At best it was a missed opportunity. At worst, it was a dereliction of duty on our part. Either way it now seems blindingly obvious that when Charles Haughey finally passed away this year, we should have buried him in Newgrange, writes Frank McNally.
This insight is not inspired solely by his memorial card, although the hints from what are presumably the former taoiseach's favourite literary passages are clear enough. "Happy the man who delights in the law of the Lord," reads the biblical extract. "He is like a tree planted near running water." A reference there, surely, to the River Boyne.
Then there's the Thomas Davis poem, through which Mr Haughey asks to be buried "on an Irish hillside or an opening lawn" with "no tombstone there but green sods, decked with daisies". Look at the picture of Newgrange. If that's not a description of it, I don't know what is.
Of course one wouldn't lightly open a neolithic burial mound to new residents, even former taoisigh, just because they might want to be there. But even his enemies will admit that Mr Haughey was no ordinary leader. He was a man who saw himself as the embodiment of his nation and its long history. Part chieftain, part druid, he combined the modern leadership qualities of a Sean Lemass with the ancient ones of the Tuatha de Danann - who, according to legend, imposed their rule on Ireland by magically casting it into darkness.
His magical powers were invisible to critics, and not even supporters can explain how exactly he transformed the country. But an animist cult among his followers regards him as the true father of the Celtic Tiger - an offspring he is said to have begat during a moment of passion with its mother, the Financial Services Centre.
Yes, he enriched himself as leader. But paradoxically, that was why his followers trusted him. In the neolithic Ireland of the 1980s, thin men were regarded with superstition. Mr Haughey was the fat chieftain who, it was believed, would make his people fat too. And however it happened, sure enough, he bequeathed us an obesity epidemic.
Like the ancient kings, he was ruthless when necessary, sacrificing sub-chieftains to appease the angry gods, and burying them in the bog. The most famous example we know of was "Roscommon Man", whose almost perfectly preserved body was dug up and interviewed on RTÉ's Nighthawks in 1992 - an omen that hastened Mr Haughey's demise.
There was also "Old Lenihan man", believed by archaeologists to have had a successful liver operation during his later life, despite evidence that his treatment fund was plundered. He too was sacrificed for political ends. In an additional punishment, his sons were bound by the strict social code to pay tribute ever afterwards to the leader who had mistreated their father. Cruel as this seems to us, we must remember that their world was not ours. We should not pass judgment on things we cannot possibly understand.
Getting back to the present, there are other reasons why the Meath monument would have been a suitable resting place. Another line from the Davis poem reads: "I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze to freshen the turf." In Newgrange, Mr Haughey would be safe from the gales, while the gentle breeze of tour groups would waft by every 20 minutes. We could have put some turf in there too, if that's what he wanted.
Then there are the mysterious spirals on the entrance stones. Newgrange tour guides never fail to point them out, along with the equally strange lozenge shapes carved on the walls of the inner chamber. Visitors are often asked to speculate on what they mean, but the point is, nobody knows. The signs can be argued about indefinitely, just like Haughey's legacy. What more suitable epitaph could he have? Indeed, it is said that one of his last acts in office was to take a group of friends for a short flight in the Government jet. This was the great leader's farewell to Ireland: his Ireland. And according to the story, the party did not do just one circuit of the country, but two - a detail usually attributed to Mr Haughey's love of excess.
In retrospect, however, it seems clear that the great man's double circuit of Ireland has to be seen in the same light as the Newgrange spirals. It was a message of some kind, perhaps invoking the sun god to bless his beloved country when it would no longer enjoy his leadership.
If we had buried him in Newgrange, his friends and followers could have gathered there this week for an event of mystical significance. They would have waited in the pre-dawn darkness on Tuesday as the first signs of the long-awaited Moriarty report rose over the mid-winter horizon. Then, slowly, a narrow finger of light would have penetrated the entrance to the mound, creeping up the passageway until it reached the central chamber.
For a few fleeting moments, the crypt would have been illuminated. The deep, reverent silence would have been disturbed only by the sound of Ben Dunne angrily rebuffing Mr Justice Moriarty's findings in a phone call to RTÉ. Then the light would have retreated down the passageway. And once again Mr Haughey would have been left in the dark, which is where he always left us.