WHILE many of the world's biggest firms started out as small family concerns . . . the Rothschilds, Rockefellers, Fords and, of course, Windsors . . . we tend to like the soaponomic Ewing/Carrington/Dunne theory that boardrooms of family businesses are breeding grounds for drama and intrigue. But in Managing for the Long Run: Lessons in Competitive Advantage from Great Family Businesses, authors Danny Miller and Isabelle Le Breton-Miller say studies have shown that family-owned businesses pay their employees more, train them more intensively and hold onto them longer.

Public companies, they argue, reward executives for meeting stockbroker targets where short-term financial gains take precedence over long-term strategy. Likewise, David S Landes writes in the just-published Dynasties: Fortunes and Misfortunes of the World's Great Family Businesses: "Family businesses are in no way obsolete and inconsequential."

Despite many of our own mom-and-pop corner stores being eaten up by Spars and independent retailers waking up to their property being worth more than their actual business, Irish family-run firms still remain the backbone of the economy.

There are up to 250,000 small firms in Ireland, many of which are family-run, employing around 770,000 people, according to the Irish Small & Medium Enterprises Association. Dr Lawrence Dooley, director of the diploma in family business management at University College Cork, says they are a hugely significant part of the Irish economy that is largely forgotten about.

"They have a strong association with and loyalty to their regions, which influences their decision-making, " he says. "Succession is a process, not an event. You need at least 10 years to prepare the successor, to make sure that it's something that fulfills their objectives and that they're properly educated to take over."

That said, economists warn that only 10% to 30% of family businesses make it to the third generation. The small family-run retailers featured here have reached that milestone, but they share some crucial traits:

they have a clear vision, commitment to their core values and patience during the hard times.

Try the 1916 Easter Rising, Wall Street Crash of 1929, 1974 Talbot Street bombing, most of the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s and, lest we forget, the Great Luas Works of 2003.

They have also managed the issue of succession without ugly family lawsuits being played out in the national press. How do they do it? They teach by example and show it's a privilege to carry the torch . . . not a chore. Sometimes, more than one successor is chosen or, more importantly, chooses to ascend the throne.

And . . . from the outside at least . . . the rellies all appear to get along.

BARNARDO' S Grafton Street, Dublin If you look above O'Connell's pharmacy on Grafton Street, there's a 'B' on the side of the building. It stands for Barnardo, the family furriers established in 1812, which had its main store here before the Wall Street Crash of 1929. "After the crash we sold the building and moved back to Lower Grafton Street, opposite Trinity, " says Elizabeth Barnardo, the fifth generation of the family who runs the business with her mother Caroline.

"Apart from being mother and daughter, we're best friends. She's very supportive and let's me go as wild as I feel with my designs." (It helps that they both studied at the London College of Fashion. ) This is, after all, where well-heeled clientele come for a touch of mink. The building itself is five storeys, has its original mahogany interiors and is worth a small fortune, but they have never been tempted to sell.

Elizabeth's great-grand-aunt married Wolfe Tone. "Her wedding dress is on display in Collins Barracks. It's fine lace with muslin, a delicate piece for that era." John Michaelis Barnardo, the first here, arrived in a fishing boat from Italy via Germany. A taxidermist, he opened his first shop on Dame Street. One of his sons by his second wife . . . his late wife's sister . . . and Elizabeth's great-great-granduncle was Thomas John Barnardo, or 'Dr Barnardo'. He worked in the shop for a year before studying medicine in London. "He had dinner at Lord Shaftsbury's house and told the guests, 'Children are starving on the rooftops of London'. Five or six men got up with the leftovers. They took a real shine to one boy, Carrots, with red hair. By the next night he was dead. This broke Lord Shaftsbury's heart, so he gave Dr Barnardo the money to start the children's charity."

Elizabeth's own children, six-year-old Harry and four-year-old Elizabeth, are not being pushed into the business. "The more they're not, " she says, "the more chance that they might go into it. But you want them to be happy. I've been in the business with mum since I was 14 and I haven't lost any lust or excitement for what I do. My dad was an only child and I was an only child, so we were fortunate that we enjoyed the business so much."

This is also the first generation to deal with the anti-fur movement. "We have a farming background here in Ireland and must do the utmost to look after animals, it's the same for mink farming. We have ladies coming in saying, 'You made my granny her first fur.'

What else do they have that belonged to their grannies? Very little. And, ultimately, we're lucky we survived when so many other businesses didn't."

