Clonmel family bonds run deep as Joe continues on the pathway forged by his father

I’ve passed Channon’s forge on Nelson Street in Clonmel thousands of times before but in a case of familiarity breeding complacency I’d never looked at it in any detail.

 As I stood outside, I noticed the gates were wrought with intricate details: birds, flowers and plants, all captured in steel but somehow brought to life. The gate posts too, provided a sign that there was more here than form fulfilling function. They were made from old digger track links, expertly welded to support the gates.

To the right of the sliding doors inside the gates is a plaque in sheet steel. It reads, ‘Channon’s Forge, erected in memory of Ted Channon, forged here from 1954 to 2010’. A reminder that this place is part of the fabric of Clonmel, as is the Channon name.

Joe, the proprietor, was waiting and extended his hand in welcome. We went inside through the small hatch door, and I was greeted by the acrid smell of heated metal lingering in the air, and the sight of heavy forge equipment. A sixteen stone anvil sat on a plinth and Joe mentioned that it had been there since his dad’s time. He dragged out two old beer kegs, upturned them and we sat down.

“Well, there has been a forge here forever,” Joe says, in answer to my first query. “There used to be a small CIE forge out in the front long before my dad’s time and he started in ‘54, so it’s been here for at least a hundred years, I’d say, and I’ve been here since I was ten, fooling around, and I’m fifty-three now, so I’ve been forging that long, I suppose,”  said Joe.

I indicate my surprise because Joe could easily pass for ten years younger. “Yeah, I get that a fair bit,” he says with a smile.

“Didn’t do a lot of schooling, jumped ship after 1st year in the High School, and since the old man didn’t argue, I’ve been here ever since. I was thirteen then, so it’s been forty years. It was myself, my two brothers and dad for many years until Eddie, the eldest, left to go to the Curragh to start his own forge. He’s still there and does mostly farriery,” said Joe.

His eyes wander for a moment before continuing. “Dad died in 2010 and Ian, my younger brother, left soon after to do his own thing, so I’ve been here on my own since. A few lads have come and gone but primarily I work alone,” said Joe.

Joe’s work has been through many changes since those early days.

 “There were both big changes and challenges over the years,” he says. 

“The biggest was the gradual move away from heavy machinery repair. We used to weld twelve hours a day, taking apart, fixing and reassembling machines. That died off and we transitioned to wrought iron work, gates, balconies, garden furniture, window boxes, working mostly here in the forge, rather than out on site,” he said.

He pauses, hands resting on his knees, lost in thought. I wait as I don’t feel the need to prompt. Joe has an open feeling about him and I’m confident the words will come. I’m not disappointed.

“When dad started in ‘54, he was a blacksmith and farrier but moved when heavy earth moving machinery repair came along. That changed again when horse shoeing took off. At that time there was a huge amount to be done and that’s when Eddie left to train as a farrier,” he added.

SENSE OF LOSS

I can’t help but feel the sense of loss, of missing his father and brothers as Joe talks. Family bonds run deep in him. 

“I jumped on board with the farriery and when I was nineteen, dad sent me to Hereford in England to get a qualification,” he says. 

“At the time I could travel anywhere in the world as a farrier. Nowadays though, each country has its own standard and it’s illegal to shoe unless you’re registered.”

“When dad died in 2010, both myself and my younger brother took over until Ian went his own way and suddenly, I was landed with running the business. That’s a big transition,” he said.

 He laughs. “We’d always been ‘in’ the business, but having to learn about rates, revenue, VAT, insurance, stock, pricing, making money and paying bills, that was getting thrown in at the deep end. Until then I left on a Friday evening with money in the bank and it was ‘good luck’ until Monday. We had a business, but really we were under the main man,” he said.

I can hear Joe’s respect and love for his father every time he mentions him. It occurs to me that it must have been intimidating to take on that mantle, so I ask the question.

FOOTSTEPS

“Absolutely, yeah, keeping the doors open, following in his footsteps, people expect a lot of you, and rightly so, you were sort of built up, Ted Channon’s son, you’re supposed to be something, even if you’re not. Over the years people asked why I didn’t move from here but it’s a household name in the town, essential for whatever was needed, from a spot of weld to shoeing a horse. People say the place is a landmark or an eyesore,” said Joe.  

“The gates outside have all sorts of iron work that Dad added over the years. There’s a lot of pride in that. The job is tough, and I do a lot less farriery now just because I don’t have the time to do it all,” he said.

“So after forty years, what keeps you going?”

Joe points to an upturned wheelbarrow on a bench. “Years ago, I’d have turned that little thing away, not worth the time to do it. Dad would ask what the man wanted, and I’d say it wasn’t worth the effort. Dad would tell me one of his many little sayings ‘If a man arrives at the gate with a problem, don’t send him away with two. Solve his problem. It’s a tenner and five minutes to you but to him it’s as important as the five grand gates you’re making,” Joe smiled.

 “I still complain but now I do the little job because it’s ingrained. I always revert back to the old man. He had a different philosophy to most because he came from genuinely hard times,” he said.

Joe went on to tell me a story about his father that for me summed up both their relationship and the philosophy handed down through the generations. 

One Monday his father didn’t show up for work and Joe went home to see what was wrong. His mother said he’d had a few pints the night before and wasn’t up yet. ‘Look what he has in his pocket’ she said, pointing to his jacket on the bannister. He looked and there was a lump of coal, a half a briquette and a potato. Confused, he left and went back to work. When his dad arrived later, Joe asked him about it. ‘You boys don’t know hard times’ Dad said, ‘I saw them on the street and I couldn’t pass them because I remember when I didn’t have coal, a briquette or a potato. When all we had was cabbage for dinner, flavoured with a pig’s head borrowed from the neighbours to give a bang of bacon off it’.

Today for Joe, the high of the job is still in solving the small problems. 

“Whether it’s a barrow, a buggy, a donkey’s hooves left neat, not in pain. That’s satisfying. The lows are impatient, demanding people who don’t understand that everything takes time because I make everything. I buy in nothing. This isn’t Tesco. If it comes out of here, I made it. That and not being able to say no and putting myself under pressure,” said Joe.

We talked about apprentices, about trying to find the right man, how hard it was.

 THE OLD MAN

“I’ll keep looking,” Joe says, smiling, “but they all watch Forged In Fire and think they can learn it in a year. If I have any advice for a young lad, it’s take your time. There’s a lot to learn before you can make a blade. You have to learn what works, learn your steel, what looks balanced, what works best. There’s an art to it. It isn’t copied from a book, it’s all in the eye, the hand and the feel for it. All of it drilled in by the old man but I’m still getting orders so I must be doing something right,” said Joe.

As I left I looked again at the welded links of the gate post. As strong and imposing as they may be, the links to his father and to the traditions handed down are stronger still.

Two books, Artisans of Clonmel and Artisans of Cashel, were published before Christmas.
They were launched as part of Clonmel Applefest and the Cashel Arts Festival.
They both carry the stories of craftspeople in the community.
Over the coming months The Nationalist will carry stories from both books.
The story about Clonmel blacksmith Ian Channon is written by Karl Clancy
Karl Clancy, fifty and in danger of adolescence. Father of four, philosopher, martial artist, journalist, columnist, graphic designer, and sometime poet when he’s not painting houses or portraits. Karl says he has always written but only recently discovered what he wanted to write about, namely life, including traumas navigated, the healing experience, learning peace and learning to see life clearly. Karl is also involved in a program teaching self-awareness to transition year and first year college students.