Irish Nights

Abstract

A few months ago the College held an Irish Night. It drew a good crowd of Fellows and Members – many of them relieved, I suspect, that for once in late January they did not have to attend a Burns supper. So there would be no need to eat haggis or drink Scotch whisky. Other than that, none of us knew what to expect. Would there be readings from Finnegans Wake instead of Tam O'Shanter? What should we wear? The invitation said ‘black tie’ but surely something green was required? Do Irishmen wear kilts and, if so, could you hire one? Most of us had pleasant, if hazy, memories of Irish nights in Ireland. One of my first, in the 1980s, was a meeting of the Irish Family Planning Association in the Limerick Inn. In those days contraception was still illegal south of the border and I was surprised that a Family Planning Association existed. Indeed, I thought my invitation was a hoax as it was signed ‘Doctor Darling’ and sent from ‘Stillorgan’. Both turned out to be genuine (Stillorgan being a suburb of Dublin) and I spent a delightful night supping Guinness with resilient lady doctors as they swapped stories of court appearances. Twenty years on, Ireland oozes sophistication. My wife and I have a weakness for posh hotels, smoke-free pubs, culture and Georgian architecture, so it's lucky that Dublin is only an hour away by air. Across Merrion Square from the National Maternity Hospital is Restaurant Patrick Guilbaud. Despite its name, it has nothing to do with family planning but does have two Michelin stars. North of the River Liffey, adjacent to the Rotunda Hospital, is the Gate Theatre, where we saw Shining City by Conor McPherson, a playwright now famous far beyond Dublin. Its ending was such a shock that we had to calm our nerves with stout in the nearest smoke-free environment. Irish people have a knowledgeable, unpretentious attitude to the arts. In Dublin they speak respectfully of James Joyce while giving the impression that he was a friend of the family. Further down the coast, a little town serves up obscure European operas every October. Have you heard of La Vestale by Mercadante? Neither had we until a couple of years ago but now we know that it wrings your withers as hero and heroine expire tragically in Act III. The Wexford Opera Festival was started in 1951 by a local doctor and is now world famous. There's something magical about eating fish and chips near the harbour with a Russian chamber choir squeezed around the next table. Further up the coast is Belfast – world famous, too, as the birthplace of the Titanic and the home of the Editor-in-Chief of TOG. It has two airports, the larger being about 20 miles out of town. Once (I know the date: it was 26 May 1999), there wasn't a taxi in sight when I arrived. I found the drivers huddled round a wireless and persuaded one to take me to my hotel. As we headed off with the car radio on, I realised this was the night of the European Cup Final. In the city centre I got to a television as the game reached full time, with Bayern Munich one goal up. And then…the memory of Manchester United scoring twice in extra time will live forever, even for a man from Leeds. Belfast went wild. I don't understand why they are United fans, but I suppose it's something to do with George Best. So many good times. Such great hospitality: north and south. But how would the ‘craic’ transfer to Regent's Park? Very well, actually. We started in the lecture theatre with a marvellous young tenor who sang about the futility of the Troubles and ended with ‘Danny Boy’. I must have heard it hundreds of times but it moved me to tears. At dinner our guest, the President of Ireland, said the last time she saw so many obstetricians she came away with twins. A hilarious raconteur followed her and then a virtuoso fiddler gave the first Elvis impersonation seen in Nuffield Hall. Or so I assume. We don't know what the Officers get up to when we aren't there.