Advertising an epic collection of doors in the county town
Gerard Smith did his own personal take on Doors of Dublin with Doors of Cavan Town in this week's WordSmith column ...
I’ve always been fascinated by doors. I think it’s because behind every one there are stories. And it’s not just front doors; my favourite childhood door was the one that lead to Narnia in the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. I vividly recall reading that book with a torch curled up in my parent’s wardrobe, wishing it would lead to a magical new world – it never did. As I grew older it was secret doors that held my attention, not fantastical ones, real ones. As a teenager I’d stare endlessly at the photo of the bookcase that led to Anne Frank’s secret hiding place. Then there’s the floor and ceiling trapdoor, a trope most often used in spooky films as portals to dark cellars and attics wherein secrets lurk, ready to pounce on the intrepid trespasser.
But it’s the good old front-door that I want to write about here. When a kid there were two front-doors that were my portals into safe havens. The first was the door to my home in Jubilee Terrace. I’d disembark the school bus and hurry up the town eager to get to my front door. That door took me out of the real world and into the drama of the children’s soap-opera, Grange Hill, followed by the company of my three favourite adults on the magazine programme, Blue Peter. Then come the weekend I’d walk out to my granny’s house on the Cootehill Road. The sight of her front door promised fine home cooked fayre, enjoyed in the company of my elders.
When I went to college in Dublin there were also two significant doors. I had a bedsit in a Victorian house off the South Circular Road. After the trials and tribulations of the college day, I’d put the key into the front door of the house, rush up the hallway and up the stairs to the door of my tiny bedsit. Therein the book I was ensconced in waited to greet me. They were the happy-door-days.
With college over, it was onwards to London, where my front doors were literally revolving. I lived like a nomad, moving from flat to flat before I had time to call any of them home. Yet, I remember every front door, some with warm affection, some with abject horror, some with gentle humour.
I recall one London door with a mix of horror and humour. It was the mid 90s and I shared a flat in Kings Cross with two fellow Ad-Industry lads. Friday evening, I returned after a busy week at work, looking forward to a night on the town. Putting the key in the door I noticed it was already open. I shrugged, assuming my flatmate Simon had left it open, again. In the kitchen sat two lads, strangers. I smiled, “Are you Simon’s mates?” I asked. “Yes, we are,” they replied in friendly tandem. I returned their smile, “Help yourself to beers in the fridge,” I said, taking off for the shower.
Later, spruced up to the nines, I left the flat only to meet Simon returning home. Confused, I asked, “Where’s your mates?” He looked equally confused, “What mates?” I looked back, “The ones waiting for you in the kitchen when you were getting ready.” Alas, while I’d been upstairs preening, the burglars had cleaned us out – beers and all. That wasn’t one of my favourite front doors.
When I returned to Cavan, I began noticing the doors. I returned to my old home and was struck by how slim the front door was; and how short my granny’s was. But it was as an ex Ad-Man that I looked at doors with appreciative eyes.
Back in the 1970s, a New York-based Ad-Man visited Dublin and was struck by the colourful Georgian doors of the city. He took photos of them and compiled them into a collage. That collage became the ‘Georgian Doors of Dublin’ poster, which in turn became, and remains, Ireland’s most profitable piece of souvenir-merchandising – it’s ubiquitous in shops, on: posters, calendars, t-towels, fridge magnets, et al.
During Covid, I walked Cavan Town, seeing it in a new light. I was struck by the Georgian doors on Farnham Street. I snapped photos of each one and compiled my own collage, for myself.
That collage turned up in my photo memories this week. Looking at it now, I see it as a subconscious project: an ode to my return to Cavan, a tribute to my advertising career, and an absolute appreciation of Cavan’s epic collection of Georgian Doors.
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