THROUGH hail, rain, snow, Brits and loyalist death squads, Giant George never stopped opening his den of delights at the Giant's Foot. He was a steadfast part of community life. In a world where many spoke grandly about service, few embodied it quite so unpretentiously as George Devlin did. If ever there was someone at the coalface, tending to the everyday needs of his neighbours, it was George.
George’s shop was more than a mere retail outlet. It was a beacon of light on many a bleak evening, its doors open when others had long since bolted theirs. At any hour of the night, a knock on the door would summon George from the back, usually appearing in his heavy Aran jumper through a haze of cigarette smoke, his figure emerging like some genial ghost of hospitality. Whether it was cigarettes, lemonade, a bap, a block of cheese or a bottle of Irn Bru for that demon hangover, he always had what was needed. The shelves were rarely bare, and somehow he managed to keep the essentials in stock no matter the weather or the hour.
For many, George was not only a shopkeeper but also a guardian of the ordinary comforts that hold a community together. When others might have given up on such late night service or seen it as a nuisance, George seemed to thrive on being there. He became known for his reliability in a way rarely seen today. Before 24-hour supermarkets and online deliveries, there was George standing tall at the Giant's Foot, ready to provide.
I personally found George fascinating. On countless occasions I made use of his shop, drawn not just by the goods on offer but by the atmosphere he created. There was always something slightly theatrical about the way he would step forward, fag in hand, his deep Donegal voice offering a word or two, often wry, but always genuine. To visit was to experience more than a transaction; it was an encounter with a character larger than life, a man whose presence was as much a part of the purchase as the item itself.
Over time, I realised that I was not alone in feeling this way. Many locals had their own treasured stories about George, whose humour and generosity seemed bottomless. Tales circulated of him going out of his way to help, of extending credit when times were hard, of providing a listening ear when someone needed to offload a worry. He was more than a shopkeeper, he was a fixture, a confidant, and sometimes even a lifeline.
His very nickname, Giant George, captured both his stature and his spirit. Standing tall not only in physique but in reputation, he embodied the resilience of a community that weathered its share of storms, whether meteorological or social. To speak of him now is to recall a time when service was not an empty slogan, but a lived reality. The Giant's Foot had its guardian, and that guardian was Giant George, steadfast, smoky, and always there when you needed him most.
