It's not throwing out the baby with the bathwater which we should object to - after all, we can always make fresh babies. It is the throwing out of the grandmother, the ancestral silver and the family heirlooms which is the real crime, for once gone, they are lost forever, writes Kevin Myers.
Well, throwing out the past is what we've been doing a lot of in recent years - and even when the problem was identified it wasn't stopped. An Taisce was the answer, but it was also the problem. Wherever something was worth saving in Mayo or Roscommon, all that was needed for the locals to insist on its immediate demolition was the sound of those polished vowels from An Taisceny of Dublin 4 demanding its retention.
The deadliest word in Hiberno-English is "blow-in." So how to get the balance right? If people who were alert to the problem spoke posh and got the locals' backs up, was that their fault? Was it the fault of the locals who felt they were being patronised by the visitors of the slightly smug province of Taisceny? Moreover, the politics within Taisceny were as fierce as in Chicago, though perhaps without the sunny and radiant honesty of Richard Daly to hand. So on An Taisce's watch, further damage was done, both despite and because of its best efforts. The fault is no one's: it was just the way things were. It would be lovely if we had a National Trust, whose spine is provided by unpaid and heroic local effort by tens of thousands of volunteers, but we are not that kind of people.
Perhaps, in the Irish context, small is best. No doubt that was the thinking behind the creation of the Irish Landmark Trust 13 years ago. Yet strangely, most of the founders - splendid people all - include their middle name, or its initials, in the foundation charter. This column has been around for a while, but I have not yet been moved to disclose my middle name: well, only in private, and to consenting adults who have been vetted for psychiatric resilience, but never to the young and impressionable.
So, Nicholas Robinson's name sandwiches the initial K. Him being a Prod, not Kevin. Kegworth, perhaps? John Healy, formerly of An Bord Trachtála, encloses the middle initial R - Roger, mayhap? Gabriel Hogan is gathered around the initial C: Clive, possibly? No matter. In the past dozen years the Trust has been acquiring some delightful "vernacular" properties across Ireland, for renting to the public: and if at this point you're scratching your head, wondering when the usual hatchet job on the Provisionals is going to kick in, or when I might make my customary and ironic aside about the joys of compulsory Irish, sorry to disappoint you. This is one of those rare days when an unspeakable benignity besets this column, causing it to drizzle boundless joy upon the entire world.
One of the properties for rent is Galley Head lightkeeper's cottage in Cork - the Trust chose to make the poor devil apostrophically solitary, not me: I would have bedecked him with wives and children, never mind fellow-keepers with whom to wassail the night away. To judge from the photograph, it looks the most brilliantly dangerous place in Ireland, to be rented solely by Mormons, Free Presbyterians, Alcoholics Anonymous and other teetotallers who might just risk the occasional daring orange juice, but usually set about their revels in the company of a glass of distilled water, occasionally spiced up with a drop or two of cucumber juice.
For Galley Head lighthouse is clinging onto the side of the vertiginous Dun Déide headland by its fingernails. It was built in 1875, and apparently in the old days used to shine its light inland, so that the Sultan of Turkey - probably sheltering from the wrath of the Tsar under the watchful eye of "The Skibbereen Eagle" - could enjoy its glow in Castle Freke where he was staying. That was almost certainly because the Sultan was homesick for the magnificent lighthouses of Istanbul, the greatest city in the world.
Another little property which the Landmark Trust has rescued is the apostropheless Annes Grove Miniature Castle, also in Cork. Well, actually, it is less a castle than an architect-designed, well-appointed, two-storey, two-roomed, staircased stone kennel, ideal for two.
One visitor reported: "A great place to unwind after our wonderful wedding." Of course it is - if you can't unwind somewhere which is mostly spiral staircase, where else could you possibly manage it? Perhaps honeymooners should consider Clomantagh Castle as an option, where a síle-na-gig could give the inexperienced groom some anatomical pointers, bawling "There, not there, JESUS CHRIST NO NOT THERE". Moreover, if he wants to get the advice of his entire family, including those few grandparents not thrown out with the bathwater, he can do so, because the castle has 10 rooms, in one of which the bride's parents are no doubt burying their heads under the pillows to drown out her polyphonic shrieks. Clomantagh dates from the 12th century, and around it lie the glories of Offaly and Kilkenny, plus of course, sweetest Carlow.
Landmark Trust is a non-profit-making organisation, though I would prefer that it were profit-making: the bottom line, accountable to miserly, misanthropic shareholders, is a wonderful spur to efficiency. However, those who are on the trust are all honourable citizens who have done great service to this country. If you wish to stay in any of Landmark's properties, contact 01-6704733, or visit www.irishlandmark.com.
Is that it? No Provo bashing? Bloody hell. Another €1.50 wasted.