Meanwhile the night’s festivities are not yet over. And from Luttrellstown, holding on to one’s hat, it was back with Rachel in her exquisite flowing robes to Dublin for Sancerre and poached salmon, pudding, Armagnac and coffee, amid the silver trophies and under the great chandeliers of this pleasantly dignified club. Then off to attend the playing of the Loyko Trio in Whelan’s Pub of Wexford Street and to see if we could confront Desmond Guinness of the impeccable manners and the laser blue eyes. And we were too late for Desmond but my goodness there was no shortage of less handsome, but equally enthusiastic people. And it was as if one were in a pre-war Berlin or post-war Hamburg cellar. Your musical aficionados cheek by jowl at their tables covered in glasses full of your diverse potables. And there on the small stage, this astonishing Loyko Trio producing their music from three voices, two violins and a guitar. And never ever have one’s ears heard such acoustically joyous, and exquisitely high or funereally low, notes coaxed from such stringed instruments. Which at times even turned into spine shivering sounds of the human voice.
And so it came to pass that upon such exquisite octaves, and with the opportunity of hearing them again, do we come to the next part of our chronicle. And to the unparagoned Desmond Guinness and his lovely lady, Penny, and Leixlip Castle. And to where nearby did first get invented the brew that makes much of this tale possible and has over the many literary years nourished the best imaginations of Ireland. So, too, may we take comfort that as Dublin grows and creeps beyond itself to inevitably surround the antique and serene, and as the mini palaces of the gombeen rich erupt well meaning but fatally architecturally half assed across the Irish countryside, this great ancient edifice of Leixlip Castle stands, still there triumphant upon its sylvan hill. And along with its master, an outpost staunch against the philistine and reassured by the babble and gurgle of the Liffey beneath its massive grey cut stone elevations. On the roadway below, its great gates opening as if by magic, and in fact by telecommunicated computer, allowing you to enter upon an unforgettable oasis. And if your feel good factor thermometer hasn’t risen a few notches as you motor upwards over the driveway cobblestones. Then there’s something bloody well wrong with you.
All that’s next is to get up a few massive granite steps and in through that white knobless door. And if luckily inside you get, (and by God it’s not everybody who does) you are by any aesthetic measure able to witness one of the most supremely unique magnificences in the world. In an interior which holds itself firm against all that is commonplace, nothing is to be found so shocking to the eye as to be new or unused. The vast chambers providing a spacious comfort to both body and soul, and collectively, not only giving shelter but keeping at a decent distance the woes of life. And now you guessed it. What a bloody great place for a party. And if a dinner goes with it all the better. It’s fresh vegetables from Penny’s garden and other viands which come delicious from Eileen’s kitchen. And if visitors come who make a bit of a stir on the world scene of celebrity, why not. It altogether adds to the good taste of things. And the more, the merrier.
And the first due to come is Jerry Hall, guest of honour. But she’s delayed, and instead her quietly disposed and eminently courteous husband Mr Jagger is there. Now forget reminiscing about them great old unexpurgated obscene days down in the Catacombs. Where deep down in the spiritual dungeons of Dublin’s Fitzwilliam Place, Lead Pipe Daniel the Dangerous once roamed, and between scribbling his poems, and his great bulk looming through the shadows, could be heard to accost with his heed those wretched of demeanour.
‘Cheer up or I’ll break your face.’
For let me tell you, the faces appearing here at a damn sight more tranquil Leixlip Castle, you’d rather kiss. The first of whom is Ruby Wax of television fame, whom I confront in the kitchen. And why not. This is Ireland. Where the kitchen is as sacred as any parlour and tends to relieve you of your airs and graces. Now in the flesh of real life, Miss Wax’s mere presence knocks your socks right off. Her visage composed, intelligence written upon her face, she is quite a stunning beauty. She’s exactly what America needs to be let loose on their somnambulant awareness and to disturb them out of their couch potato trance of indifference. And, too, in tribal company with Ruby Wax, there is another strange and austere beauty. Carrie Fisher from Hollywood, famed actress, famed daughter, famed author and both these ladies are mothers. Opinions flow from rapid fire lips. Making one’s ear alive to stories and tales to be minted anew in the mind. And learning all you ever wanted to know about women’s verities.
