Brendan ‘Sox’ Devine by a friend
Not so long ago, every town and village in Ireland and indeed in rural
communities had a ‘character.’ In fact, there may have been a few ‘characters’
in any one locality. When you try to analyse it, it’s hard to describe
accurately what a ‘character’ actually is. We all knew who the local
‘characters’ were. Mostly men, but not always. But, sadly, the local
‘characters’ are nearly all gone.
I write this, because, just recently, St. Johnston lost a well known
‘character’.
Brendan Devine, locally known as ‘Sox’, passed away in January 2020. He was
seventy years of age. There is no doubt that he was the last of the many
characters, who lived in the locality of St. Johnston and Carrigans. The others
have all sadly now passed on as well, but not alone was Brendan probably the
last of them, but he was the best known. It is said that he acquired the
nickname ‘Sox’ from an incident when, as a lad, in an attempt to dry his wet
socks without taking them off, he put his feet too close to the fire and burnt
both socks and feet.
Brendan Augustine Devine was born in Foyleview, just outside St. Johnston
village and lived his whole life in the same house. Sadly, his mother passed
away when Brendan was just three years old, a tragic event to befall any child
of that age. His father, Eddie, was an engine driver on the railway and was
known as ‘Steam’ Devine. Brendan went to primary school, St. Baithin’s, which
stood just a couple of hundred yards from his home. While its proper name was
St. Baithin’s’, some wag christened it the ‘Blueball Academy,’ as it was located
in the townland of Blueball – and the name stuck. His teacher was none other
than Master Sean McBride, that famous composer of the song, “The Homes of
Donegal.”
However, after spending the required number of years at the ‘Blueball’, he
decided that schooling or even Master McBride’s song writing was not for him and
he sought employment in Desmonds’ garage in Derry. But working at cars didn’t
appeal to him either, so he did what many other young men did, he took the boat
to England. However whether it was the boat journey across the water or
whatever, Brendan took a liking to life on the ocean wave and he joined the
Merchant Navy. Soon he was visiting many ports around the globe, from North
America, to the Far East, to Australia. He told me many stories about different
ports and about his times in the Service. Unfortunately, an incident in
Australia led to him being packed off on an early boat home. I can’t remember
the details now of what actually happened in Australia, but I do remember that
it had something to do with a lady and being absent without leave for a weekend,
springs to mind, but I can’t rightly remember. So we’ll just leave it at that. I
think it was probably all a misunderstanding.
Back in St. Johnston, the salmon fishing season soon came round and Sox, like
most men in the St. Johnston and Carrigans area, became one of the hundreds, who
donned their waders and headed for the river, in the hope of striking it rich.
Those who had a licence, owned a boat and net and those who didn’t have a
licence, usually became a crew member for the many licence holders. Many men
even left relatively lucrative jobs in England to come home ‘for the fishing’,
although while they seldom made more money than they did in England, there was
always the chance of that one ‘Klondyke’ and that was enough to tempt them home.
And of course, it was a holiday home, to see family and friends. Anyone who has
not fished for salmon on the Foyle, doesn’t understand the magnetism that draws
a man back year after year. The way the salmon business was run was
comparatively simple. The total sales value of the week’s catch, less any
expenses, was divided into three. The holder of the licence got a third, the
owner of the boat and net (which was usually the same man, but not always, as
the licence holder) got a third and the crew divided the remaining third between
them.
Now, there were those men, who fished legally and those who fished illegally and
were known as ‘poachers’ or as they were locally called, ‘poochers’. Now I
emphasise that not for a minute am I suggesting that Brendan fished any way
other than legally. I’m just filling in the local history. Everyone knows he
never ‘pooched’ in his life. And on the few occasions that he was dreadfully
unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and got caught in possession
of, let’s say, an illegal net or boat, he claimed in local court that he just
happened upon the said items, while he was out walking along the banks of his
beloved Foyle. A very plausible defence, I think, which any fair minded judge
should have believed. However, for whatever reason, on one or two occasions, the
judge did not believe him and he was fined the usual few pounds. I have no doubt
whatsoever that any charges for which he did pay a fine, were gross miscarriages
of justice !
