There’s a tradition of summer garden parties at Áras an Uachtaráin. Originally, they were for visiting dignitaries – the event for JFK caused a near riot, so keen were people to shake his hand – but the Robinson, McAleese and Higgins presidencies changed that focus: instead, they leant towards hosting events for ordinary citizens, each one with a theme: sustainability, heritage, new citizens; a way of saluting people who work quietly in their communities.
During Michael D Higgins’s first term, it was estimated that 140,000 people visited.
I’ve been to two of them. Not because I’ve done anything worth saluting, but to act as an MC on the day, to introduce the President and the various musical acts. (And yes, witch-hunters of Twitter, they do offer a fee – or an honorarium – of €300. I waived it on both occasions).
The second event I attended was just a few weeks ago. There’s a pleasing routine to it. You turn up, have a cup of tea, queue to get your photo taken with Michael D and then get a chance to wander around the building and the manicured grounds; all of it a living testament to the messiness of history.
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The main event is in a marquee, and it’s there you get an overwhelming sense of how Irish this gathering is
The Áras is one of the symbols of our republic. There are portraits of our past presidents.
In an upstairs window sits the Tilley Lamp, placed there by Mary Robinson to remember our vast diaspora. There’s a state diningroom, with a long table that used to be used for cabinet meetings in Leinster House.
Yet that room was built in advance of a visit from Queen Victoria, and outside – along the Queen’s Walkway – are trees planted by members of the English aristocracy. It’s all too easy to imagine them in their wigs and powder, playing croquet on the lawns (which you can still do), yucking it up while, outside the grounds, the peasant Irish starved. We live in a relatively young state, but a very old country.
The main event is in a marquee, and it’s there you get an overwhelming sense of how Irish this gathering is: in a way that is difficult to describe, but you’ll probably understand. There’s the Aide-de-camp, formally announcing the entrance of President and Mrs Higgins. Everyone stands and applauds.
Every performer made a point of saying how thrilled they were to be there
There’s respect for the office, for this place, yet it all happens without an ounce of stuffiness. Children run around; people laugh out loud. Some are dressed up, some are wearing their everyday clothes, and no one feels uncomfortable about it.
We are served sandwiches, fruit and fancy cakes, and then the President mounts the stage to make his speech.
Michael D enjoys making speeches. For him it seems to be an intellectual exercise, a form of thinking out loud. He mentions the Republic a lot: like it is an ongoing work in progress, one that sometimes requires cautious choices, and other times, boldness.
His love of public speaking is matched only by Sabina Higgins’s love of dancing. As soon as the music starts, she’s up, along with a sizeable clump of the people attending. Daughter Number Four joined in to practise her Irish dancing. And they remain dancing for the various performers, covering a range of styles: Latin and Salsa, Hip Hop and Trad.
Every performer made a point of saying how thrilled they were to be there: as would, I suspect, everyone in the audience if they had had the chance. When the music finally ended, they seemed reluctant to leave. Duncan Stewart invited himself on stage to recite a poem.
The audience drifted out to the grounds. But this is Ireland: where, even in the President’s house, no one is told to get out. There was more music. People ate strawberries dipped in chocolate.
We made our way back to the car. And once again, I heard a phrase I’d been hearing all afternoon: isn’t this lovely. And it was.