What did Charlie Haughey think of Bertie Ahern's Government? Over a bottle of wine or two in Abbeville, he told Frank McDonald
Charlie Haughey believed that the present Fianna Fáil-Progressive Democrats Coalition is "the worst Government in the history of the State - the worst", because "they can't seem to get anything right" and had no real vision of the future of Ireland.
He delivered this blunt judgment to me at a private meeting we had in Abbeville, Kinsealy, one Friday afternoon last January. It was my third visit to the house he loved so well over the past three years and the last time I saw him.
I had first written to the former taoiseach in August 2003, suggesting that he might like to do an interview about his environmental legacy, such as Government Buildings, the renewal of Temple Bar and the development of Dublin's Docklands.
About a week later, he rang my mobile and invited me to lunch in Abbeville on September 11th. I had met him before on several occasions, including one long meeting in the old Taoiseach's office in 1990, when the diggers were in the yard.
At Abbeville we got on surprisingly well, even though he was well aware of what I had written about him not long after he became taoiseach in 1979, such as how he had bought Abbeville and Inishvickillane - even daring to mention his £1 million overdraft at AIB.
Maybe he was more magnanimous than he was ever given credit for. Maybe he enjoyed playing the genial host, but there he was at the door to greet me.
He looked quite frail even then, but still took me on a tour of the main rooms.
He showed me into his cluttered study, where I gave him a signed copy of The Construction of Dublin and he presented me with The Complete Roman Army - of all things - with lots of illustrations of centurions, weaponry and battle formations.
He led me through the Gothic drawingroom to the Irish bar which Sam Stephenson had designed for him. "I thought you'd never get here till I could open this," he said, plucking a bottle of Montagny premier cru from the fridge, and pouring two large glasses.
An informal repast of Alsatian paté, cheese, bread and salads was laid out on a side table, and we grazed on it while talking about Dublin and how it had changed, about Ireland and about Paris, where he liked staying at the Ritz, with Charvet around the corner.
After the bottle of wine was finished, he bid me open another. It was a lovely day, so I suggested that we go outside to sit on the terrace. He readily agreed, donning a windcheater and blue sailor's hat, and we continued drinking in the afternoon sun.
His wife Maureen popped out to say hello. Abbeville had recently been sold to Manor Park Homes for a reported €45 million, with the proviso that they could live out the rest of their days in the grand house designed by James Gandon for his patron, John Beresford.
As we looked out over the lake, I asked CJH if he was concerned that the estate would be radically altered.
He said no, that Manor Park Homes were "good people" and they would adopt a sensitive approach, perhaps turning the house into a hotel.
He invited me back to lunch in Abbeville in November 2004. I had just returned from Bucharest and told him all about Nicolae Ceaucescu's vast palace and the ill-named Boulevard of Socialist Victory that stretches out for nearly three kilometres before it.
When I told him that the whole project required the demolition of two monasteries, 30 churches, an Olympic stadium and the homes of 7,500 people, he fixed me with one of those baleful looks and said: "Mmmm, it must be great to be a dictator."
I laughed, exclaiming: "Well, you'd know something about that!", at which he laughed too. Sure wasn't it well-known that most of his ministers were scared to death of him, and he himself had once memorably described them as "only a crowd of gobshites".
At one stage, when I mentioned doing a proper interview, he had changed his tune from the previous occasion. Then, he had said his mind wasn't as alert as it used to be. But this time, he said - almost menacingly: "Yeah . . . I know a lot of things."
There's a framed plaque on the window ledge of Abbeville's Irish bar, inscribed with the Latin dictum Non illegitimis carborundum, mock Latin for "Don't let the bastards grind you down". One suspects that this was CJH's motto, more than anything else.
We didn't see each other again until last January, after I had sent him a copy of Chaos at the Crossroads with a letter saying that if he was still receiving guests, I'd be delighted to drop out to see him. A phone call and another invitation followed soon after.
"Come out on Friday at 4.30 - that'd be a respectable hour to start drinking," he said. He emerged from his study, walking cane in his right hand, the book I had sent him in his left hand. We shook hands and I asked him how he was. "Only middling," he said.
I told him that his picture was on a billboard at Portmarnock station, saying it must have been an advertisement for the DVD of the RTÉ television series on him, broadcast last summer. Much to my surprise, he said he hadn't seen the series. I didn't believe him.
CJH was shuffling slowly as we made our way to the bar, where he sat down in one of the wicker chairs and bid me open another bottle of Montagny.
He congratulated me on the book, saying it was an important book and he particularly liked the title.
He remarked that he saw what James Nix and I were on about. Travelling by helicopter to Inishvickillane "you'd see 40 or 50 houses stuck in fields on the outskirts of a village or town, with no relationship to the place". He thought this was "terrible".
Even though he was ill, his mind was good. He spent part of every day replying to letters, often from pensioners who had just qualified for free travel. He said it was the best thing he ever did, because it had "revolutionised" the lives of older people.
The conversation moved to architects. When I told him that the long-awaited Scott Tallon Walker book was coming out, he recalled Ronnie Tallon complaining to him in 1980 that "the fellows in the OPW" wanted to take down the Papal Cross in the Phoenix Park. He assured Tallon that there was no way that this would happen and, of course, it didn't.
But he stressed that he "never tried to influence a planning decision", having learned an "important lesson" early in his political career, after he was first elected to the Dáil.
There was a proposal to build a scout den in Donnycarney, and he wrote a letter of support. It turned out that local residents were opposed to it, so his endorsement backfired. "I thought everyone would be in favour of having a scout den, but there you are."
We talked about Dermot Desmond, who had sold him the idea of the IFSC, and how well Desmond looked in a photograph in The Irish Times sitting in a winged armchair in his newly-renovated Georgian house in Merrion Square. "Very dignified," CJH said.
He had a lot of time for Desmond, remarking that Seán Lemass had once told him that he should surround himself with "fellows who get things done". He said the IFSC was a "great success" and had made a major contribution to the Exchequer.
He said he was "shocked" by an opinion poll showing that support for the present Government was up, because in his view "it's the worst Government in the history of the State - the worst". Why? "Because they can't seem to get anything right," he said.
When I suggested that although Bertie Ahern may be good at fixing things and had more resources at his disposal, he had no real vision of the future of Ireland, CJH agreed. "But the public don't seem to care, as long as they have money," he said.
On ageing, he said it helped him and Maureen that they had their children and grandchildren around them. "Even though they all have their own pursuits and aren't around all the time, it's a tradition that we all gather on the island every August."
Old friends were also very important to him and, in that context, he mentioned Arthur Gibney. Like himself, Arthur had not been well, but CJH said he'd invite the two of us to lunch next time. "Thanks for coming out - we'll do it again," he said.
With that, the former taoiseach slumped into the sofa in front of a plasma TV screen to watch the 6pm news, and waved his left hand limply. He left it to Maureen to show me to the top of the steps inside the hall, and I let myself out.
Sadly, the lunch with Charlie Haughey and Arthur Gibney never happened. They passed away within weeks of each other. They were both northside boys through and through, and northside boys don't tell tales, at least for the record.