Ulster Final Day... 'A big wedding... and a grand funeral'

“And the tin whistle played Banhished Misfortune'- by late great Cavan poet, author and playwright Tom McIntyre

The late great Cavan poet, author and playwright Tom McIntyre recalled the mood and atmosphere in Clones on Sunday, July 23, 1995, on the front page of The Anglo-Celt.

Cavan played Tyrone, having overcome near rivals Monaghan earlier in the month.

It was the first time Cavan had reached an Ulster Final, vying for The Anglo-Celt Cup in 12 years, when they lost to Donegal 1-14 to 1-11 in 1983.

The stage was set.

Clones, two hours before the match, the streets packed and rich with colour, sun shining, hamburgers and hot-dogs hopping up and down like eggs in a ponger: it's a Fair, I though, the Ulster Final has become a Fair, a Festival, a Fleadh. Are we starting to learn to enjoy ourselves, I wondered?

Shane Connaughton and Dermot Healy rose out of the ground. 'We were just talking about you,' said Healy. 'Were you now?' The Fair, the Festival, the Fleadh.

And so the ground. A lot of people were carrying umbrellas, raincoats. Half the world believes in rain, I was always told, the other half doesn't give a damn.

Children... without fuss, it seemed... kept getting lost, and found. A car was threatened with confiscation. The man on the loudspeaker tirelessly asked us to applaud this and that. We did and we didn't. We were too busy enjoying ourselves. How'll we do, I asked the Cavan man next to me? "We're not here for the fresh air". I knew what he meant. But I was enjoying the fresh air too.

The combat. That first five minutes ... or was it ten? Make plans for Dublin. Then we 'lose our shape', in the dread current phrase. At half-time the score-board spat at me. Resumption. The battle to come back into it. "Skin him, skin him", my neighbour shouted every time Cahill got the ball. I oved the gamble of bringing out our fullback to rescue the cause. Madness ... but I loved the gamble. Full-time. Good-luck Tyrone.

Back in the town a man from Redhills told me I was a German angler with nothing to do but take frozen pike home with me. The din of the Fair was rising. "What did you think?" I asked. 'I was surprised. I was disappointed'. 'What surprised you?'

'How well we started'. 'What disappointed?' 'What happened after'. Terse, simple statement, and I saluted it. 'How're things on The Red Brae? I enquired ... but he was gone, the crowd took him. There was music coming from some direction. A tin-whistle, the tune... Banished Misfortune.

In the crush and the scramble I saw people I hadn't seen for decades ... the Fair resembles a big wedding, a grand funeral. A young lad in the vicinity began, softly, to sing Arthur McBride. Peter Donohoe, 'Big Peter', went by, sombre, majestic, and The Polo Grounds flittered across the traffic contending for attention. The young, especially the females, glowed and danced. There should be a painter present, I muttered, but remembered that Healy and Connaughton were roaming the streets or settled in a bar, maybe, and they'd miss nothing.

And the next thing we were half-ways to Cootehill. Ballyhaise, Bunnoe, Lisnageer, the evening sun rambled the shinbone hills. It was like the first summer evening that ever was. In the town of Cootehill... which I'll never deny... we stopped for a bite. 'Are ye enjoying The Music Festival?' a handsome woman sitting beside us enquired. 'We're beginning to connect', 1 replied, 'Where are you from, tell me?' She pointed to an open door. A piper commencing. I stole over... music, always, before meat. A piper, female, young and beautiful, was playing a rune I didn't know. I had to be dragged away.

Cows to be milked. And yet we went the high roundabout road: Cootehill - Shercock, Shercock - Bailieboro', on towards Virginia. 'You know this territory", my driver offered. 'Tramped it in wind and rain'. The hills and the lakes purred in the lingering light. This landscape is best under the full moon, I reflected, but it's not bad in the half-light either. Loch Sillan came into view. 'Enjoy the day?' asks my man. 'A great day out'. 'Be nice to win though'. I hardly heard him. I was listening to the tunes of the Fair, tunes I knew, and tunes I'd never know. 'Turn that car', I heard myself saying, 'We'll head back to Cootehill'.