The kitsch of the Castle

It is not often that you get the chance to step inside the Ireland portrayed in a John Hinde postcard, that brightly coloured place of blue skies and pristine thatched cottages in pea-green fields, populated by red-haired colleens who are adept at handling both donkeys and harps, with a few castles and currachs thrown in for good measure. But at a Bunratty Castle banquet you are right inside a classic John Hinde scene.

Built in 1425 and declining until 1954, when it was carefully restored and furnished in medieval style, Bunratty saw its real golden era begin in 1964. That was the year medieval banqueting began, since when more than four million people have attended. Other castles and stately homes, here and abroad, have copied the concept, but Bunratty has been doing it longest, and continues to be the gold-mine tourist flagship of Shannon Development.

Coach tours, mainly of Americans, have provided the core of those attending banquets. But there are also lots of tourists from other countries, travelling independently, and some Irish people. The current full-ticket price is £34, although the castle does deals for big groups. There are two nightly sittings of 141, year round, subject to demand. And the numbers haven't been affected by foot-and-mouth. Even allowing for staffing costs and food, those are figures anyone in tourism would love to emulate.

Perhaps the aspect of the evening that makes the Bunratty banquet so successful is that almost nothing has been altered in 40 years. If your parents once went, you can be guaranteed to have the same experience. It has to be the closest thing to T∅r na n╙g we have in the Republic.

So what happens at a banquet? I headed off with two friends to find out.

Despite the dual carriageway that throbs just yards away, Bunratty Castle looks properly romantic, with the evening light mellowing the stone, torches flaring over the entrance and a bagpiper - rather incongruously - playing people in.

As we head up the narrow winding staircase, a colleen offers us bread and salt "to ward off dangers". "And what might they be?" I ask. For a moment she looks surprised, possibly at the sound of an Irish accent. She starts incanting things about ghosts and spirits, then leans forward and says, conspiratorially: "actually, the stairs are the most dangerous thing in the castle."

Upstairs, in the great hall, a fine cavernous room with tapestries, woodcarvings and antlers, we're handed goblets of mead. It's the medieval equivalent of sherry, and it's incredibly sweet. No wonder they had such trouble with their teeth.

The great hall is where we get the first look at the rest of the colleens, who double as entertainers and waitresses. They are wearing full-length, leg-of-mutton velvet gowns in bright colours - scarlet, mossy green and purple - and great big smiles that never slip.

Over the course of the evening, it becomes clear that the 11 colleens are a class act. They play harp and fiddle, they sing and dance - all to a very high standard - they serve the food, they clear the plates and they pose endlessly for pictures.

This is the second time they've done this tonight; when I ask them if they are well paid, they say they are. They deserve to be. They also admit that the gowns, which are passed from one generation of colleens to the next, are "roasting".

In the great hall, a honeymoon couple from San Diego, Jean Dugan and Eric Semtner, are crowned king and queen for the night.

The king, naturally, gets a big throne, while the queen makes do with a sort of glorified armchair. The rest of us become "noble lords and ladies".

The butler, Noel Murphy, who acts as compΦre for the evening, has been working for Shannon Heritage, which runs the banquets, in one form or another for 30 years. He is a pro. A portly man in doublet and hose, he plays the butler in camped-up, Benny Hill style. It should be excruciating, but his delivery is so knowing it's hilarious.

Downstairs, the candlelit banqueting hall looks terrific. Bunratty Castle can look museum-like and somewhat soulless by day, but at night, full of people, the atmosphere is different. The rows of long tables are set with pottery goblets and wooden plates, with big candles at either end.

There's not a lot of elbow room, though; they pack you onto the benches. "What's this?" asked one of my friends, picking up the rolled-up material in front of her.

"This" is a brightly coloured bib, which Maree Murphy, the colleen for our table, shows us how to put on. In moments, the hall looks full of 10-month-old babies. The elegant lady opposite stares at hers with distaste, curls her lip and puts it on her lap instead. Sartorial nightmares though they are, the bibs - I can't bring myself to wear one either - come in useful, as you eat with your fingers and a steak knife, or "dagger".

The food is simple but hearty, and not bad given the numbers being catered for. Really good spiced parsnip soup, which you drink out of a bowl, is followed by mounds of tender spare ribs, with lots of excellent home-made bread to mop it all up. Murphy collects the bowls and wooden plates.

"My noble lords and ladies," she smiles brightly, "could you please pass everything to the end of the table? Thanks a million." Upon which the noble lord and two noble ladies of our party dissolve into giggles.

Throughout the banquet, the colleens break into ballads and the odd madrigal-type dance, and as they can sing well and perform, it works. About halfway through, the butler chooses a victim for the regulatory stint in the dungeon.

"Shall we pardon him, your highness?" he roars once the dungeon door has clapped shut. "Release him!" cry the banqueting hordes. "Hang him!" is the gleeful cry from my noble-lord friend.

The jugs of wine on our table went untouched by most people. The Americans aren't big drinkers, although some asked for mead instead of wine.

"I wonder what happens to vegetarians?" muses the other noble lady of our party. The answer is that they get pasta, that Irish medieval staple. The main course for everyone else is chicken with broccoli, carrots and new potatoes. The time-honoured dessert of syllabub endures, and it is foul.

Towards the end of the banquet, the colleens play a cracking set on the harp and fiddle, followed by two songs, which have our party reaching for the wine and the rest of the hall enraptured - Danny Boy and The Fields Of Athenry. I watch the colleens closely, but none of them betrays what their true feelings might be about that lad and those old prison walls.

The evening ends with coffee downstairs, served by the omnipresent colleens. Listening to people on the way out, it's clear they have had a ball - as my friends and I have had, although it's not something any of us would normally think of going to. The Bunratty Castle banquet is definitely cheese, but it's Stilton, a classic that improves with time.

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