Micheál Martin and Keir Starmer met at a grandiosely titled and neurotically managed “Summit” meeting in Cork this week.
Dithering Heights.
It was underwhelming.
The Taoiseach and the UK prime minister communed at Fota House, beside Fota wildlife park where the chattering monkeys and a large kangaroo made more of an impact than the political big beasts next door.
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For this two-day contemplative retreat, the twin peaklets of M and S were rolled out in a few short bursts for the cameras at the flattest summit in the history of political hillocks.
Welcome to UKIS.
The United Kingdom-Ireland Summit.
It’s already a fixture on the international diplomatic calendar – up there with Davos and COP and Puck Fair. An “annual” event, as Taoiseach Martin and PM Starmer were keen to stress on the rare occasions they opened their mouths in the presence of the media.
UKIS has exploded into life every year now since, er, last year.
The next one, in March 2027, is keenly anticipated, although disgruntled observers incarcerated on the fringes filled the idle hours by wondering if either leader will be around for UKIS III.
Keir was clearly hoping for some respite from his ongoing Peter Mandelson/Jeffrey Epstein trauma, having just suffered a mini-monstering from the UK media on the issue while seeking cover with a mother and baby group in Northern Ireland on Thursday morning.
And Micheál wanted to talk about anything other than what he will say to Donald Trump next Tuesday when they meet in the Oval Office.
Or “Me-hal”, as the PM referred to his Irish counterpart throughout his speech at a cultural event in Cork City Hall.
There was heavy security in place around the southern capital’s airport before his jet touched down. Reporters were instructed not to post anything about the visit on social media until the VIP guest had landed and cleared the tarmac.
Inside the terminal building, everyone knew he was coming anyway.
“Our flight is delayed six hours now,” Denise from Killarney told us. She was off on a trip to Seville with her daughter and granddaughter and they were anxious to get going.
“We’re delayed because of Keir Starmer. That’s what they’re telling us here.”
The weather wasn’t helping either.
Word came through that Darragh O’Brien, part of Micheál’s Dithering Heights Cabinet team, wouldn’t make the first day as his flight from Paris had to turn back due to the atrocious conditions. Naturally, he is Minster for Transport.
Martin Fraser, the Irish Ambassador to the UK, had his Cork flight diverted to Shannon. He made it in time for a ceremonial touchdown which occasioned tremendous jet envy among a windswept, sodden and frozen Irish contingent.
Starmer’s jet is a sleek Airbus with the union flag adorning the tail-fin and wing tips and “United Kingdom” written along the side.
The welcoming party, reared on years of stories of wheezy, bockety Irish versions looked on and dreamed.
An executive jet was parked to one side of the cleared tarmac where Starmer landed. A very fancy helicopter, in similar navy and caramel livery, drew admiring glances from the crowd sheltering in the hangar beside it.
They belong to pro-Brexit billionaire James Dyson, who owns a mansion in the county, and were emblazoned with his vineyard’s crest.
Ireland didn’t roll out the red carpet. It was taken in large slabs from a box and laid like a patio at the foot of Starmer’s steps.
The Taoiseach scuttled through the rain to greet him at the base of them. They didn’t spend much time on formalities. Keir made a run for his Range Rover, leaving Me-hal looking a bit lost on the red carpet before he too made a dash for cover.
Back at City Hall, protesters gathered, roaring “baby killers!” (Palestinian and Iranian flags) and “Tiocfaidh ár lá!” (Tricolour and Starry Plough) at anybody going in.
“The last time ye were here ye burned the place down!” shouted one protester at people he thought might be British.
Many of the – not huge – attendance of local TDs and Senators opted to go in the back way.
Apart from calling his host “Me-hal”, the absence of his former chief of staff – proud Corkman Morgan McSweeney – was apparent when the PM burbled on about pulling pints of Guinness in a city where pints of Murphy are king.
He joked he would be probably be pulling pints behind the bar after the formalities (good luck finding a Guinness tap) but he left pretty sharpish.
So did Me-hal. They reassembled at nearby Jacques restaurant (the visitor stayed in the five-star Hayfield Manor Hotel) where they dined with their entourages in a private room. Both men had the mushroom risotto to start, Keir followed with the monkfish and Micheál had the chicken stuffed with Jack McCarthy sausage.
And wine, not pints.
It was an early start on Friday morning, when the flat summit was happening in earnest, for selected photographers and Government Information Services (GIS) camera people who were allowed into an event in UCC. Working media who ask questions or have eyes in their heads were expressly excluded.
The same rule applied at an event the previous evening. And when the Taoiseach and PM went for a tip-toe among the daffodils after their 90-minute “summit”, only photographers and GIS people were allowed to watch.
Reporters, confined to a hall along with a stuffed lion and the skeleton neck and jawbone of a giraffe, saw nothing except the “PLEASE DON’T TOUCH THE SPECIMENS” signs.
Which rather summed up the experience.
And yet, so much to discuss, so much to share, so much to celebrate, so many “pages to turn” following the difficult Brexit years and so many media questions to flee from in this Steer Clear Summit.
The hungry pack was graciously invited to record the prime minister’s arrival at Fota House from a platform at a suitable distance.
GIS photographers and two Garda photographers – one shooting video – had free rein to wander and record the event.
They witnessed Darragh “we had to circle the airport twice!” O’Brien arriving after his Paris ordeal.
The Taoiseach materialised outside the front door. The PM bustled forward.
“Morning Me-hal!”
“Nice to see you again!” (or words to that effect, the Summit’s twin peaklets having met earlier at another “visuals only” event in UCC.)
Mumble, mumble, mumble.
“It’s a lovely house,” said Kier.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” trilled Me-hal, with a little sweep of his arm.
This may have been the second UKIS Summit, but the photographers had to tell them to shake hands. Calls for “a wave” went unheeded.
Back with the stuffed lion and giraffe’s jawbone, the GIS emailed audio of the leaders’ opening remarks from the big house to the non-government media sitting two minutes down the road.
There would be no triumphant, flag-draped press conference to signal the end another UKIS summit triumph. Keir Starmer legged it, leaving the Irish side to disclose what happened.
Probably decided to go when the raucous sound of protesters was heard in the distance. No. Wait.
It was the monkeys. The monkeys were howling.
Maybe they got a copy of the formal joint communique.
“We’ve just had a very substantive Summit between the UK and Ireland,” announced the Taoiseach, when he finally appeared out on the lawn at the back of the house, far from the roaring monkeys and a curious kangaroo.
“A thriving relationship ...” And so on.
A man in chef’s whites watched the proceedings from a downstairs window.
Me-hal was asked what he might say to Trump this coming Tuesday.
“It’s been a very busy week,” replied the Taoiseach. “I had the prime minister of Luxembourg in on Monday.”
Then Tánaiste Simon Harris and Minister for Defence Helen McEntee landed in front of the microphones. The UK ministers didn’t participate.
As Simon and Helen talked and talked, Keir Starmer’s homewardbound jet streaked overheard in the clear and quiet skies.
And Me-hal, with a shillelagh under his arm and a twinkle in his eye, was off to Philadelphia before the morning