SHERIE' SAbbey Street, Dublin On the afternoon of 17 May, 1974, Adrian Isherwood was having an argument with his head chef in the kitchens of Sherie's. The chef threatened to storm out the back door, to Sackville Place and onto Talbot Street.

"Don't you dare go out that door!" Adrian hollered after him. The chef turned again. "A moment later we heard a deep thud, " he recalls. "The roof of a car bonnet flew over the building and landed in Harbour Court. The front of the Sackville Lounge was blown in."

The tills at Sherie's . . . opened in 1947 by a Major Freeman and taken over in 1948 by Adrian's grandfather, who once owned the Unicorn on Merrion Row . . . never fully recovered from the devastation wrought by the loyalist bombing. "The day before we took about £300. The next day we took £8. It put an end to old-style socialising and late-night window-shopping in the city centre and paved the way for coffee shops in the suburbs."

Crucially, the Isherwoods own the building, so they muddled on and, in the last 10 years, avoided soaring rentsf but not successive building works. In 1992, Adrian . . . a freshfaced man in his mid-50s with a tuft of grey hair . . . took a neighbouring business to the High Court over building works, which he alleged was eroding business; they settled out of court. "My poor father had never fought anyone on such a scale, " he says, "but I felt the business was worth fighting for." The Luas works was the final straw. "Profits were down and we were losing a lot of our old customers, so I decided to sell." Adrian's late father, then in hospital, said he wouldn't speak to him if he sold up so he and his 29-year-old son Adam talked it over and decided to stick with it.

"My father, " Adrian said, "broke down in tears when I told him. Then, we went out and borrowed the money."

Sherie's has weathered bombs and building works but . . . while customers loved stepping into this lost world . . . the Isherwoods knew they needed to modernise and accommodate changing tastes. The days of Irish Press hacks having a few swifties at lunchtime were long gone. So, last year, Adam oversaw the first major refurbishment since 1947 with gusto.

The low-slung formica counter and rickety tables were replaced with brown leather chairs and a higher wooden counter; the kitchen was moved downstairs to allow for more tables.

It was a big risk, but it paid off. Business is up almost 70%. Still, witnessing his life being torn apart wasn't without its pain and when Adrian saw that Adam had dumped the brass art deco Sheries sign in the skipf "I had a pink bloody fit!" It now hangs stubbornly over the counter as a nod to the old Sheries and a testament to the teamwork . . . and compromise . . .of four generations of Isherwoods.

MCDOWELL' SO'Connell Street, Dublin The McDowell's jewellers cinema advertisements in the 1970s and 1980s with the wonky music and photographs of loved-up couples buying diamonds are famously cheesy . . . as is the Happy Ring House neon sign that has hung over the door for years.

This makes it all the more surprising that Peter McDowell, the fourth generation McDowell jeweller since 1870, isn't mad about it. "The Happy Ring House has been the slogan and part of Dublin culture, but I don't like the sign." It's listed, so they're stuck with each other. The McDowell's are, however, proud of their mechanical clock.

(Eason's and Clery's, by the way, are electric. ) Peter's cousin John says, "If you wound her on the Saturday of a bank holiday, she'd just about make it to Tuesday."

With or without their high-maintenance clock, the McDowell's have needed plenty of patience, waiting for O'Connell Street's reversal of fortune. "It reached an all-time low 10 years ago, " Peter says. "One would have questioned the business sense of being here. This is the premier street in Dublin, not Grafton Street. There used to be five jewellers on this street, now there is only one."

And, with the advent of fast-food restaurants and amusement arcades, that's still not good for business. But the revitalisation of Smithfield and, looking forward, Arnotts on Henry Street, is bringing more business back to the north inner city. "This is the nearest shop of its kind to the IFSC for watches and a gift for your wife. People from the country who work in the civil service still come here, but the hinterland and north Co Dublin are still our biggest markets."

But after moving to O'Connell Street in 1902, the worst was to come. During the 1916 Easter Rising, the building was looted and burnt out. "At first my grandfather stayed with the porter, but when the situation got really difficult they decided to make a run for it, " Peter says. "Between here and Cathedral Street, my grandfather was shot in the leg and the porter was shot dead.

The family put a claim into Her Majesty's government, got a cheque and rebuilt it using some of the girders from the GPO."

Peter's own son may yet move into the business. "We'll see how he shapes up!" he says. One thing they left out of those cinema advertisements: 'If your intended says no, dry those tears . . . McDowell's will give you a 100% refund.' But, Peter adds, "Within 10 days of purchase."

