Ómós Digest: #25 Growin' Out West

Dermot Carey - Vegie Guy

Welcome to the Ómós Digest. This newsletter will hopefully bring you on that journey about the food you were looking for, or perhaps never knew existed. It is our quest to expand on what we don’t know and to share with those who care. If you haven’t read Newsletter #1 yet, it can be found here. 

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But for now, let me introduce you to Dermot Carey, otherwise known as the Vegie Guy.

Dermot Carey Photo by James Fennel.

Growin' Out West

‘Looking for the Heart of Saturday Night’, a song written by Tom Waits, chronicles a young man trapped in a meaningless quest for something that isn't fulfilling him. It’s a song that grower Dermot Carey could relate to back in his mid-twenties when trapped in the urban landscape that was Dublin’s suburbia.

Born in the 60s, Dermot spent the early part of his life on a conventional vegetable farm owned by his father in Clondalkin. As was the way at the time, there was little variation with tonnes of onions, swedes, carrots and of course cabbages being grown on its 100 acres. His mother on the other hand was no countrywoman. She owned a wholesale business selling cabbages at the fruit and vegetable market near Arran Quay (often confused as the old Smithfield Hay Market in Smithfield Sq). This part of the city was always a hive of activity - a punter's paradise, old Dublin at its best, and where his parents first met. Despite the hustle and bustle, Dermot is always reminded by how cold the market felt. It seemed that was all people spoke about. The skylights in the market were designed to face north, shielding the fresh produce from the sun but in turn they brought an austere chill to the air. Dublin at this period was an austere place to be after all. It was pre Italia '90, River Dance or even Father Ted. The city lacked confidence and Dermot certainly felt trapped, not knowing of the choices available to him and without the means of escape.  

Dermot’s Father hoeing through cabbage with Polly the Welsh pony at Clonburris, Clondalkin circa 1950.

During the 90s (now in his mid twenties) Dermot lived in a small flat on Moyne Road, in Ranelagh, Dublin 6. Like many today, weekends were spent out in the city's bars and clubs, drinking into the early hours and repeating the cycle week in, week out. It was an ok place to be at the time, sociable... but Dermot couldn't help but feel that it was a shallow way of life, void of meaning. Quieter nights in the neighbourhood were spent in a local pub, the Rathmines Inn, a retreat of sorts, or rather a metaphorical recess for soul-searching. During these times, he didn't feel he had a lot to show for this way of life - not intellectually, emotionally, or financially for that matter.   

A way out

Quite like another of Tom Waits’ songs, Dermot’s experience of Goin’ Out West was literally when he first set foot on Inis Mór (the largest of the three Aran Islands) in Connemara, Co. Galway in 1993. He had watched the documentary ‘Man of Aran’, a visceral film about life on the island when sitting in his box room in Ranelagh, captivated by the whole mythology of the island. In contrast to the sleepy Rathmines Inn and its surroundings, living on Aran seemed euphoric. By pure coincidence, the years 1993-95 saw a melting pot of nationalities convene on the island: wandering souls in search of community and place. Here Dermot (well-built after years working on the farm and hauling sacks of ‘spuds’ around the market) had come to help an old pal. “He needed help building a house and wondered if I was interested in giving him a dig out.” His pal was interested in the concept of self-sufficiency and sold the idea to Dermot, offering him bed and board in return for labour. Swapping spuds for cement, Dermot took to the work like a fish to water. 

Living on a 9 mile long island and home to 830 inhabitants, meant food was never too hard to come by - when you were given access to the local tips that is. After some perseverance, a fisherman showed Dermot how to catch rockfish or wrasse (locally known as ballachí) using a fishing tackle. In these parts, periwinkles are knocked from the rocks and attached to a hook as bait, with the line thrown out over the rocks directly into the choppy Atlantic Ocean. Traditionally the fish would be filleted and hung on clotheslines to dry, before being layered with salt in barrels and allowed to age for the upcoming winter. 

