An Irishman's Diary

NEVER MIND that he turns 77 next month, Paddy Lynch is just the sort of man this country needs in its hour of crisis. For one thing, there’s his expertise in growing bananas: which we might find useful yet. But more importantly, there is his energy, force of personality, and infectious enthusiasm for the land of his birth, even though he hasn’t lived in it for nearly 60 years.

As she settles into her remodelled Department of Tourism, Mary Hanafin could do worse than give him a job as roving ambassador. This would merely formalise the current arrangement, but he deserves at least an honorarium for his ceaseless missionary work on Ireland’s behalf.

A permanent fixture in the parade ring at Cheltenham last week, Paddy presented his diplomatic credentials in the form of a suit. His 5ft 4in frame was immaculately attired in a green cap, green bow-tie, green jacket and trousers, and – the pièces de résistance – custom-made green shoes. On St Patrick’s Day, he added a chain of shamrocks around his neck, lest there be any lingering doubt about his nationality.

His outfit, and a passing resemblance to Mickey Rooney, made him a magnet for photographers, reporters, and well-wishers, to whom he would invariably explain his appearance in terms of his life’s mission: “I love promoting Ireland.” Maybe attachment to one’s country grows with the distance one lives from it. This would explain a lot about Paddy, whose current home is in the South Pacific – the Cook Islands, to be exact. Even so, not the least remarkable thing about him is his Meath accent. After half a century in the antipodes, he still sounds like he left his native Moynalty some time last week.

At 76, Paddy still has the mark of an athlete. Sure enough, he has been a boxer, a jockey, a Gaelic footballer, and a scrum-half in his time, and he continues to run regularly with his local Hash House Harriers. He believes himself to have been, at 14, the youngest man ever to play intermediate football in Meath, where his speed and guile compensated for lack of stature. And when he emigrated for the first time – to Co Offaly, and a job with Bord na Móna – he also played for that county’s minors.

His travels began in earnest in the 1950s, by which time he was a building worker in London. As post-war recovery continued, Britain still had compulsory national service then and any men not called up were at the disposal of the Ministry of Labour.

Paddy had three options – “join the army, go down the mines, or go home” – so naturally he chose the fourth, and emigrated again.

The destination arose from a casual conversation on a train. He told another man he was going to “the furthest place out of here – Canada” (a grasp of geography was not one of his strengths, Paddy admits). So the man, who had connections with New Zealand, told him there was a place even further away than that.

In London’s New Zealand House, they asked Paddy when he wanted to travel. Today, he told them. Within hours, he had the necessary documents and a cancelled booking on the HMS Otranto, an old troopship leaving Tilbury Docks that night. Seven weeks later, via stopovers in such exotic places as Ceylon, he fetched up in the Land of the Long White Cloud.

He had a girlfriend by the time he arrived: a young English passenger with a military father who owned property in New Zealand. The father took a shine to Paddy and was soon talking about a possible dowry, involving land and 200 sheep. Whereupon the former GAA star used his speed and guile to extricate himself from the impending marriage: buying a small car and driving south as fast as it would go.

Race-horses, not sheep, were his thing. By the time he left New Zealand for Australia, he had “a few nice horses” to bring with him. He also had a wife, Luina, a Cook Islander who was one of the “fastest shorthand writers” in the southern hemisphere.

Together they spent years in Melbourne where, as a racing trainer, Paddy had his finest hour.

He inherited a horse called Cate’s Mill from famous local trainer Bart Cummings. Cummings thought it too slow, says Paddy, “But I got it going”. In 1989, it was going well enough to win a AUS$60,000 handicap and then to be entered for the “race that stops Australia”: the Melbourne Cup.

Unfortunately, the regular jockey broke his leg, and the replacement forgot the trainer’s orders not to use his whip in any circumstances, because the horse reacted badly to it. The whip was produced anyway, with predictable results. “We finished fifth, or ninth, or something,” recalls Paddy with disgust. “I told [the jockey] afterwards I wouldn’t hire him to ride a bike.” Now domiciled in his wife’s native land, the Meathman has opted for a gentler way of life: growing bananas, mangoes, and pawpaws for a local hotel. Despite which, his other vocation – representing Ireland abroad – continues.

When the chairman of Cheltenham racecourse, Lord Vestey, met him in Australia, he decided Paddy would be a useful addition to that displaced Irish festival in the Cotswolds every March. So for the past two years, the man in green has enjoyed free passes and VIP treatment. But he might not come in 2011, he admits, because another invitation and another country awaits. More than 50 years later, he may finally be making that trip to Canada.

• fmcnally@irishtimes.com