PERCHED between the Atlantic shore and Roisinduff Lake, in the ultimate land of the undiscovered west, as Oliver St John Gogarty described his beloved Connemara, his old "seagrey house" still stands. Burnt down by the IRA during the Civil War, then rebuilt, it survives in the attractive, low-slung shape of Renvyle House Hotel, which recently played host to the third Gogarty Society Octoberfest.
Very formal-sounding that. In reality, the weekend proved about as formal as Gogarty himself, which is to say that the participants devoted themselves principally to having a good. time. Renvyle famously promotes itself as Ireland's only stress-free zone and no one had any intention of denting that image.
To do so would have risked upsetting our urbane host, Guy St John Williams (Gogarty's grandson), and his wife, Anne, both of whom appear to have a good grip on the business of stress-free living and are keen to share their insights. Perhaps it helps to live as they do on an island - Heather Island, on Tully Lake, in another old home of Gogarty.
Roger Greene was in Renvyle House on the opening night to set the scene by showing excerpts from his television documentary on Gogarty, Silence Would Never Do. The spirit of Gogarty - poet, surgeon, athlete, senator, famous wit and the model for Joyce's Buck Mulligan - fills Renvyle and the hotel everywhere reflects his memory in original photographs, letters, poems, telegrams, bills and faded reviews.
Dominating the foyer is John Coll's very fine bronze bust of the man, unveiled by Prof Norman Jeffares three years ago to inaugurate the Gogarty Society.
An Excellent Dinner
In such a jolly setting, recalling memories of a life-loving man, no one presumed to ask that deeply depressing question: "Shall we go straight in?" So after a decent delay in the bar (eating on an empty stomach is notoriously inadvisable), we all had an excellent dinner.
Then there was an enjoyable revue by Hob Nailed Boots and after that, I believe, people started singing. That's all I can remember of Friday night, apart from a bunch of Eurocrats who did not appear to have entered the spirit of things.
Most of us remember Saturday morning more clearly but prefer to forget it. Suffice to say that for some breakfast came in foil bubble-packs. Thus nourished, we set off to climb the nearby Mam Ean, which is an historic pilgrim trail up a mountain.
Our guide was archaeologist Michael Gibbons. Mam Ean is magical and so is Michael Gibbons. A genuine Connemara guru, Michael not only knows his stuff - and an awful lot of other stuff - but is able to deliver it in spell-binding fashion.
I have rarely heard such a terrific talker. He doesn't pull punches either, whether he is holding forth on the shabby treatment of travellers ("I call them mobile heritage sites"), the evils of afforestation policy or the attitudes of a church which, not happy with the ancient Leaba Phddraig, has seen fit to erect two hideous oratories plus numerous other ugly structures at the top of beautiful Mam Ean.
Defiled By Sacrilege
Not only that but the church decided to relocate the ancient Saint Patrick's Well, something which, according to Michael, might be justified only if the original well was defiled by sacrilege. What sort of sacrilege? "Oh, maybe a Protestant washing his feet in it."
Michael also pointed out the very lake wherein the Devil drowned.
We had lunch in Weldon's of Letterfrack, an unpretentious hostelry which serves brilliant pub food as well as alcoholic drink. A fine place.
The evening took us over to the brooding Benedictine-run pile of Kylemore Abbey, where, in the newly-restored Gothic chapel, we were entertained by soprano Helen Houlihan and classical pianist Elizabeth McLaughlin.
This was more magic. Their stuff ranged from a rousing Fiddler of Dooney to Debussy's Clair de Lune to a West Side Story medley: wonderful music and song in a glorious setting. Much gratitude was rightly expressed to Anne Williams, who organised this treat. It just goes to show how a foil bubble-pack breakfast can set one up for the day.
After that there was nothing to do but head back to Renvyle for dinner and further carousing. The Eurocrats seemed to have cheered up no end and had definitely added the words "stress-free" to their Euro vocabulary.
The prospect of the long trip to Dublin next day meant foregoing Abbey actor Clive Geraghty's A Rose in the Stew, his acclaimed tribute to Gogarty, Joyce, Yeats and Synge. There was just time enough to go back and take a proper look at Kylemore Abbey.
Something Special
Up to then, the closest I had come to a Benedictine was an occasional intimate association with the liqueur but the nuns who run Kylemore are clearly something special. The Irish Benedictines originally set up shop in Ypres over 300 years ago and, after a troubled history, came to Kylemore in 1920, where they now run a well-respected boarding school for girls, drawing students from all over the world.
It isn't so long since Kylemore and its very special Gothic church were practically collapsing as a result of damp and neglect. Now, thanks to the efforts of the Benedictines and their many friends, everything is shipshape.
Visitors from all over the world come to see this great abbey, one of the jewels of Ireland. Also well worth visiting are the abbey's first-class craft shop and restaurant, looked after by the previously-mentioned, button-bright and indefatigable Anne Williams.
This part of Ireland is achingly beautiful. It's easy to understand how Gogarty, in Connemara, could confess:
There's something sleeping in my breast
That wakens only in the West;
There's something in the core of me
That needs the West to set it free.