Dublin's fair city abounds in amateur historians. Most of us have met the man who hunted rabbits in Walkinstown and the man who coursed hares in Greenhills. And if you are lucky, you may have met the fantasist who claims to have known Kilbride's pub in Jobstown when it was a thatched house.

I have my own little morsel of fame -- I remember a time when people picked blackberries off the hedges on the road from Jobstown to Killinarden. Perhaps people still do, but houses are gradually taking over from the blackberry bushes. The Kilbrides, a great family, have replaced the old thatched pub with a splendid emporium.

A little distance away, just off the road to Blessington, you will come to The Embankment, once a modest pub and later a pub-cum -playhouse. When the history of the theatre in modern Ireland is written, its owner, Mick McCarthy, may not merit even a footnote but he played his part -- he was the ultimate example of the proverbial man who does his good deeds by stealth.

Behind every great woman there is a good man. Mick built The Focus Theatre for Deirdre O'Connell and so helped to institute a quiet revolution. Deirdre was a young woman who had served her early years in the theatre in America. She came to Ireland imbued with a new gospel -- a concept of the theatre preached by the Russian director Stanislavski, and favoured by a young actor called Marlon Brando.

Method acting, as it was called, caused you to forget that you were in a theatre -- you were experiencing life itself. The Focus flourished; the fresh approach attracted young people, many of whom became well established in time.

Deirdre herself could have gone on to fame in the mainstream but she was fiercely loyal to the little theatre. She was offered many good parts and was tempted to yield when Noel Pearson asked her to play the nurse in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. The part could have been written for her -- she turned it down. She was wrong -- but that was Deirdre.

While all this was going on, Mick McCarthy's pub-cum-playhouse was growing in stature. It was there that I first saw Whistle In The Dark, the play that established Tom Murphy as a coming force. It had already been produced; that showing in The Embankment added to its popularity. It was there that I first heard Paddy Reilly just starting on his career.

It was there a famous singer made his first appearance in Ireland, if accidentally. Bob Dylan was on a visit to the European mainland when he was forced to spend the night in Dublin. He asked a taximan to take him to some place where he could hear some good music. He was taken to The Embankment. It was so crowded that the doorman refused him entry. The taximan protested: "He is Bob Dylan."

The doorman had never heard of him -- the taximan persisted. Bob got admitted. He was enthralled by the group on the stage, a quintet of young men called The Dubliners.

Wine, like water, finds its own level. It was a good night -- rather surprisingly the pub didn't close at the legal hour.

The Embankment was now well established. For good measure, Mick had acquired a fine pub in the heart of Dublin's fair city. In typical fashion, he re-christened it The Lady Gregory. Mick and his brother Sean had emigrated from Listowel to London in the mid-30s. Mick carried on in the building trade. Sean joined the army at the outbreak of war.

He was a good soldier and was through all the desert campaign with Montgomery. When he came back to Ireland, he soon established himself as a singer and songwriter and refurbisher of old songs.

Two of his songs became very popular: Redhaired Mary is a ribald ballad; Shanagolden is a beautiful love song. Sean was also a great teller of stories and a frequent contributor to Sunday Miscellany.

Mick had already become famous -- in a world far removed from The Embankment. The story now changes to a man called Oswald Mosley. In the early 30s he was the golden boy of the British Labour Party. Although a member of the upper classes, he was an intellectual. He seemed born to be prime minister.

When good people become bad, they are worse than those who were always bad. Hitler was an example -- Mosley was another. He conceived a terrible hatred of Jewish people and was determined to drive them out of London. He founded an army of like-minded lovely people -- they were called The Blackshirts, after their uniform. Their campaign began with isolated incidents, such as the breaking of windows in Jewish shops in the East End.

Eventually it became open warfare. On an infamous day the Blackshirt Army marched into the East End, armed with iron bars and golf clubs and various other weapons of destruction. Their coming was not unexpected: the barricades were up. Only God knows what weapons the defenders had. The invaders were repelled.

Mick McCarthy was then a very young man but he was a born leader. He did more than help to organise the resistance -- he was in the front line. He left his mark on Dublin; he left his mark on a few Blackshirts too. I know that this was the part of his life of which he was most proud.

Of course, he was proud too of The Embankment. Eventually after an arduous life he decided to retire. I missed the final farewell as I was out of the country. It was a kind of celebration and a wake. The people loved Mick and he loved them.

Mick loved the people of the East End too, especially for their courage and humour during the Blitz.

This resilience was exemplified in a famous story about a man who preferred to die in his own house rather than go to the underground shelters. He said to the reporter from the BBC: "The plane meant to kill me must get past the anti-aircraft guns. The pilot must find Whitechapel, then he must find 17 Jubilee Villas -- and I'll be down at the pub."

Fogra: My best wishes go to Frank Greally of Irish Runner, whose eagerly awaited book, Running Commentary, is with the printers -- watch this space Fogra eile: Special thanks to Don Palmer who was so helpful to me in a recent crisis

- Con Coughlan