Gerard Dowling is hard at work. Wearing a black cowboy hat, he's sitting in the hallway of his abode at No 47 Middle Abbey Street, hacking at his big front door with something that looks like a chisel. "I'm just doing a bit of restoration work, " he explains earnestly, waving the chisel in the direction of some newly exposed wood.

People who know Middle Abbey Street tend to know a little bit about Dowling. Many people think he's a squatter, and most think he's at least a little bit mad . . . a fact that Dowling readily acknowledges.

"The locals call me 'the mad artist', " he says languidly, sitting on an old bedframe in his backroom. He takes a long, relaxed pull of his handrolled cigarette. "A lot of them have been to prison, and learnt what they know about art there."

According to Dowling, the little goldmine in which he resides is worth a cool 10m. A local estate agent estimates its value at closer to 2m.

Either way, it's worth a lot of money to its actual owner . . . Dublin City Council.

How Dowling came to permanently live for free in No 47 is something of a mystery. He first arrived at those two front steps in 1969, when his father got him a job in an old antique shop there, making souvenirs such as celtic crosses.

"There were two old ladies living upstairs at the time, " he says. "I used to escort them up to the GPO to get their war pensions, in case they'd be mugged in the inner city. Myself and the old ladies had an agreement with the owners of the building, Kennedy's Bakery, that we could live here. Then everyone died. Perished. And I was the only one left."

The day the clock stopped For a while, Dowling was left in peace to reside at No 47. Until 5 June, 1991. "The day the clock stopped, " he says. "The day that changed my life forever."

It was on that day that the Evening Herald published a picture of the bicycle sculpture outside the house. The sculpture was Dowling's contribution to a Dublin 'Sculpture Trail' taking place that year. He had found the bicycle in the Liffey during a low tide and thought it was "rotten, funny looking, and a great way to represent recycling". When the photograph was published, the gardai sat up and took notice. As did the council.

"They sent me a civil bill for £10,000, along with an eviction notice, " he says. "We fought the case in court, and I won."

Despite having no obvious claim to the property, Dowling says it is not a squat. A spokeswoman for Dublin City Council agrees. "We own the property, and Gerard Dowling had a tenancy in it which is expired, " she said. "We have tried and failed to evict him. However, we don't regard him as a squatter, although he's not a legal tenant either. His file is with our legal department.

It's a very big file."

While the legal brains of Dublin City continue to work on his case, Dowling is living a laidback life in Middle Abbey Street. He occupies all four floors of No 47, constantly working on 'restoring' the building.

Every room is littered with his art work and sculptures, many of which are made from old bicycle parts. He acknowledges he has a certain fascination with bicycles. The walls have been decorated with murals and paintings, a dazzling display of swirls and shapes.

Dowling regularly wades out into the Liffey at low tide, searching for new material to turn into art. "People in this city have a very bad attitude towards bikes, " he says, shaking his head in disgust. "I've found so many bikes in that river."

He points to three pieces of pillar which he says came from O'Connell Bridge, and a sheet of metal from the Ha'penny Bridge. "I've found bits of gold as well, " he says. "Mostly wedding rings. A lot of people seem to throw their rings in the river when they break up."

Dowling says he is perfectly content living in No 47, and has no intentions of leaving any time soon, though he believes the council continues to plot against him. "They want me out. I know that, " he says. "But I'm very happy here. Someone would have to pay me a lot of money to leave."