Mystics vs Sobriety, 3rd September 1992
Sometimes it is the passage of time that erases memory, other times it is drink. In this case, sadly, it is both. In order to appreciate the monumental happenings that took place at Patrick Kavanagh's soi-disant drinking emporium on the last night of the tour, one has to place it both in the context of Windy's expectations and a certain amount of sybaritic backsliding on the part of several members of the party.
The first I am sure you will all remember. Windy, nailed to a chair in all the pubs in Ireland, proclaiming he could tell, simply from the bodily attitude of those closest to the bar, that a lock-in was inevitable. Invariably he would return, disappointed, just in time to see the last drop of alcohol being drunk before everyone turned in back at the fort. By the second, which should be troubling the conscience of the fair-weather campers involved, I mean those who, at personal expense, forsook the comforts of a farmer's field to book themselves rooms for the night in comfortable and warm local hostelries.
When Amanda and I arrived at our billet for the night, we were shown the field in which our tents were to be placed. As the gate was locked, we scrambled over a wall before stumbling over thistles, logs and cow-pats to a relatively even piece of ground. It was dark. It was raining. It was cold. In our hurry to put the tent up and get somewhere warm for a bite to eat and a drink, we put it up inside-out. If Sid had not pointed this out to us, we would probably still be there now. The walk into town did not cheer our spirits. Morale took a boost when we saw the chip shop did veggieburgers, but plunged again when we realised this meant the meat was not substituted but omitted. It was with heavy hearts that we found our way in to Patrick Kavanagh's.
A couple of hours drinking took us to closing time at half past eleven. I had an empty glass. Jim had a full one. What is more, the landlord was sitting chatting to a couple of blondes, our couple of blondes, in front of the bar. Taking a leaf out of the twenty-volume book of Windy's optimism, I asked the landlord if it would be possible that I might be able -- -in the light of things what with him being so friendly -- -to have a drink. He paused, surveyed Kate and Annie in a manner much like the one with which I was surveying his bar, and agreed. "Just go an' help yourself," were his words.
"You're a gentleman!" I exclaimed. "Could I have one for my girlfriend as well?"
"Of course," he said.
"And can she have one?" I replied.
"Get everyone a drink," he said.
I got behind the bar, in the manner in which Heathcliffe returned to Wuthering Heights. It was all there, exactly as I remembered it. I had a large Paddy's, Amanda a large Port and Brandy. Others had similar. And it went on. And on. And on.
I am not quite sure what someone said, but suddenly Patrick (not a small man) leapt up, clapped me on the back and said that as we were such excellent chests, sorry chaps, he thought he ought to open something good. I volunteered to go around the corner with him, where he kept his stock of wine. I distinctly remember suggesting a bottle of Jaboulet Croze Hermitage which he had lying about, but I had underestimated my man. In his opinion, such a wine was "Shit" and he was going to "open something really good". Reaching to the top shelf, he took down a grey cardboard tube. The bottle inside was a Crofts 1982 Vintage Port. It was strained into a decanter through a bar cloth and served to a dozen pissed cricketers. Although it must be said that his sense of humour did not quite reach the canons laid down by political.correctness, or even normal liberal thinking, Mr Kavanagh was a marvellous host. This is illustrated by two incidents, both (once more) involving Windy.
On the first, he unfortunately missed his mouth and spilt port all over the table. "Derek!" cried Mr Kavanagh. "could you do something about this please?"
Years of training enabled me to find a cloth, find a way around the bar, find the scene of the accident and mop up the spill.
"What are you doing; you fool?" boomed the voice of our host behind me. "I meant refill his glass!"
Having polished off his second share, Windy's regretful sigh into his glass provoked our host to even greater heights of generosity. His polite question as to the tipple with which Windy would now like to whet his whistle was met with the sharp-intake-of-breath-inducing reply: "Some more of that port would be nice". Was this treading on the toes of the hand that fed us? Not a bit of it. Another bottle was opened and there were refills all round.
I wish I could report what went on that night in the room in front of me. I know that there were not as many at some times as there were at others, but when or where they went escapes me. I know that all who were there drank and drank and had a very jolly time with a host against whose generosity anyone I come and stay with will be measured, I remember Amanda and several familiar faces, some gallant displays of courage under fire from the sisters Thomson, and an admirable display of sheer animal burning-the-candle-with-a-blowtorch-never-mind-at-both-ends from Biz who finished the evening at about 5 o'clock by drinking a pint of Guinness. I also remember the phone ringing at about five and Mr Kavanagh trying to explain something to his wife. I remember him asking us to stay for another. I do not, however, remember the walk home. I hear two people were "supported" and that one was me and the other smelt of Guinness. I hear Duncan drove to the Bed and Breakfast with some others, which was fortunate, because, as they remarked later, none of them could have walked. I hear I fell asleep whilst pulling the zip closed on the tent, and Amanda had to haul me inside.
It was nice that Windy got his lock-in. Those of us in the field could also feel smug about those who had (quite sensibly) elected for a comfortable night (Paul, Tara, Duncan, Windy and Richard -- -is that the lot?) and chosen an evening when there was a fair chance that they could have slept quite comfortably on a bed of nails. I refer those interested in the morning after to Richard's breakfast fine, Jim's rhapsodies on skinheaded Irish maidens and Kevin's simply incredible photograph of Biz emerging from his tent. I should just say that I felt, well, slow. Fortunately there was a host of ministering angels, thinly (some more thinly than others) disguised as disaffected unemployed Irish youth on a ceramics training scheme. They also had a kettle and a jar of instant coffee. I recommend Biz's hangover cure: stay one step ahead -- never let it catch up with you. It was the ninth of October before it caught up with me.
Derek Matravers