A Lark Under the Park – An Irishman’s Diary about Myles na gCopaleen, the Phoenix Park tunnel, and drink

Now that the Phoenix Park tunnel has been reopened, and in an era when luxury rail experiences are a tourism trend, I have a suggestion for Iarnród Éireann. How about running a night-time party train on the line, complete with bar extension, and branding it “A Bash in the Tunnel”?

Myles na gCopaleen fans will recognise the reference. In a 1951 essay for Envoy magazine, he claimed to have heard of the original tunnel bash one night in the Scotch House pub, from a man whose father had the contract to supply food to the dining cars of the Great Southern Railway.

Provisioning necessitated a master key to the carriages, of which the son acquired a copy. Thus equipped, he told Myles, he was in the habit, about once a week, of treating himself to “a bash in the cars” – locking himself into a parked carriage, then double-locking himself into one of the toilets, and then getting triple-locked on the train company’s whiskey.

Shunting

He drank responsibly, of course, at least by the standards of mid-20th century Dublin. For “health” reasons, he never extended the binge beyond “a day and a night”. Not having a watch, however, he depended on such clues as sunrise to tell him when to stop.

But the downside of his habit was the endless shunting of cars that railway personnel (“the bastards”) insisted on, for no apparent reason.

On various occasions, he had found himself shunted as far as Hazelhatch or Westland Row, often spilling whiskey on his lap in the process.

Hence the notorious occasion once when they moved his carriage into the Phoenix Park tunnel and left it there for days.

During what he assumed to be a very long, dark night (of the soul), he had carried on drinking. So by the time the “bastards” finally shunted him out again, he was “three-quarter ways into the jigs”.

The modern "Bash in the Tunnel" would need a bit of finessing, clearly, before it became a luxury tourist product like the Belmond Grand Hibernian. But wait: Myles provides a solution for that too. His story featured in an essay about literature, after all – an Envoy special issue on James Joyce. Myles used it to argue, somewhat provocatively, that the resentful train binger was a metaphor for the more serious self-proclaimed Irish artist.

So there’s your model, Iarnród Éireann. Turn it into a literary evening, with readings over dinner and wine, while the vintage car shuttles elegantly back and forth between Heuston and Connolly, under the park. Book-lovers would lap it up. It might even attract some steamed (sorry, steam) train enthusiasts too.

Affectionate

As both Myles and Flann O’Brien, Brian O’Nolan wrote some of his funniest pieces about alcoholism, and with reason. He had researched the subject well. As a result, there are some bleak accounts of his later years, when he had surrendered to the drink. But I was delighted to hear from one eye-witness of that time recently, who had nothing but affectionate memories.

Some weeks ago here, I relayed a request on behalf of Dr Maebh Long, a certified Flannorak, who is currently editing a collection of his letters.

She was hoping to hear from readers who might have personal correspondence, as yet unknown to scholars. On foot of this, I was contacted by Orla Davin Carroll, whose parents were neighbours and friends of O’Nolan in the late 1950s and 60s.

The letters are warm and funny, even when he was sick in hospital. But just as impressively, Orla remembers his regular visits to their house as being full of laughter. This is contrary to the accounts of some former drinking pals who claimed that, as is a principal with many comedians, Myles never laughed.

His drinking habits did occasionally impinge on the Davin household. One night, some time after he had left to go home, it was discovered that he had instead fallen into the hydrangea hedge out front and was now asleep there.

Hedge

Dispatched anew, he left a Myles-shaped hole in the hedge that was afterwards preserved as a mark of respect.

On another occasion, he delighted the children (if not their parents) with the present of a black-and-white kitten, sprung from under his coat.

The cat’s markings must have suggested ink stains on a blotter. So the children named him accordingly, in all innocence. And the donor affected to be less than amused on his next visit to learn that, apparently in his honour, the kitten was called “Blotto”.