Kohlrabi was possibly first grown on the Aran Islands in 1994. It's hard to comprehend, as many even today might not recognise the vegetable let alone know how to prepare it. Far fewer still were aware of its existence in the mid 90s, not least on a rural Island off the West Coast of Ireland. 

The good times

According to Dermot, “If you want to meet a nice American lady, go to the Aran islands. If you want to meet a nice Spaniard, go to the Aran Islands”. This island was full of like-minded people from all over the world. Poets lived there, musicians and artists lived there, dreamers, blow-ins from all walks of life; a migration of interesting folk flocked to this raw and rugged island, all contributing in their unique way and living in harmony with the locals. Here, some people found meaning and fulfillment. For many it was the first time they felt a part of something real. On a day too wet for planting, Dermot and his clan would go to the American Bar, living was on island time dictated by the weather. Cabin fever was never an issue either. There were organised art classes, Irish language classes and Céilis or Set Dancing at Halla Ronán hosted by Michael Gill - the island's head dance teacher and school principal. Halloween was a big event on the Island too. The Púca came out to play and old rituals were celebrated; a magical night when adults could be children. There was a rawness and youthful energy to how Dermot and his friends carried themselves. Real passion and community was evident. 

As it turned out, Dermot wasn't as deft at catching wrasse as he was with growing potatoes. Once shown how to make an Aran bed, there was no looking back. The Aran Islands are made up of horizontal sheets of carboniferous limestone and do not have naturally occurring topsoil. It is for this reason that Aran beds were invented - a mix of red seaweed and wrack is hauled from the ocean mixed with sand and manure and spread over the limestone. Traditionally the island’s inhabitants raised crops of oats and potatoes on the soil. Upon tasting the potatoes grown using the Aran method, Dermot was bowled over by the flavour of the spuds; a far cry from the conventional potatoes grown by his father on the home farm. 

Mesmerised by the results obtained from terrain as harsh as that on Inis Mór, this discovery was the beginning of what would be Dermot’s future in organic horticulture. He and his comrades had bought into the culture of the island - humbled by its authenticity. Although the manner in which they lived meant money was not essential, Dermot saw that if he sold his surplus vegetables perhaps a future could be made on the Island. 

Polytunnel on limestone flag, Aran islands.

Vaguely vegetarian

In the summer months, the Aran Islands were a busy place - two to three thousand visitors arrived daily and money was there to be made. Born to grow and taught to sell, Dermot seized the opportunity. Inspired by an initiative he saw implemented by the CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) in the U.S, he set up a box scheme delivering vegetables to people’s doors, well before Covid or anything like that... Each box of organic vegetables cost £6.50 - a healthy sum for a young man on Aran at the time. He bought a VW Golf van and dropped the boxes door-to-door, chatting to neighbours along the way. “It was the good life, there was no such thing as a bad day,’’ he says.

Surprisingly, in 1994 an organic horticulture course was established on the Island by Comharchummann -  the island co-op - in conjunction with FÁS (The Training and Employment Authority of Ireland). The idea of the course was to grow and supply the island with vegetables, creating a cooperative style enterprise and stocking the island’s pubs and restaurants. Dermot was already growing a wide array of vegetables on his own land and thought to himself - why not enroll and expand my knowledge.

“We grew unusual stuff, vegetables I had never seen before. We grew kohlrabi, Chinese cabbage, and rocket. I went to the best restaurants and offered them what we grew.”

Upskilled and equipped with an abundance of knowledge and appetite to grow, Dermot began to explore his own crops. He planted Bok Choy, Mizuna and rainbow beetroot. These were ingredients that were seldom grown on the island of Ireland, let alone Inis Mór. The incentive was to create a field of produce and share them with people whilst making a living but ultimately, to live happily doing work that was satisfying. The reward was self-gratification. After all, with youth on his side, Dermot was hell-bent on becoming the best grower he could possibly be. 

“I’d be lying in bed thinking about growing something some way [thinking about something deep].”

A blast from the past! Farming the natural way on the Aran Islands.