A local sergeant, now long retired, did all in his power to catch Brendan on the
river, fishing illegally. But, of course, he never did catch him, because, as I
have stated above, Brendan never was involved in any type of such nefarious
activity. It was a Tom and Jerry type scenario and like the cartoon pair, Tom
never did get to catch Gerry. Although on one well known occasion, the sergeant
waited in the bushes by the river, for a long time, watching through his
binoculars, a man, far away, packing his illegal net into a bag and, throwing it
over his shoulder, before proceeded to walk through the dense reeds towards the
river bank. The sergeant concealed himself until eventually a man with a bag
slung over his shoulder approached, then jumped out. The man with the bag was
Sox.
“Hold it there, Brendan” says the Sarge, “You’re under arrest!”
“What for?” asks Brendan
“For possession of an illegal net, which you have in that sack – I’ve been
watching you !”
“Go and take a good jump to yourself,” says Brendan.
“Open that bag now”, ordered the sergeant.
Brendan dropped the bag and turned it up to spill out the contents - it was full
of empty bottles. There was no sign of a net.
“Sure, I’m only gathering bottles to get a few pennies back on them, to feed my
poor hungry wains,” says Brendan, as he re-filled the bag and proceeded on his
way.
During the winter season, Brendan was an avid follower of game shooting and on
many a dark early winter’s morning we spent in the mud flats, known as the
Hollocks, an area of reed beds in the middle of the Foyle, waiting for the early
morning flight of duck. Brendan was an excellent shot and when a duck appeared
out of the dark sky, you had to be quick to get a shot in before him. He was so
confident with his aim, that a favourite saying of his, as he was about to pull
the trigger, was, “How do you like your duck, with red or brown sauce ?” After
the morning duck flight, it was on to the pheasants and whether it was Binion
Hill, Dooish, or even as far as Ramelton or Clonmany, we seldom came home
without a good bag. And while we travelled far and wide, Brendan’s favourite
shooting spot was where he called Tony’s meadow, a marshy area, just a couple of
hundred yards from his own home, where we often stood in the gloaming, making
not a noise, as we waited for the dusk flight of duck, be it mallard or the fast
flying teal, our ears pealed for the wing beat of an approaching bird, while
trying to identify from which direction the sound was coming. As the light got
dimmer and the darkness grew, we depended less on our eyes and more on our ears.
Away in the distance, up river, at the islands, you might have heard a gun being
fired and you became extra vigilant, in the hope that the shot may have scared
some duck down to the meadow. And away down river, you would hear a curlew now
and again. Or perhaps the whisp of a snipe, as it sped past, now impossible to
spot, never mind shoot. Eventually, darkness completely overcame us and while
you could hear the duck, you simply couldn’t see them, to get a shot, so it was
off home. But we seldom went home without a brace.
Great days, now sadly gone.
Brendan was also a keen supporter and player of cricket and was a fully paid up
member of the local Cricket Club in St. Johnston and indeed, when at the crease,
what he lacked in speed, he made up for in craft. He was an able bowler, also.
He was an avid follower of greyhound racing and in recent years, he looked after
and trained greyhounds for their owners. On one occasion, as recalled by a local
man of the cloth, Sox invited him to the dog racing track in Lifford.
“I found it strange that almost all the dogs he told me to bet on, never
featured, whereas the no hopers, with big odds, which he bet on, seemed to do
better,” the Holy Man remembered.
At the end of the night, on the way home, Brendan was counting his winnings in
the car. The good Reverend eventually turned to Brendan and asked how come the
dogs he picked came last, but those Brendan backed, seemed to do better.
“It’s a secret,” says Sox.
“And what is the secret, Brendan?” asked the priest.
“Well, it’s very simple, Father,” says Sox, “You stick to the preaching and I’ll
stick to the dogs!”
In the old days, on a Saturday evening, if it was too wet to go out hunting, we
used to pass the time playing snooker in Martin Golden’s snooker hall. He was a
good pool and snooker player and indeed, quite a shrewd chess player too. We
often passed an hour or two, at the chessboard, usually in the Carrig Inn. I
vividly remember, on one occasion, he and I were engrossed in a tight
best-of-three match. At one game each, the tiebreak was lasting well over an
hour, but of course, there was a certain amount of time wasting on the part of
both of us, simply to frustrate another keen player, a well known St. Johnston
gentleman, who had just recently returned from living in Scotland. This man was
patiently waiting to take on the winner. Eventually, Brendan won and with a sigh
of relief, the new man immediately took off his coat and hung it on the back of
his chair and sat down to challenge Brendan. The pieces were set up, Brendan
moved first, the challenger moved next, whereupon Brendan made a move to tempt
his opponent into a trap – a fatal one. The new man took the bait and moved
exactly where Brendan had thought he would. Just at that moment, the barman, the
late Lehane Lennon called, “Here’s your pint”.
