THE story goes that when the funeral cortège of Robert Burns passed through the town of Dumfries a little boy turned to his mother and asked: “But who will be our poet now?”
The people of north Derry will be experiencing a similar sense of loss this week.
Because they buried their chieftain in Dungiven last Saturday.
Their chieftain, Francis Brolly.
And like there was no poet to replace Robbie Burns, there is no chieftain to replace Francie Brolly.
Francie Brolly was not my chieftain. I knew Francie in a different capacity.
I got to know him through my friendship with his son, Joe.
Then, by extension, I saw him operating as a family man, politician and civilian. He was some operator.
The first thing that struck me about Francie was how unbelievably different he was to his eldest son.
Francie radiated calmness. It’s not an exaggeration to say there was a Zen-like aura about him.
He oozed warmth and serenity. Then you had Joe, a ball of restlessness and nervous energy.
Watching them together was fascinating.
The three of us had dinner up at Stormont one day. It was Joe’s idea. Francie hosted.
Francie, contained and calm. Joe, going like a hand bell. The stillwater and the stream. The food was good. The company was better.
And Francie absolutely adored Joe.
You might have got the odd covert raising of the eyes, but more often than not he’d flash that big grin at Joe… being Joe.
He seemed to be constantly in awe of his son’s sheer exuberance.
Because that was one of Francie’s many endearing qualities. Friend or kin, he just accepted people as he found them.
And you only had to be in Francie’s company a short period of time to realise it was a judgment-free zone.
That’s an extraordinarily attractive quality in any human being.
While Francie and Joe exhibited very different personalities, they shared one common trait. They’d do anything for practically anybody.
And they were often a double act. There were countless occasions when I was in Joe’s company and he would take a phone call from his father.
Acting in his capacity as a Sinn Féin MLA, Francie would have been looking Joe to pull a string or put a word in with someone. The requests were as varied as they were constant.
Yet, it never seemed like a chore to either man. It was often a curiosity to me why a man of Francie’s intellect and ability didn’t rise to a higher position within his party.
I still don’t know the answer but when I posed the question to a person who knew him for decades, they replied: “Francie would have got a bigger kick out of helping a neighbour get a gate fixed than he would seeing a bridge named after him.”
IT’S in the Brolly genes to help their neighbours.
Once as Francie walked down Dungiven Main Street he was accosted by two men.
One introduced Francie to the other. “This is Francie Brolly,” he said.
“If you ever want anything done, if you’ve a planning application or you need a form filled, this is the best man to come to.”
“Sure didn’t I know his father, Joe” replied the other man.
“He was even better again. He could have written a letter for you that you couldn’t even understand!”
Francie enjoyed that one.
I had my own experience watching Francie in action.
I play a very minor role organising the Man of Sperrin Sportive.
In the first few years of its existence, we decided to make the entrants ride up Benbradagh, the mountain which towers over Dungiven. In its inaugural year, our grand plan faced one major problem.
On the descent towards Glenullin, three padlocked gates block the road. For the sportive to be viable, we needed the three farmers who own the land to open their gates.
Rather than visit the three farmers individually, I decided to visit Francie at his home, which sits in the shadow of Benbradagh. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon.
The Brolly house was buzzing with activity. Grandchildren were racing about. Anne was in the kitchen. The main man was in the sitting room, feet up, watching a football match.
Contentment personified. I was made welcome. I said my piece.
Francie nodded in agreement that the sportive would be good for the Sperrins and good for Derry. Then we got tea and watched the match. When it was over Francie got down to business.
Three phone calls were made in quick succession to the farmers. None lasted more than a few minutes.
The chieftain wanted the gates opened. The gates would be opened. And gladly. Job done. Like that.
As a politician, gael and civic leader, Francie was respected.
As the head of the Brolly clan, he was worshipped.
At family events he would make his way around all his grandchildren, enquiring about football matches and the events of the week. There was time and talk for all of them.
“Eat the good food,” was his instruction to them at all meal times.
They have been saying it for years in his absence.
“Eat the good food.” It’s a phrase which instantly evokes an image of their bearded Buddha, the man the Brolly children called: ‘Granda Francie.’
There was a whiteboard and markers in the Benedy Community Centre where the refreshments were served after his funeral.
Two of Francie’s grandchildren, Niall and Dualta, got to work.
As the mourners left, they could see the fruits of their labour.
Scrawled repeatedly over the board were the words: ‘We love Granda Francie.’
Their Granda would have loved that epitaph.
It would definitely have drawn one of those big, warm Francie smiles.