Similarities can be drawn to Dermot’s conviction and approach with many other creative disciplines. Poets search for muses. Chefs require both critique and gratification to excel. Neither profession is rewarded by any great financial gain. So what is the driving force behind all of these individuals? Why grow? Why cook? Why curate? Creating something new, the feeling of innovating, bringing good food to people, challenging behaviours, asking questions beyond the social norms, drives people on. Dermot was ambitious, driven to succeed and to become the best. That’s when he met Joel D’Anjou. 

Like Dermot, Joel was ahead of his time. A chef who hailed from the island of Martinique, he found himself on Aran and was one of the first chefs Dermot had the pleasure of working with. At Mainistir House (hostel) Joel offered communal dinners he classed as ‘vaguely vegetarian’. Well-traveled and proud of his heritage, Joel cooked food that the islanders and visitors had never experienced before. Back when local hotels served bacon and cabbage, Joel prepared slow-cooked tagines and couscous using ingredients and recipes he discovered on his travels. His food contained spices, dried fruits, lentils and chickpeas from sacks of pulses he would import to the island. Dermot explained that while the majority of the food was vegetarian-based, there would always be one course celebrating the island’s abundance of fresh fish and shellfish, justifying the term ‘vaguely.’ 

Joel was the kind of chef who would start each dinner prep following a nap. He would peel veg at 6.30pm and serve dinner at 8pm - a tight squeeze. 60+ diners might be eating that night, but that didn’t matter to Joel. He had 4 x 4 stoves lined up, one next to the other, all ablaze with various pots and pans, each with their own bubbling liquid that added to the aroma of the room. Joel was always very appreciative of Dermot’s produce and never failed to experiment with what was offered. 

Invoice for Mainistir House

“My skills as a grower developed working with Joel. I was able to fine-tune my crops, according to his requirements.”

It appears that it was not only Dermot’s growing skills that flourished. On one occasion Dermot presented Joel with a beetroot. Having never used one before, he asked what it was and how it was best prepared. Dermot explained that he had heard beetroot was used in Borscht, a peculiar chilled soup common in Eastern Europe. Flicking through his vast array of books, Joel found a recipe for the soup and served it that evening together with a few extra roasted beets he had baked in the oven (on an island there is no such thing as wasting produce). The following morning, upon delivering the daily quota of  vegetables, Dermot was told to bring as many beetroots as he liked. The soup was an enormous hit and when roasted, the beetroots had sweetened becoming caramelised and irresistible - who knew! Dermot’s hunger to experiment grew, as did Joel's. Diners at Mainister House couldn't believe their eyes when they were served such a variety of locally grown produce. In a time when iceberg butterhead and lollo rossa were the only type of lettuce one could find on the mainland, Dermot was growing rocket, spicy mustard, and an array of other mixed leaves that you might only see in farmer's markets today. There was Queensland blue squash - whose seeds were sourced from Australia. From the 6 different types of basil and lemon basil grown, Joel would make sorbets as a perfect end to a perfect meal. Diners wondered what the heck was going on on this island.

Produce from Ballincarey Farm.

My interview with Dermot initially began through curiosity about a mainlander who settled and grew on a small island but it soon became a life lesson on what it means to live. For Dermot, life was never about having great financial wealth, but to find self-worth and happiness. Today Dermot continues to innovate but also assists others to do so in the process. Having left Aran in 2001, the last two decades have been spent helping restaurants develop kitchen gardens as he shares his expertise with chefs and gardeners all over the country. He now resides in Co. Kildare, having bought a 10 acre farm near Athy where work has already commenced on producing a wide range of organic vegetables, predominantly focused on Mediterranean varieties. The ambition is to work in direct correlation with chefs, developing a new supply chain that provides nearby restaurants with local produce that isn’t so readily available. He welcomes anyone to come down, visit and get stuck in! It does sound familiar…

Finding Aran was a monastic experience. A spiritual home. At a time when both confidence and resources were low in Ireland, Dermot set about becoming the most innovative grower in the land. He’s proven that to be no pipe dream. 

Dermot is available on Twitter and Instagram via @vegieguy. He is attuned to the powers of communication and uses social media as a tool to share his good work.