Our man got up to pay for his pint, but by the time he had sat down, the game
was over – checkmate to Brendan. Before he had a sip at his pint, Brendan had
him beaten, courtesy of the ‘three move checkmate’ and the game was over in
about two minutes. The new challenger wasn’t too pleased, especially at himself
for not seeing the move happening in front of his very eyes. It’s a well known
move that any amateur player should know and watch out for. This gentleman was,
in his own way, also a ‘character’, but sadly also passed on some years ago. He
was famous locally for ‘knowing everything’. Readers of a certain vintage who
are reading this little obituary will know exactly to whom I am referring. That
was over forty one years ago.
There are countless stories about Brendan, all good stories, but too many to
regale here.
How many are true? Who knows, but even if some were apocryphal, they were still
good stories, nevertheless. If I were to tell them all, there wouldn’t be enough
space in the website to hold them all. However, allow me to tell some of them.
One day, in the local snooker hall, a couple of young lads were playing pool and
after the game was over, one of the lads searched his pockets for a couple of 2p
pieces, needed to start a new game and get the balls out on the table.
Unfortunately, he could only find one coin, so he approached Brendan and says,
“Hi, Sox, have you a 2p?”
Quick as a flash, Brendan replies, “I haven’t a f****** Rupee, never mind a 2p
!”
On another occasion, when asked by a lad for a cigarette, he shot a look of
dismissal back at the lad, adding, “It’s “Devine” you call me, not “de Paul’.
A well known story is still told, when once was a pub at the lower end of St.
Johnston street, called “Ritchie’s”, beside where The Fisherman’s Inn now
stands. It was owned by another character, called Ritchie Lynch, long passed on
too. One night, there were about a dozen people in the bar, after hours, it was
about 1.30am. Suddenly there was knock at the door and two Guards, not from the
local barracks, stepped in. “Right’” said one of the Guards, “names and
addresses.” They pulled out their notebooks and began writing. They were moving
along, taking down the information and one of the Guards eventually stood before
a certain local gentleman.
“Name and address,” demands the Guard. (Now, I shall not give the proper name of
the man, whom the Guard was questioning, - to protect his good name and
integrity - so we’ll call him Jim Doherty, from Ard Baithin, the local housing
estate.) But Mr. Doherty had a plan up his sleeve, so when asked his name,
seeing that the Guard was not local, instead of properly answering “Jim Doherty,
Ard Baithin, St. Johnston”, he says, “Paddy Lynch, Carrickmore, St. Johnston.”
The Guard had no reason to doubt the information, so he wrote it down and moved
on down the line. Eventually, he reached Sox. “Name and address,” says the
Guard.
Brendan looked him straight in the eye and said… “Jim Doherty, Ard Baithin, St.
Johnston,” ….!!
Brendan married Martha Rodgers, from Carrigans and together they had a daughter,
Anne and a son, Kevin, plus three grandchildren. But Brendan was way ahead of
his time, when it came to woman’s rights and gender equality. In the old days,
most men left their wives to slave over a sink or wash dirty nappies, while the
menfolk did the easy work and brought home the paypacket. But, as I have said,
Sox was forward thinking - he believed that it was only fair to let Martha have
the freedom to go out to do the easy work, in Derry, while he chose the
desperately hard job of staying at home….. as Phil Coulter famously wrote in his
song,
“The town I loved so well” ...
"While the man on the dole played the mother's role, Fed the children and then
trained the dogs."
He could have written that specially for Brendan. He was not one to be tied down
by permanent employment.
Brendan enjoyed good health for almost all his life, but for the past couple of
years, his health declined and in recent months he was lovingly cared for by
Martha, Kevin and Anne.
I spoke with him often towards the end and he had lost none of his old sarcasm
and wit.
I can envisage the scene in the Great Pub in the sky, when the door opens and
you walk in, Brendan. All the other characters will look around and someone will
say, “Jesus, will ye look who it is – Sox Devine,” and you’ll probably reply,
“Aye, and would somebody gimme a fag, I left mine in the house!”
Sox, you old fox, you may be gone, but not forgotten and I have no doubt that
the stories about you will live on!
Rest in peace, Brendan.