Omagh Men’s Shed: “It’s more than just a shed”

It was a Friday morning and the weekend was just beginning to flower. We parked the car at the MACCA centre, stepped out into one of the morning’s few sunny spells and started scanning our surroundings in search of a ‘green gate’.

We looked around in vain for 30 seconds, before clocking the purposeful step of a muck-covered man as he carried a bucket across the small car park. We followed and soon found what we were looking for…

“You must be the ones from the ‘Herald,” said a man wearing a fisherman’s hat, in a baritone voice.

Shaking the soil from his hands, Martin Coll stood up, left the flower bed he had been investing in, and, with a smile, offered us a welcoming elbow, which we duly bumped.

“Welcome to Omagh Men’s Shed’s famous gardening centre and craft shop,” laughed Martin.

Omagh Men’s Shed has been on the go since 2014, as Ciaran Gallagher, a former civil servant who handles some of their legal and administrative duties, explained (it isn’t all tea and biscuits out at Mullaghmore).

“We had our first meeting in Omagh Community House eight years ago, attended by 38 men (there are around the same number of members to this day), and, I suppose you could say, that was the initial push that set this whole thing in motion,” he said.

‘This whole thing’ that Ciaran was referring to was far bigger than what I had bargained for.

Maybe I had been a bit naive and literal minded, but when I was asked to call out to the ‘Men’s Shed’, I had expected just that; a shed, a handful of men, a lock of raised beds, and, maybe, just maybe, a small poly tunnel.

“Over the years we have received funding from Fermanagh and Omagh District Council, the Northern Ireland Housing Executive, the National Lottory Fund, various retirement groups and many other donors and sponsors, and we’ve put it to good use,” said Ciaran.

As I said, a bit naive…

“Come on over this way,” said Martin, beckoning us in the direction of the bed he had been working with before we disturbed him.

“Inside this,” he said, gently holding something that looked like a bulb, “are thousands of poppy seeds, each one capable of growing into a big, healthy plant.”

He squeezed the casing and, as well as a few squatting earwigs, out poured thousands of tiny seeds, unassuming and full of potential. It was as if Martin was trying to give us an easy metaphor to hang the article on if we were stuck.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, that something so small can grow into something so big.”

As we dandered through the allotments, Martin pointed out different plants and vegetables, explaining what they were and how they were grown.

But this was all just small talk. What Martin really wanted to show us was the ‘gothic arch poly tunnel’.

We arrived at its doorway. It was like a temple to the gods of gardening.

“This entire frame is made out of salvaged wood from the County Hospital,” said Martin, gripping the doorframe with pride.

If you are unfamiliar with gothic architecture (as I was myself), think of a church.

Two steep, curving pieces of timber rising up in perfect symmetry to meet at a sharp, pointed joint. It looked the part.

“A man down the Derry Road gave me the idea for this, and, without hesitation, me and the boys went to work on it. But it didn’t come without its fair share of trouble.”

After working for weeks, maybe months, recalled Martin, the boys had finally erected the ambitious structure and secured the polythene.

Then, they retired into the warmth of the workshop for a well-earned cup of tea.

“Unbeknownst to us, a wind must have picked up,” said Martin. “We were sitting in the workshop drinking tea, meanwhile the poly tunnel was laying in the hedge.

“Anyway,” he laughed, “we more or less got everything used to make this thing for free. Needless to say, we are getting quare and good at scrounging.

“Let’s go up and have a look in the workshop.”

Walking into the workshop was like landing into Santa’s grotto, only there were about six different boys that could have passed for aul’ St Nick.

A stove crackled in the corner, steam rose from universally held cups, and there was wood everywhere, some expertly carved into intricate sculptures, some still raw, untouched timber, patiently biding its time.

“These here chairs are made from wood we got from the County Hospital too,” I was told.

I had heard that the Men’s Shed was concerned with mental health, relieving loneliness, nurturing friendships, and a thousand other things that seemed unreservedly good, but I wanted to hear it from the men themselves.

While our photographer corralled the boys and attempted to arrange them into some satisfyingly photogenic scene, I asked a few what they got from the Men’s Shed.

“At its core, it’s about camaraderie among the men,” said Jim McBride, a man with big, dark, caterpillar eyebrows, a semi-americanised accent and an expansive manner.

“Some guys bring lots of skills, while others just come to laugh and criticise,” continued Jim. “One is as welcome as the other.”

Beside him stood Alan Logan, a seemingly mild-mannered man with a head of steadfast grey hair, swept back from his face.

“I enjoy the friendship of the Men’s Shed,” said Alan honestly.

“It’s a place to come and relax, to meet people, to garden. You get to try to grow different stuff and to experiment with different plants. It’s all learning, but if you don’t get it right the first time, the second is usually a bit better.”

Jim butted in, “We’ll never show you our mistakes.

Alan, finishing his sentence, “You’ll only see the best of it.”

I noticed the bottom of my cup was becoming visible – tea being like the sand in the reporter’s hourglass – so I decided to grab a final word with a man who, up until this point, had been too busy chatting to everyone else to speak with his own grandson…

Standing in a poly tunnel as the rain battered the roof, Frank Gillease, skull adorned by his signature hat, explained how much the Men’s Shed means to people of his age in Omagh.

“I’ve been with the Men’s Shed now for a right few years now, and I used to spend my days down in the shop in the Old Market Yard while it was going,” said Frank.

“Aye, it’s a great idea. I loved the craic down in the shop, the haggling, the messing, the laughing and the characters you’d meet, for good and bad,” he laughed.

“We get days away, we have a laugh, and it gets us out of the house. It’s hard to overstate how important that is.

“Honestly,” said Frank, “I think it’s the greatest thing to ever happen for people of my age in the town.”