The 18 love letters written between 1911 and 1920 by Eamon de Valera to his wife, Sinead, which recently reemerged, have been hailed as revealing a warmer and more gentle side to the man who, in public, presented an austere figure as President in his familiar uniform of heavy black jacket, pin-striped trousers and black hat. The fact that Dev was human after all would come as no surprise to anyone who had even a passing acquaintance with him, particularly in his later years. One of my duties for a number of years on this newspaper was to cover the presentation of credentials by newly arrived ambassadors to the President at Aras an Uachtarain. After the formal exchange of pleasantries and when the official party was being ushered from the reception room, Dev would always turn to his aide de camp, Colonel Sean Brennan, with the instruction: "Sean, make sure our friends are looked after". Into a side room "our friends", the reporters and photographers, would be taken to be offered a drink. The choice was limited, sherry or whiskey.
Official visit
In 1964 I accompanied him on his official visit to the US and Canada. On the outward flight to Washington his chief "minder", Frank Aiken, the Minister for External Affairs, regressing to his days as newspaper censor during the Emergency, would not allow him to give interviews. However, during a stopover at Gander, where he was greeted by a huge crowd of Newfoundlanders, many of them of Irish descent, Dev told us, over a cup of tea in the airport canteen, of his adventures in getting into the US through Canada in 1919 on board the SS Lap- land, following his escape from prison. "I was seasick the whole way across the Atlantic," he said. "But within a day or two of reaching Halifax I got a beautiful sight through the porthole. I was able to see the pine-clad hills of Canada." In Washington, Dev, who was almost totally blind at the time, was put up in Blair House just across the way from the White House. He had scarcely settled in when he had to prepare for an official dinner in the White House with President Lyndon B. Johnson. "I got into a terrible panic," he told me later, "because I couldn't find my suit. Frank Aiken had laid it out on the bed for me but a maid came in and took it away. She thought it had been left out for ironing and disappeared with it." The suit was retrieved just in time by the Secret Service. The following evening Dev reciprocated with a reception in the Mayflower Hotel for President Johnson. A zealous young diplomat from the Irish Embassy was stationed at the entrance to examine the invitations.
Via kitchens
The Secretary of State, George Ball, and his entourage presented themselves without their invitations. They were refused admission and eventually had to make their way into the reception via the Mayflower's kitchens. The two Presidents, chortling together in the middle of the floor, did little to conceal their amusement at Mr Ball's discomfiture. Frank Aiken, however, was not amused. The young diplomat departed to a far-off posting a few weeks later.
In Canada the President was welcomed by the Governor-General, Major-General Georges-P. Vanier, and the Prime Minister, Lester Pearson, both of whom were quick to claim Irish descent. Dev immediately developed a warm personal relationship with the Governor-General, a man who had fought as vigorously for the Crown as he had fought against it, and occasionally could be heard conversing with him in French. It was the French connection that got Dev into trouble during one of his speeches in Ottawa. He was addressing the Canada Club and spoke for a few minutes in French, praising the culture which Canada had inherited from Britain. Then, after a short pause, he added: "And of course you have also inherited the culture of another country, the most cultured country in the world - France." Throughout his speech he did not hesitate to introduce the occasional anti-British barb: "Before independence we were a cheap ranch from which Britain could get cheap food." At the end the entire audience rose and loudly sang God Save the Queen.
From the heart
Afterwards he told me how he had come to speak from the heart rather than the head. "I had thought all along that I was going to speak to the Canadian Press Club and had a little speech ready in my mind about the responsibility of the Press and that sort of thing," he said. "It was only when I was being driven into the luncheon that I was told the Canada Club was composed of businessmen. I just had to stand up and say whatever came into my head." Almost a decade later an informal invitation came to the RTE newsroom, where I was then working, via Kevin McDonald, a reporter who had been up in the Aras covering some event. Dev would like to meet some of the behind-thecamera staff who had been dealing with Presidential matters during his 14 years in office before he retired in a few weeks time. So one day about 20 members of the newsroom force, most of them young and female, copytakers, production assistants and secretaries, set off to have tea with the President in Aras an Uachtarain. Dev spent over an hour taking us on a tour of the house, stopping with unerring precision to talk about this painting or that vase. At the end he spoke about facing into retirement. "I'll hate leaving this place," he said. "I know it so well now."