BEAUFIELD MEWS Stillorgan, Co Dublin Julie Cox, the general manager and granddaughter of the founder of Beaufield Mews, has just co-opted her husband John Hoade into the family business. "You're your own boss, " Julie says. But she's also her husband's boss. How does that work out? "He's very glad of that. The buck stops with me. I'm a lot stricter. John likes to get along with the staff, they'll open up more to him." It helps with raising their three kids, as they now share the burdenf and work flexible hours.

"I knew what I was getting into as I saw my parents do it . . . you have to be very structured and not always talk shop at home. I was nearly drowning before he came on board.

My husband has brilliant social skills eyes and now we're working for the same objective."

Julie's "eccentric" grandmother, Doreen 'Go-Go' Kirwan, started an antiques business in 1937 when she and her husband Valentine purchased Beaufield Estate. She called her first-born twins Jack and Jill, Julie's mother.

"Go-Go used to fly around town to auction rooms in her Morris Minor convertible with furniture sticking out of the passenger seat, " Julie says. "Customers started asking for tea, then food." Julie isn't entirely sure when the restaurant began in earnest, but they're 55 years in business this year.

Go-Go never gave up on her antiques business, the reason she got started. "Everything had a price tag attached to it, including the cups and saucers. Even the tables had price tags hanging out of them. At the time, women didn't really work. I don't think she thought it would really go anywhere; for her it was just a hobby."

Meanwhile, Julie' husband has pushed her to renovate. The major upgrade due in March will include an extensive wine cellar, formal planting and lighting in the courtyard to create a more dramatic entrance, and more modern upholstery.

Still, they're conscious that locals come to Beaufield Mews for the comfort. "You get emotionally involved in a family business, " Julie says, "and it's hard to see things objectively. People don't want to walk into a mausoleum but, without running down my generation, they can be fickle. We have loyal, older customers. We're keeping the sofas, where customers like to have a drink before they take their table."

And, regulars will be glad to hear, menu favourites like the homemade ice-cream made from their mulberry tree in the garden.

CAVISTONS Glasthule Road, Co Dublin Cavistons of Sandycove celebrates 60 years in business next year, but it took a customer to point this out to owner Peter Caviston.

"I'm just a fishmonger, " says the happy-golucky man who presides over the popular delicatessen and fishmongers . . . as much a place to be seen in as to shop in . . . the restaurant next door and a bakery across the road run by his wife. It's lunchtime and Peter asks the waitress to surprise him.

"We don't work off laminated menus here.

We have handwritten menus. If I'm asked what's on the menu tomorrow, I tell them, 'I don't have a glass ball'."

His three twentysomething kids bring their own individual talents: Mark does front-of-house and, like his father, "is well able to talk", Lorraine works in the office and David works part-time the organic food section. "There are four children, " Peter remembers. "I'm the biggest one of all."

In 1947, his uncle James went out to buy a pound of fish and, instead, bought the shop, then the River & Seafood Co. "He bought it from 'Slicker' Mitchell, " Peter says. "When he woke up the next morning he tried to cancel the cheque, but Slicker was too slick for him. He'd already cashed it."

And had he succeeded? "The history of Cavistons would be very different." And that of Sandycove? "Ahf" Peter throws his hands up. "We just try to have fun." He is but a modest fishmonger, remember, who started as a messenger boy in the vegetable shop where the restaurant is now based.

"When I mitched, the schoolmaster said, 'You'll be nothing but a messenger boy, Caviston'. But in the days before refrigeration, he'd be up at 4.30am to buy fish off the boats and go to the National Ice & Coal Station.

"Now I'm semi-retired, " he says. "I only work 40 hours a week."

As the chef produces scallops and fishcakes, Peter says he looks at a large turbot like someone else sees Armani suit. His motto: "Don't complicate it!" It's a long way from the 1960s or "the tough years in the middlef eating fish was a penance then.

You had to eat fish on a Friday, and there were no refrigerated counters, ice machines or cold storage on boats. We kept the shell of the building and the old-world feel, and brought in the highest technology."

Although this day is a Friday, the dishes taste more forbidden than penitential. "My wife said to me, 'Is this a job or do you like it too much?' I said, 'I do.' But I wouldn't have my children go into the business if they didn't love itf" And, before he finishes, he's up like a light, helping two ladies-who-lunched out of their chairs.