![]() Francie was 81 at the time.Īs soon as he rolled up his sleeves to reveal, on his left shoulder, a tattoo of his dog Sparky, and on his right an image of cat Snowie, any lingering doubt was immediately erased. When offering directions, he explained that his block was beside the fold “where the old people live”. Oversized teddies in one room, trophies as far as the eye could see in another, pictures and prints, an Aladdin’s cave of trinkets from all four corners of the globe, mementoes everywhere of a life lived to the full, barely an inch of wall to spare. The second you walked through the door of his apartment, opposite the entrance to Falls Park, you knew. Eyes glowing behind thick-rimmed glasses, more than a hint of mischief as a smile spread across his lips, the picture didn’t just capture Francie’s image it encapsulated his spirit. There, running up a narrow street lined with cars, a flock of pigeons forming a halo around him, was Francie in his element. Francie’s good friend, Seamus Loughran, had filled me full of a lifetime’s worth of stories, but it was an award-winning picture by Irish News photographer Mal McCann that said more than words ever could. It’s a funny thing, but sometimes there is a sort of sixth sense about the person you’re going to meet. ![]() THEY don’t make them like Francie Arthurs any more. The image of a young Francie Arthurs still adorns a wall in Sailortown
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