Bringing poetry to the people with Ulick's Words Alone

Among the large, gothic-style Victorian houses that line a small park tucked away amid the red-brick streets between Rathmines and Rathgar, stands the house Ulick O’Connor has lived in all his life.

On a sunny, mild winter day, he answers the door carrying a two-bar heater and an apology for the slight delay. His secretary has had to take the day off, he says. We pass through a hallway that brooks little modernity to a drawing room filled with books, art and the memorabilia of a life in theatre, sport, literature and law.

There is no sign of central heating — you feel O’Connor’s parents would still easily recognise their home — but the heater, a convenient solution for a bachelor, it must be said, is soon warming the high-ceilinged space, its bay windows overlooking the park, where my bicycle is against the railings. “Ah, you cycle,” he says, “good man, good man. I walk everywhere. Two hours every day. It keeps you young. It gives you more good years.”