato Famine’. The Englishman, believing every word, just shrugged his shoulders and carried on with his drinking – of course he was told the truth later in the night. Or what about the time Johnny was complaining to another believer about his sore back and the excuse he gave was ‘You see, my wife’s an invalid and she’s bedridden, and I have to carry her up and down the narrow flight of stairs to make my breakfast, dinner and tea, I’m just no good around the house, I can’t even make myself a cup of tea . . . she’ll be the death of me yet’. While all this was going on, all the locals were having a good laugh to themselves, knowing full well that Johnny was having him on. He wasn’t even married in the first place. Another time he angered a Preston supporter by calling his team Preston Both Ends. And what about the Black Man who bought him a bottle of stout and a half’un unexpectedly. He turned round to see who was the generous benefactor, and thanked him with the words, “If you’ll pardon the expression, but you’re one white man”. God be good to you, Johnny, for you brought a lot of happiness into other peoples’ humdrum lives.
Another human landmark about the place was the manager, Bob Wilson, born in County Dublin as the century began, but who lived all of his life in his beloved Ballygowan. He was manager when my father took over the place, and it wasn’t long before father realised he had a gem, and from then on he made no change in the style of management Bob had portrayed. It certainly was in keeping with the place. Bob was an integral part of the furnishings. I often thought that Bob should have been a Parson or a Doctor, for his personality was so mellow and kind. Bob was manager, doorman, soothsayer and comedian all rolled into one. If there was a sign of trouble, Bob would gently take the offender by the arm and before he knew it he was out in the lane. He also had a vivid memory and he always smiled when he told the story of the morning after the heavy air raid on Easter Monday 1941, when he reported in for work only to find the back of the bar buried under masonry, blown off the Bank Buildings by a German bomb. He told many a customer that he was brought in as a fortnight’s replacement for somebody who had been taken ill. He was still there 50 years later when he retired. He cried openly in 1961 when my father told him he was selling the place because of health reasons. He retired himself 4 years later, after 40 years as manager. I can still see him so vividly, walking with a slight stoop behind the bar, ducking and weaving his head under the very low arch, which claimed so many heads in its day. He seemed to have built-in radar, for no matter how near he was, down his head went never to touch it, never to suffer from that terrible crack in the skull. I hit mine a few times and believe me, I saw stars. Bob, the friend of many and enemy of none, died peacefully at the age of 71, never having the best of health throughout his life. I was at his funeral in the small graveyard behind the Presbyterian church in Saintfield. A few years later I happened to be in Saintfield, so I decided to call and say a prayer over his grave. When I arrived there, I found to my pleasant surprise a small rabbit nibbling quietly on his grave, so much in keeping with one of nature’s gentlemen.
In 1945, when father was building the upstairs lounge, the builder came across a macabre relic, a tombstone with no inscription on it. Instead of throwing it out, he left it standing in the outside yard. Father was told afterwards by Mr. McEntee, the retired office manager of Young, King & Co., that he remembered seeing it in the loft 50 years earlier when he was a boy, so God only knows the date or history of it. The breaking of it happened when a certain gentleman, who was not prepared to take Bob’s word for it there was no inscription on it, duly turned it over, breaking it in the process.
When the Cocktail Lounge was opened in 1948, the main talking point was the inspired mural (in Michelangelo style) on the ceiling by the internationally known local artist Sydney Smith (1912-1982). His unique mural, fully in keeping with the place, was Classical Mythology brought up to date. The entire ceiling was adorned with a playful decoration of Bacchus the God of Wine. Here were to be seen satyrs and centaurs romping through the Olympian skies bearing trays of wines in a mad sort of egg and spoon race.
In 1954, an Elizabethan-style lounge was opened to the rear. This Tudor lounge was officially opened by father’s old friend, the legendary Manchester City and English International goalkeeper, big Frank Swift, who was to die tragically 4 years later in the Munich Air Disaster with the Busby Babes.
In the early sixties, Father’s health took a turn for the worse: two heart attacks slowed him up considerably (although he was to live for a further 19 years). When an unexpected offer of £43,000 from Kevin O’Kane came in for the place in June 1961, he decided to sell. I was naturally sad at the time, but the decision and timing were right. I would be the first to admit I would have had great trouble following in his footsteps, for over the years he built up a very special clientele, due to his captivating personality. He was a great conversationalist, storyteller, and with a football memory that continued to amaze everybody.
29 years had now passed, and I had never set foot in Kelly’s until a few months ago, when it was time to write it up for my book. I must admit, I was both nervous and apprehensive. Immediately I walked in through the door I could still feel the archaic atmosphere, which still permeates these old Cellars so strongly. One look was enough and all the old memories came surging back. While the march of time has uprooted Belfast into the computer age, Kelly’s still belongs to the era of the stagecoach days. There were changes, some for the better, but more for the worse. There was a low counter, but not the 18th century one that Henry Joy hid under, and even this one was only put there inside the last few years, replacing a high ugly monstrosity which replaced the original one about 15 years ago.
Behind the bar is unchanged. So are the old arches, and to the rear where the store used to be there’s an extension to the bar carried out in good taste and blending in perfectly with the rest of the bar. The International Caps were still adorning the walls there, except they are now preserved in a glass case. I noticed the playbills and the old prints, but there was quite a lot of father’s collection missing, and there was no trace of the tombstone in the yard. Upstairs the change is dramatic. The Tudor lounge with the great rustic fireplace remains unchanged, but the cocktail lounge was just drab and dreary-looking and drastically changed, for looking up at the ceiling, Sydney Smith’s masterpiece was gone. I stood aghast at what I saw. Somebody had committed a crime, destroying an irreplaceable…
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Pub sign gallery, “The Swinging Pubs of the North”: Holland’s Lounge Bar & Restaurant; The Mayfly Inn; The Stagecoach Inn; O’Kane; The Linnet Inn; The Bodega; The Percy French; Lavery’s Gin Palace; Donegan’s Restaurant & Bar.
Pub sign gallery (continued): Ramble Inn; Nelly’s; The Wild Duck; Murlough Tavern Bar & Lounge; The House of McDonnell; The Chimney Corner Inn; Slip Inn; a swan-shaped sign; The White Horse Inn; Charlemont Arms Hotel; Harry’s Bar; Kelly’s (Established 1720).
“Northern Ireland’s most Famous Whiskey” photo gallery: Pub with no beer, Armagh City; The end of the old Empire – 1962; the old Elephant Bar, now Winemark, North Street; Charlie Chaplin Bar, Slieve Donard Hotel, Newcastle; the winged lion of St. Mark, The Morning Star, Pottingers Entry; The Beehive, Belfast.