In the ballroom of a Black Forest spa town in southern Germany, I once trod on the toes of the Belgian Ballroom Dancing Champion and received - from her - an apology in Latin.
The waltz in the Black Forest occurred during a holiday with a cousin, Nicholas, not long after the 1939-45 war, when we were both young and adventurous - and not averse to romantic encounters with beautiful ballroom dancers.
The location was Freudenstadt, appropriately the "town of joy" in more senses than the literal translation implies. We had chosen the place at random from a travel agent's brochure, mainly because it was described as the highest town in what was then West Germany, situated in the heart of the Schwarzwaldgau and noted for its health-giving waters.
Reconstruction
When we got there, after a circuitous route through England, France and Switzerland - there were no flights to Munich or Stuttgart in those days - we found a town of beautiful wooden buildings in the throes of reconstruction after an incident in the last months of the war in which French troops had deliberately burned the town in a senseless act of revenge and barbarism.
Freudenstadt had been a hospital town, with thousands of German soldiers recuperating there, and the flamethrowers had destroyed 90 per cent of the medieval wooden buildings with their intricate baroque decorations and carvings. When we arrived, many of the buildings had already been restored. These included the Kurhaus, or spa, where the ballroom of romance - and embarrassment - was situated.
Incidentally, the man who ordered the burning of the town, General de Castries, suffered some embarrassment a few years later at a place called Dien Bien Phu in what was then French Indo-China, when he and his French troops had to surrender to the Vietnamese.
Thoughts of war and fighting, however, were far from our young minds in Freud enstadt that blissful summer. The forest that surrounded the town was lush and mysterious and not yet showing any signs of the effects of acid rain. The townspeople were friendly and we quickly made ourselves at home in a spicand-span guesthouse not far from the Kurhaus. It was there that Nicholas and I had our most memorable evening, the occasion of the Latin apology.
Dancing exhibition
Returning late one afternoon from a walk in the forest, and passing the entrance to the spa, we spotted a poster advertising an exhibition of ballroom dancing by the champions of Europe, who were on a visit from BadenBaden where the European championships had just been held. Among the names of the dancers were two from Ireland - Sammy Leckie and Vera McCartan from Belfast. It took us only a minute to convince the doorman that we - also from Ireland - had an urgent appointment with Sammy and Vera.
Resplendent in white tie and tails - in stark contrast to our own sports jackets and baggy slacks - Sammy duly appeared and, without hesitation (fair play to you, Sammy, wherever you are), invited us to join himself and Vera at the event. He seemed to have no compunction, either, as a Belfastman, about wearing a tricolour on his back to identify his nationality.
Delicious food
We never found out what the other formally attired dancers thought of this pair of disreputable looking Irish lads joining their table to share their jugs of wine and plates of delicious food. Our appearance did not seem to matter to some of the dancers, at least, for we were invited on to the floor by the most expert and beautiful dancers in Europe.
Thereby hangs the tale of the apology in Latin. I was invited to dance a waltz by the Belgian Ballroom Champion, glamorous in long gown and glittering tiara. I soon found myself totally out of my depth - she had no English and I had neither French nor Flemish - and I could not dance. I trod on her toes once. Seeing my acute embarrassment, she smiled and said: "Mea culpa". I trod on her toes a second time; there was a second "Mea culpa". After the third infringement she resignedly came out with: "Mea maxima culpa". I decided it was time to sit down.
We never got Sammy's or Vera's Belfast addresses but, if they are still living there, perhaps someone could tell them that two Co Wexford students, now grey-haired and full of memories, recall their generous gesture and hospitality with affection and nostalgia.