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Through his work and membership of organisations such as the Old Dublin Society, Gannon had access to a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. He was invited to parties in Farmleigh House and Leixlip Castle by various members of the extended Guinness clan. His admirers included Brian Boydell, professor of music at Trinity College, and the historian Kevin B Nowlan of UCD. But he remained true to his working-class roots, working for a weekly wage.

Ironically, even when the brewery — prodded by members of the Guinness family — realised it had a unique talent in its employ he never became a specialist instrument maker. The company set up a side venture in the 1960s, giving him a workshop and hoping to sell “Guinness-Gannon” harpsichords to shops such as Harrods. But Gannon was a perfectionist and his production rate was commensurately low. Inevitably the venture was closed down and he was shifted into a job inspecting buildings.

On leaving the company — where he had begun as an apprentice in 1925 at the age of 15 — Gannon threw himself into his hobbies, but he had little interest in turning his skills to profitable use. He was content with his company pension and the time to work at whatever took his fancy.

The harpsichords brought a measure of fame — he was consulted by experts from around the world, listed in catalogues of instrument makers and ultimately received an honorary degree from TCD — but they were not his first love. Building one had been a challenge, but he was wary of being pigeonholed.

A self-taught horologist, he restored many antique clocks and watches, which he had been collecting since the 1930s. He also built and repaired other musical instruments, including an Indian sitar for one of the younger Guinnesses.

He never trained an apprentice. Charles, his son, saw early on that his talents lay elsewhere and that working with his perfectionist father would have been impossible. As Gannon was heard to lament, no really suitable candidate for the job ever emerged: craftsmen didn’t understand music well enough and musicians lacked the skills needed for fine woodwork.

Gannon Jr’s book is more than a routine act of filial piety. Deeply researched, it tells the story of an ordinary man with an extraordinary talent. During his father’s long life — he died in 1999 — he encountered an amazing array of people, from Oliver St John Gogarty, who removed Gannon’s tonsils in 1916 and gave him a clip on the ear for misbehaving, to the characters of the old Dublin village of Dolphin’s Barn. Since his death, Gannon’s musical instruments have gained stature and international renown. Several are held by prestigious institutions, such as the harpsichord displayed in the Cathal Gannon Early Music Room at the Royal Irish Academy of Music.

His first harpsichord, built at weekends over a period of two years, is now in the National Museum — in storage in Collins Barracks pending restoration work. Despite the upsurge of interest in early instruments, it is an ironic demonstration that Gannon’s precise blend of musical sensibility and craftsmanship is even more rare than ever.

Cathal Gannon: The Life and Times of a Dublin Craftsman is published by Lilliput