On the tourist trail

The Last Straw: A number of Monaghan football supporters have asked if I could, please, please, write off the team's chances of beating Armagh again tomorrow.

They recall that last year, this column masterminded the season's biggest shock by contemptuously dismissing Monaghan's prospects against the then All-Ireland champions. There were other factors in that result - the players probably deserve some credit - but the column's contribution (1-6, including 0-3 from frees) was almost certainly crucial.

Well, I'd like to help my county again this year. Unfortunately, I value this column's credibility too highly to sacrifice it to mere sporting superstition. So, instead, this week I'd like to talk about Monaghan's progress as a tourist destination.

Unfortunately, tourism in the county continues to fall into two categories, comprising people who are either (1) very discerning, or (2) lost. But last weekend, I had a rare chance to study the former group when I spent a night in Castle Leslie, where guests have included Mick Jagger, Winston Churchill and various kings, queens, and princes.

The main reason I was in Monaghan, by the way, was a serious one: the unveiling of a monument to those who died in the 1974 bombing, and the publication of an associated anthology - called Later On. Edited by Evelyn Conlon, the book features contributions from such writers as Patrick McCabe and Eugene McCabe, as well as a whole load of people not called McCabe, including me. It's available from all good bookshops and from the Market House, Monaghan. I knew you'd want to know.

But back to Castle Leslie, and the question you're asking is this: did I see any of the ghosts for which the house is famous? Well, there was a scary moment during the night when I woke up suddenly and found myself haunted by the thought of how much it was costing me to stay there. But then I said what the hell, and went back to sleep.

Apart from that, the night passed without incident. Which is not to say I don't believe the stories of ghostly apparitions. All I'm saying is that if you met Mick Jagger on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, you too might think you'd had an encounter with the other world.

There was only one famous pop-star there last weekend. I'd tell you who he was, but I happened to overhear him saying how much he protects his privacy from journalists, so to show that I can keep a secret, I won't. Except to say that - nothing personal - if I had to meet a member of this band, I'd much prefer if it had been one of his gorgeous sisters. He arrived at the castle by helicopter, which he flew himself; and although it was the only helicopter there, he wasn't the only pilot. As a result of which, during after-dinner drinks, I found myself briefly in the middle of a conversation about the technical difficulties of flying with counter-clockwise, rather than clockwise, propellers. It's far from that we were reared, I know.

On Sunday morning, we had a tour of the house from the 80-something Sir Jack Leslie, a man who lives the rock 'n' roll lifestyle in a way Mick Jagger only pretends to do. As usual, he'd been out partying in Monaghan's discos ("the world's best") until the early hours, so he was still in his dressing gown. But he showed us the castle's various treasures - Churchill's christening robe, William Wordsworth's harp, the 17th century bed that guests claim jumps up and down in the night - with great panache.

It was the castle grounds, however, that reminded me how beautiful Monaghan can be when it's properly arranged. The blankets of wild garlic smothering the gardens. The lake lapping gently alongside violet-scented woods. The sun glinting playfully on the fuselage of the pop-star's helicopter. It was a little piece of heaven. So all in all, with its unbeatable combination of scenery, discos, world-class eccentrics, and the sort of shrewd marketing that will see Miss World open the Patrick Kavanagh literary trail in Carrickmacross this week, I believe Monaghan has every chance of becoming spoiled by mass tourism. If not this year, sometime soon.

A better chance than the football team has of beating Armagh, that's for sure. So vastly superior is Joe Kernan's side, in this column's opinion, that I think we should refuse to turn up in Clones at all, to avoid humiliation. We should also formally apologise for last year, wish Armagh well in the rest of the championship, and take up hurling instead, where we might have some chance. There. Whatever happens tomorrow, don't let anyone say I didn't do my bit.