“Letterkenny Museum and the Bridie Gallagher’s dresses here we come,” Mary chuckled climbing into the passenger seat. “Right, you drive and I’ll navigate,” she instructed Ann as we moved off
“Will we get a poke when we stop at Daly’s in Lifford? I asked as we crossed the bridge that spans the Border between Tyrone and Donegal.
Tongue wrapped around the ice cream cone I began telling Mary and Ann about the day I had gone to Belfast International Airport to meet my Brian and his friend Denis from Perth. It was Denis’s first time in Ireland. Half way home to Strabane we pulled into a service station. “Can I get you anything,” he asked in his deep assize drawl. “
“A poke would be nice,” I answered. He exchanged a startled look with Brian. “You sure that’s what you want,” he asked.
“Yip, with raspberry flavouring on it,” I smiled. Bemused, he headed for the shop .Back he came clutching a huge ice cream cone dripping in red flavouring. “Poke, as you requested, madam,” he spluttered leaning over the bonnet of his hired care laughing helplessly.
“Was he on the Jim Bean whiskey for the whole 26 hours of the flight,” I murmured to Brian. My cousin looked at me with a straight face. “Naw. It just a ‘poke’ in Australia mean… a dirty sex act.”
Well, you would have heard Mary and Ann laughing in Letterkenny long before we got there.
We took the route around the town of Letterkenny. And then, we took it again…and again. “This is a like Ground Hog Day,” Ann muttered as she tried to exit the unfamiliar traffic route. Not a bit put out we soon found ourselves outside the Donegal Museum on the High Road. Delighted we had outwitted the traffic system we parked up and all trotted in expecting to view the Bridie Gallagher collection of fabulous dresses she had worn while performing on many prestigious stages around the world.
The Museum was as dark and quiet as the dead of night. There was no stage, no dresses. We looked at each other and waited. I was beginning to feel the place was haunted by some of the people in the historical artefacts and images gracing the museum walls. We waited some more.
We nearly jumped out of our skins when a voice asked, “Can I help you,” There was a bit of spluttering and stammering. Ann took the lead.” We’ve come to see Bridie Gallagher’s dresses. “Our mothers were Bridie’s first cousins and we’re her second cousins.”
Emerging from beneath a large piece of art depicting the Irish Famine, on the turn of the stairwell, the voice took the form of a woman. “Och,” she said, in lovely Donegal fashion. “We’re runnin’ a bit late. The dresses haven’t arrived yet”
“But your advertisement said the dresses would be on show from…”
“Och, I know. The man who was to pick them up and bring them here had a bit of business to see to.” She considered for a minute.” The best thing you can do is go and get a pot of tea and come back in about an hour or so. The dress should be here by then.”
We found a cafe. It was lunchtime. We squeezed ourselves around the only table that was empty. As we tucked into freshly made scones, piled on the double cream and topped it with a liberal helping of strawberry jam we wondered what “wee bit of business,” had kept the man from delivering Bridie’s dresses. Had he been caught by the Garda – police –swanning about in the dresses impersonating the Girl From Donegal? We giggled like school girls, fantasizing what his wee bit of business might have been.
On the way back to the Museum we passed the old Workhouse that had opened in 1845. Climbing the steps we tried the black knocker on the stout blue door. “Locked against vagrants like ourselves,” we joked. Then, soberly we considered how many people had been born and died in the Workhouse.
Descending the grey slab stone steps a woman passing stopped to talk to us. “Would you like me to take a photo for you,” she offered. “Three happy looking women,” she said as we posed like tourists.
Thanking her we headed next door to the museum – again.
Bridie Gallagher’s dresses had arrived but were not ready to be viewed yet. “Why don’t you go upstairs and look around,” the curator advised.
Most of the second floor was given over to amazing display stands of Irish Showbands. .No Dr Who Time Machine could have transported us back to the 1960s, 70, and 80s, as fast at those photographs did.
I was immediately transported back to dancing in the Mecca/Orchid in Lifford.The glittering overhead ball bathing the dancers in a rainbow of colours as they circled the dance floor cheek-to-cheek.
I could feel my stiletto heels slipping on the dance floor where somebody had dusted it too liberally and see the men stub out their John Players or Sweet Afton beneath the toe of their black Beatle boots before nodding the woman in their mini dresses out to dance. Just looking at pictures of Eileen Reid and the Cadets, Doe Dolan and the Drifters and the rest gave me an adrenalin rush.
Downstairs again we hung our coats on the back of chairs to claim our space. Outside, there were nearly as many buses as used to bring jivers, and rock ‘rollers from Derry, Omagh, Letterkenny and further afield to the Orchid to dance the night away.
Jim Livingstone, Bridie Gallagher son and her grandson had arrived from Belfast.
Thrilled to bits we shook hands with them delighted to meet our 3rd and 4th cousins as we viewed Bridie’s stunning dresses
Back in our seats I glanced around at the audience. Bandsmen far and wide had come to help Jim, author of the book “Bridie Gallagher The Girl From Donegal” celebrate the viewing of Bridie’s dresses and recount many humorous accounts of the days of her international success as a singer.
As the evening wore on the bandsmen did a ‘turn’ singing and telling story after story about Bridie and the hey days of the Showbands. Grey-haired men and women still young at heart still passionate about the music.
Knowing I was attending the event I had penned a poem for Bridie’s son, Jim, entitled, “Bridie Gallagher Remembered.”
Tears came to his eyes when I gave him his copy. “Thank you so much,” he said.
I felt honoured to be there to read it out for the gathering.
We had a brilliant evening and enjoyed every minute of it.
The dresses were fabulous; the accolades for The Girl from Donegal were amazing. But for me, when Bridie’s grandson stood up spontaneously and talked about Bridie that was the best for me. “My granny (Bridie) used to take me for Pizza,” he said. “I miss her. We had fun together.”
To him, Bridie Gallagher, internationally acclaimed star for such songs as,” A Mother’s love a blessing and “Girls from the County Armagh” that brought her standing ovations from the parish hall in her home place of Creeslough in Co Donegal to the London Palindromes and the Sydney Opera House – to him she was just his granny he loved and missed.
I think, Bridie Gallagher, the girl from Donegal, would be absolutely delighted with that.
Gemma Hill 2021 ©
Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme 