. . . on the royal treatment
A RECENT SUNNY DAY at Farmleigh. Lying by a blanket of daisies and daffodils. Enjoying the dance of the cherry blossoms. Snoozing. Making daisy chains. Watching newly-arrived swallows swoop across the spring sky. Luxuriating in the stillness.
Marvelling that as a nation we own these fields, these walled gardens, that house, the fountains, the clock tower. All that the Guinnesses used to own. The locals made up a rhyme about the tower: Mr Guinness has a clock/ And on its top a weathercock/ To show the people Castleknock.
It is only my second time in the place. I found myself here for the first time just a week back, on the trail of Prince Albert. Unexpectedly, I got a seat in the ballroom watching elegant students from Monaco’s art and music academy pay tribute to Irish culture. In front of me Brian O’Driscoll and Amy Huberman sat drinking water from plastic cups. Michael Flatley was somewhere about.
I sat there under the chandeliers looking out at the rolling countryside thinking, this is the kind of place that would make a person want to get married. And how there should be a lottery prize on that theme. Everybody who is getting married buys a ticket and once or twice a year, one couple wins a wedding with all the trimmings at Farmleigh. Canapes in the conservatory. Champagne on the lawn. The bell in the clock tower ringing across north Dublin in communal celebration.
I had to leave the ballroom to write a piece for the next day's paper. Myself and my laptop were ensconced in the Benjamin Iveagh library, which put me in mind of My Fair Lady. Prof Higgins up on a ladder looking for a book on linguistics and Eliza astonished that anybody could own so many books. Then myself and my laptop were moved. Apologies and all that, but Prince Albert and the president may need this room for a chat after the concert. I was relocated to another equally magnificent space. And afterwards, when the guests had moved into the soaring, elegant jungle of a conservatory, which put me in mind of an Agatha Christie novel, a man from the Department of Foreign Affairs sat at the grand piano in the now near empty ballroom, seemingly unable to resist such a beautiful instrument.
And I, also unable to resist, glass of champagne gone completely to my head, sat beside him and sang Dorothy's Songand the Mountains of Mourne. A man from Monaco, an aide to the prince, appeared at the doorway, eating a canapé and calling out for more. The royal seal of approval having been issued, it was time to go. It had been like a sort of dream.
IT WON’T BE the first time I’ve admitted something here that makes me appear a complete eejit. Won’t be the last either, I’ll wager. So anyway. I am at home. Filling a bag to go to the Phoenix Park. Rice cakes? Check. Squashed cheese sandwiches? Check. Extremely bouncy ball? Check. Suddenly I find myself wondering: Hang on a second, if we live on the northside of Dublin and Phoenix Park is on the northside of Dublin, then why do we always drive over the Liffey to the southside to get to the Phoenix Park? I check with the person responsible for driving us places. He’s never really thought about it either. We decide to experiment. Head up the North Circular Road and before you can say “Call Yourself a Dub?” there we are at the park without having had to negotiate the quays. Eejits. A pair of us in it.
It’s usually the zoo, but today it has to be Farmleigh. In the daytime and without the champagne or access to the house, to the royal trappings or the grand piano, it doesn’t disappoint. We name the horses in the field, watch the ducks skimming the pond, get tipsy on the potent fragrance of flowers in the walled garden.
Tomorrow is Japan Day at Farmleigh. A day for hanami or "flower viewing". A day to celebrate the Japanese custom of enjoying the beauty of sakura, those cherry blossoms in the spring. It puts me in mind of the words of one of our greatest poets, John Spillane, and his song Dance of the Cherry Trees.
“Let me tell ya ’bout the cherry trees/ Every April in our town/ They put on the most outrageous clothes/ And they sing and they dance around . . . And they seem to be saying, to me anyway/ You know we’ve travelled all around the sun/ You know it’s taken us one whole year/ Well done everyone, well done”.
Elizabeth, Albert, Kate, Wills, you, me, the waiter in the boathouse café, the man with long grey hair cycling through the grounds, the couple reclining entwined for hours under a shady tree. We all deserve the royal treatment. And it could just be a day at Farmleigh. Lying near a blanket of daisies and daffodils. Enjoying the dance of the cherry blossoms. The whole of nature whispering to the gentle breeze, or whoever cares to hear, that another year has passed and we are still here, and happy hanami and well done everybody. Well done.
In other news . . .
After a night out on the MV Cill Airne docked on North Wall Quay, this column can highly recommend the dining experience. We started the night listing one way, and ended it listing the other. For purely nautical reasons, naturally