But this night, your eye cast in any direction, other legendary emerge. Marianne Faithfull, who carries her wonderful mystique as if straight from the cellars of pre-war Berlin. For indeed she does, having just recorded songs which reigned then and which she has now brought exquisitely back to life to soon celebrate on compact disc. And within the frame of the great chimney pieces the fires blaze. As always, our host Desmond Guinness, effortlessly being himself, has no trouble reassuring you that you’re managing well enough in your own desperate effort to be liked. This man, celebrator of architectural follies, and brilliant with his pen that describes some of the utterly beautiful architectural treasures of this land, has long been a symbol to encourage the seeking out and preservation of the neglected beauty of Ireland. He is also equally brilliant at spotting talent of all sorts and variety in other arts. And this is why he has just converted his old coach house to provide this venue for Loyko Trio to be admired. So more of the same can happen again.
Meanwhile the next generation of beauty arises on long willowy legs. The old hat men delighted. And Van Morrison of the amazing voice sits contented under his hat. The sound of four letter words lets you know there’s youth about. And nobody is in awe of anybody. Away at the corner of a table the thoughtful titan of the pop world, Paul MacGuinness, sits sipping wine with his charming wife. There’s the gentle benignity of the beautifully spoken Gareth Brown, who behaves with a courtesy of another age as an Emperor might without being imperious. Flashed before the eye goes the elegantly and perennially beautiful couple the Knight and Madam Glin. But away in a corner, a quiet gentleman sits strumming a guitar, as if waiting for his loved one, and he is. For it’s Mr Jagger waiting for the absentee Jerry Hall.
But there is another figure who moves quietly and effectively behind the glories within Leixlip Castle. Whose magic hands tend every tiny corner of this vast castle and wondrous gardens and where the flowers and vegetables in their neat rows grow with a beauty all of their own. As no one is allowed to suffer a discontent around her whose eyes watch for another’s loneliness that it be quickly ended. I find her because I’ve stepped out into the darkness of the bleakness. And there she is, in the softness of the chill rain, Penny Guinness, alone. And trying to coax a chauffeur in out of the cold and wet of the night and into the comfort of the castle. And would that such thoughtful charity be more prevalent in the world.
Next morn, vetting the city again, didn’t I confront a living docile cow chewing its cud and standing in front of Buswell’s Hotel in Molesworth Street. To remind me of the great Dublin pranksters of yesteryear and my faith in the bygone Dublin is restored. Nothing serious has changed. Up the Republic!
1996
Pasha of Heartbreak House Seeks Companion
Slightly reclusive but anxious to get out more, gracefully older fit man, still capable of eight and a half successive deep knee bends, nine sit ups, and five and a half push ups, and with minor public status, requires pleasantly attractive younger lady of principle with a bent for flower arranging and entertaining and who, in also being ambitious, wants some of her own public attention to enable her quickly if not so quietly to move on after eighteen months to better things, but meanwhile before flying the coop, can adapt to country life in modest mansion set in parklands by large lake where staff are kept. Remuneration modest, food and wine plentiful. An interest in the out of doors, architecture, restoration, and horses an advantage. Excellent for hunting near by for the
brave and bloodthirsty. But the lady must see to her own equine grooming and mucking out. However no gardening or ditch or indeed grave digging should the Pasha fall from his perch, in which latter case a five star hotel suite will be provided for the pleasantly attractive younger lady of principle, expenses paid, to comfortably live out remainder of agreement.
1997
By the Same Author
Novels
The Ginger Man
A Singular Man
The Saddest Summer of Samuel S
The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B
The Onion Eaters
A Fairy Tale of New York
The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman
Schultz
Leila
Are You Listening Rabbi Löw
That Darcy, That Dancer, That Gentleman
Non-fiction
The Unexpurgated Code: A Complete Manual of Survival & Manners
De Alphonce Tennis: The Superlative Game of Eccentric Champions
J. P. Donleavy’s Ireland: In All Her Sins and Some of Her Graces
A Singular Country
The History of the Ginger Man
Plays
The Ginger Man
Fairy Tales of New York
A Singular Man
The Saddest Summer of Samuel S
The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B
Stories
Meet My Maker the Mad Molecule
Copyright
First e-book digital edition
published 2011 by
THE LILLIPUT PRESS
62–63 Sitric Road, Arbour Hill Dublin 7, Ireland
www.lilliputpress.ie
Copyright © J.P. Donleavy, 2011
ISBN 978 1 84351 210 3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher.
The Lilliput Press receives financial assistance from An Chomhairle Ealaíon / The Arts Council of Ireland.
J. P. Donleavy, J.P. Donleavy: An Author and His Image
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