I never had a bad pint in Clare.
I forget which bar it was in Tulla but there was one Sunday meet where we had a couple of pints before riding out around lunchtime, then came back at about half past the five, boxed the horses up to send 'em home, by which time we had a bit of a thirst going on.
Straight into the same bar we'd started the day in, only this time we didn't come out again. There was even a bit of a sing-song during the evening. The previous MFH had given us a rendition of "The Oul Horse Died" and others had given some trad songs as well.
Anyhow, some way past licensing hours, the bar was still full and none of the riders or followers showed any sign of going home. Pints were still being poured and sunk, some of them by me.
By half one Monday morning I was heading for the door. In the words of the Eagles song "I had to find my passage back / To the place I was before" and I was vaguely conscious of Darragh Hassett guiding me out into the street.....and nobody else leaving.
Darragh had had a fair few himself but still somehow had the presence of mind to make sure I wasn't driving home but, to be fair, by this stage I couldn't even remember where I'd parked the car. It was a long night, my legs were unsteady, and I don't remember seeing any sign of the Guards anywhere. The last time I'd had contact with Gardaí was some weeks before on the other side of the country, when I was breathalysed on the Shankill Road going towards Bray.
Mrs O'Donohue gave me a very knowing look later that morning. I was still in hunting kit, with mud splattered over it, and all I could hope for was that I hadn't disgraced myself.
Looking back on this over 20 years later, I think I'd do exactly the same again. Ireland was a grand place to be, and nobody knew that Tíogar na hEireann was walking on quicksand.