Travels with my daughter Nick Welch
When pop star Florence Welch was asked to an Irish literary festival, she took her father Nick Welch along – and he loved it
One day, my old friend Viv Guinness sent me an email. She wondered whether ‘the daughter’ Florence (aka Florence + the Machine) might like to feature at the Borris House Festival of Writing & Ideas in County Carlow, a couple of hours south-west of Dublin.
Flo was back on the phone within a day or so and absolutely on for it. The clincher was the presence of Jeffrey Eugenides, an author whom I had not read yet, but is adored by my children and their friends. Most delightfully, I am allowed to come, too.
County Carlow is rolling country, with some green mountains to the south, and Borris House is a wonderful, somewhat sombre confection, with an elegant but thoroughly lived-in interior.
It has been the home of the Macmurrough Kavanagh family for centuries. They are engagingly around and about during the festival.
Florence has a perfect room at the top of the house. I’m suddenly disappointed that I helpfully agreed to be downgraded to a local B&B. But then I am a gilded hanger-on, not even a real author – I suppose I could claim co-authorship of Florence’s being.
Within minutes of arriving, I am meeting some of many new best friends, including Barry the man on the door who keeps the riff-raff out of Borris House.
By now an experienced ligger, I know it’s always useful to get on good terms with security personnel. They know where things are and who does what.
A chatty fellow, Barry informs me he has been looking after HRH (Prince Charles) who was in Kilkenny a week before. Apparently, HRH had been very well received and enjoyed himself so thoroughly that he stayed rather longer than expected.
There is a green room in Borris House where the writer-talkers can hang out, and it is actually green – the walls an old, very muted shade of eau de nil, hung with family portraits – with a magnificent dining table around which they all sit.
The writers appear a little preoccupied, as well they might, having to talk in public about what they wrote in the quiet privacy of their garrets.
Richard Ford seems impossibly handsome and gives me clear and sensible advice about my cricked neck (Ibuprofen, not paracetamol). Jeffrey Eugenides looks rather dapper and less preoccupied than most. My own mild concern is for the man who will be interviewing Florence in an hour or so.
He is Fiachna Ó’brionáin, a member of the band Hothouse Flowers and now a broadcaster as well. He is a most charming man – dark suit, dark hair, with a fine grin. He is, however, a little worried about what he’s going to do with Flo. I call her to suggest that she finish primping and come down for a chat with