The following was sent to The Southern Star by Rose O’Driscoll, a customer and friend of the late Sean Collins, Drimoleague.

‘At the edge of Drimoleague, where the village thins into open fields, stood the place everyone knew: Sean Collins’ garage.

The squat building, with its stone-coloured forecourt and the steady smell of petrol, was as much a landmark as the church or the post office.

To outsiders, it was simply where you stopped for fuel or repairs.

To us, Sean was ‘the garage man’, a constant presence who seemed stitched into the rhythm of village life.

‘He came from farming stock himself, but his gift was with machines. Tractors wheezed back to life under his hands, cars groaned and were coaxed into another year, and no rickety contraption was ever turned away. Many of us, me included, drove around in heaps held together by rust and stubbornness but Sean never rolled his eyes or scolded. He’d lean into the bonnet, mutter a good-natured joke, and hand back the keys as though to say, go on: she’ll see you through another while yet.

‘The garage wasn’t just for cars. It was our meeting ground. If you were expecting visitors from outside the parish, you’d tell them, “I’ll meet you at Sean Collins”.

The place was easy to spot but full of little corners that offered privacy. Couples met there, friends loitered there, and for those of us sneaking around as underage drivers, the forecourt was a discreet place to park for Sunday Mass, provided you could slip away before anyone noticed!

‘Whenever I came back from the UK, I never felt truly home until I drove into that familiar forecourt. Sean would step out, rag in hand, wiping the grease from his palms as if he’d been waiting. “Welcome home”, he’d call, a smile on his face. “And what are you driving now?”

‘His eyes would flick over the car with a mechanic’s quick judgment, but his voice held nothing but warmth. A few questions about my journey, a laugh, a joke, and with that, the years away melted.

‘Even in recent times, when I settled again in the area, the pattern never changed. I’d stop for petrol and Sean would greet me with the same generosity, the same gracious thanks. His son John now carries on that tradition. People still say, “I’ll be waiting at Sean Collins’ garage”, as though the man and the place were one and the same.

‘Though Sean (pictured below) has passed, his presence lingers at that crossroads of village life. The clang of tools, the smell of oil, the memory of his voice calling out a welcome; all of it belonged to him. His kind, welcoming manner and gentle nature will be missed.

Rest in peace Sean’.