Man of courage, myths and dreams
Grand eccentric died penniless in Ireland
Randal Macdonnell, who has died aged 69, was an architectural historian who styled himself Count Randal Macdonnell of the Glens.
He arrived in Ireland from Manchester in the late 1960s at a time when many of the great houses of Ireland and splendid buildings of Georgian Dublin were falling to the developer’s wrecking ball. Macdonnell set about making an inventory, which would culminate in his book The Lost Houses of Ireland.
Had he been less eccentric he might have found a place as one of the great protectors of Ireland’s architectural heritage. His tendency, however, to reside in his own peculiar fantasy world meant he was always an outsider. Moreover, he lived openly as a gay man in conservative Catholic Ireland.
Macdonnell was not too bothered by how others saw him. He subscribed to the 18th-century view that real grandees bathed but once a year whether they needed to or not. The olfactory consequences earned him the nickname Count de Camembert.
His claims to ancient titles greatly annoyed those with legitimate claims. Macdonnell’s preferred form of address was “My Lord Count,” but few of those versed in the idiosyncratic world of ancient Irish genealogy took his claims seriously.
Randal Macdonnell was born Aug. 18, 1950, somewhere in England, though his exact origins remained a mystery. What is certain is that Macdonnell arrived at Trinity College Dublin to study law but, preferring the pub to the lecture hall, failed to get a degree. When he did attend, he did so wearing a kilt or the mantle of a Knight of Malta.
He also claimed to have been Noel Coward’s private secretary, and he was a name-dropper of Olympic proportions.
His financial situation remained precarious, but Macdonnell caught a break when his friend, the Guinness heir Garech Browne, asked him to advise on the restoration of his house. Things went splendidly until a blistering fight broke out over the disappearance of valuable silver.
In about 2005 Macdonnell decamped to Prague, and then to Tangier, a city that easily accommodated his peculiar type of genius, and where he found a new audience for his stories.
But he died penniless, broken in health and spirit.