An Irishman's Diary

TWENTY years ago, almost to the day, I flew out of Dublin airport for a year in Australia - a country in which, as far as I knew, there were no McNally relatives whose hospitality I could exploit.

Since then - too late, alas - we have unearthed cousins in sun-soaked Queensland, the only state I didn't visit. I still haven't worked out how close the relationship is, but it sounds like it would have been worth at least two weeks of accommodation.

If nothing else, I might have got to see the Great Barrier Reef.

The sense of a lost opportunity returned this week when, with uncanny timing, one of those cousins - Michael - turned up in Dublin, beginning the Irish leg of a European tour with his wife and another couple, long-time friends.

As our family's Dublin-based wing, my sister and I were detailed to roll out the provisional red carpet, prior to the group's departure to the provinces. And we were nervous at first, not knowing what to expect. But the visitors were typically easy-going Australians, radiating sunshine and geniality, and upon meeting them we were instantly at ease.

They had accommodation sorted, so the best we could do was to treat them to dinner in a nice restaurant. And this went well, I think, except for a tense moment when my cousin's wife Judy cast aspersions on the size of the river Liffey, which I had mentioned in passing. "You mean that little green thing we crossed earlier?" she said. "In Australia, we'd call that a creek."

At this, a slight chill descended on the dining-room of Fallon Byrne's. I had never hitherto suspected myself of having strong feelings about the Liffey, one way or the other. God knows, it's not much to look at, especially at low ebb. But you don't like to hear your river being dissed by a foreigner: even one who's related to you.

So I countered that I didn't remember Australian rivers being that big either. And I was on the point of citing the Liffey's rich literary connections - how it was the central metaphor in Finnegans Wake, flowing in a circle like the book's stream-of-consciousness prose that begins and ends in the middle of the same sentence, etc, etc - when I realised I was being defensive and let it go.

Apart from that, as I say, the evening went well. And although our guests objected, we insisted on picking up the tab - which (in case any of them reads this) cost about the equivalent of a third week's accommodation in Queensland, if we ever get there. I'm looking forward to my visit already. The Brisbane River better be impressive, is all I can say.

Being a party of four with a lot of luggage, incidentally, our friends booked a van for their trip around Ireland. On arrival, however, they were upgraded to something rather bigger, which Judy compared to one of those armoured trucks that banks use for moving cash.

Perhaps she was exaggerating - I haven't seen the vehicle. But as they prepared to tour the country in what may resemble a Securicor lorry, I warned that, in the current economic climate, they were at an even higher than usual risk of being held up. I gave them a description of the Minister for Finance and said if he tried to flag them down anywhere, they should keep driving. Then I wished them luck.

THE Finnegans Wake-style circularity of the week's events, for me personally, was only increased by the Budget. Sure enough, it was billed as the worst in 20 years. And it evoked memories of the Ireland I left in 1988 - still terrorised by Mac the Knife, whose own budgetary statements could have been presented to the soundtrack from Psycho.

The green shoots of the Celtic Tiger were not yet visible then. But there was a small portent of hope at the airport when I met John Aldridge, who had just scored his first goal for Ireland after a wait of 17 games. His was the last Irish hand I shook before flying into exile.

The direness of current events was underlined on BBC's Newsnightearlier this week, when a financial expert predicted the British government would be investing even more in the banks than the huge amounts already committed. They would put in as much as it took, he said, because this was "war".

The theme was echoed here by the Budget's key word: "levy". Although its chief attraction for Mr Lenihan must have been as a way to avoid saying "tax", "levy" has a military resonance that would have suited his appeal for patriotism in the country's hour of need.

As well as raising Government funds, the levies of old — or " levées en masse" as they were called in France - could involve calling up all able-bodied men for military service. In the French spelling, of course, the word is still used in English.

A levee is a man-made river defence that prevent banks being burst - an even more contemporary resonance.

The Minister for Finance knows all about riverbanks, living as he does down by the Strawberry Beds, a picturesque stretch of the Liffey. Suddenly, however, his home address seems ominous. If my Australian cousin-in-law is correct, Mr Lenihan is up the creek, literally as well as metaphorically. I hope for all our sakes he can find a paddle.