An Samhradh - and going to the Gaeltacht. Parents and school-going children pondered the options during late winter and spring: west Donegal, Connemara, Dingle or Ring.
Turning back the pages of time I can recall my days in Rannafast in the Donegal Gaeltacht in the 1960s. Initial thoughts are of beans on toast, of dreading the nightly ceili, of getting beaten by the locals in a Gaelic football match and of boys and girls using "pidgin" Irish.
The crack was mighty. Going to the Gaeltacht was a formative experience, perhaps a young person's first trip away from home. Students came from sophisticated southside Dublin, from the North and from around the Republic.
Shared interest
Friendships were formed with total strangers and it came to pass through a shared interest in music that three chaps from Drogheda and myself formed a group. I can remember two names: Ben Corcoran and John Garvey. Ben had a brother called Brian, who was later a classmate of mine in St Patrick's College Kiltegan, Co Wicklow, studying for the missionary priesthood. Brian is now somewhere on the missions, along with another brother, Pat.
They all played the guitar and I played piano modestly with the help of sheet music. My music teacher in Derry, Prof Cafolla, kept warning against the dangers of playing by ear. But really I was never going to be a concert pianist and that proved to be the case. I still can't play by ear and that fact has on occasion been a point of severe embarrassment. People don't understand how an exam-educated pianist cannot sit down to the instrument and play a few party pieces. To this day I envy those with no musical training who can become the heart and soul of the party. I marvel at their dexterity and pine for such musical freedom.
One of the highlights of the term in Rannafast, before everyone went home with their memories, was a talent contest. We decided to enter. I can't recall if we had a name, nor do I remember much of what was performed. The competition was held in a packed hall. Every vantage point was taken, even the window-sills, and there was panel of adjudicators including nuns - no harm to the good sisters.
Serious contender
The competition threw up plenty of talent - especially one young lad, bespectacled and earnest, who sang and played guitar and was also an excellent pianist. He didn't need sheet music, but there was no doubt he could read it. We knew before the contest he was going to be a serious contender. We all marvelled at his musical skills and people fell silent when he performed.
Anyway, it was only a bit of crack - and as far as we were concerned the winner was a foregone conclusion. In racing parlance he was a banker. We couldn't see anyone to beat this young man from the North.
The contest wore on. Some sang, some danced, some recited. Then the boy with the glasses came on and sang and played his guitar. For some reason he didn't display his piano skills, which gave us some sense of relief. But he still received rapturous applause and looked odds on to win.
Wild applause
Then it was the turn of our group, the last act of the night. The other lads played and I sat at the piano silent. When they finished I played; the only piece I can remember was African Waltz, recorded by Johnny Dankworth. The music cost two shillings. Johnny Dankworth, people will recall, was the other half of Cleo Laine. The audience broke out in wild applause. We had created a fair din, I suppose, and were obviously adopted as the Beatles for the night.
To this day I believe the adjudicators were intimidated by the audience's reaction. The winner, said one of the sisters, was our group.
We were stunned. Little did we realise then that we "beat" a talented young man from Co Tyrone who was to become a renowned singer and songwriter. Look at him today. Paul Brady is a star, but I get to write the Diary sometimes.