Senator Joe Conway’s first few months in Seanad Éireann

An engaging piece of writing in the Sunday Independent

Like any village, Leinster House has its eccentrics: what I've learned after six months in the Seanad

After 44 years in trade unions and local government, Independent Joe Conway was elected to the Seanad in January as part of the cultural and education panel. Here, he looks back on an eye-opening first few months

In the early hours of January 31, I got across the line and was elected to the 27th Seanad. Or so I thought. My joy was disturbingly short-lived when the defeated candidate's team called for a recount, which was allowed and scheduled for the following morning.

It was well after 2am when I left the count and trudged along Merrion Street, on the phone to my wife Sandra, trying as best I could to relate the events of the last few hours.

After about 20 minutes, I realised I was skirting around Trinity College and it dawned on me that I had been walking in the wrong direction, away from my lodgings. I was reasonably sure it would not be the last time I would err on my political peregrinations.

When my election was confirmed, I was summoned to attend and sign in on February 12. That opening day brought back memories of my first day in boarding school: a wealth of fresh faces, accents, shapes and makes of people I did not know, and some I did.

It was not long before veteran independent Victor Boyhan cupped my elbow in his avuncular fashion and suggested that we go meet Mich­ael McDowell.

Michael welcomed me quietly and did about 10pc of the chatting in our hour-long discussion. I probably did a little less, while 80pc-plus was Victor, machine-gunning and cleaving through a wide array of topics, much of it perceptive and informative, and often amusing.

Our inaugural Senate Independent Group (SIG) meeting a couple of days later was a much more robust affair. I will leave it at that.

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Having grown up in the small yet beautiful village of Ardagh, Co Longford, it was not long at all before I began to detect many of the features and nuances of village life in the Leinster House milieu.

Ardagh punched well above its weight back then with its quantum of eccentrics, and so it is in Leinster House — though one person's eccentric is another's bore, it being rather subjective.

I noticed it very early during the moving-in process when we were all scurrying about looking for offices —of the physical rather than political variety.

I had heard horror stories of gaz­umping and evictions. However, with minimal fuss and in no small part due to the subtle negotiations of Sam­antha, our SIG capa, I moved into a smart first-floor unit just two minutes from the chamber.

The previous incumbent was Noel Grealish. It was not long before he materialised, the embodiment of the village welcome-wagon. Recently appointed a minister, he breezed in, but was soon taken aback with the changes afoot.

Slumping into one of my new good-enough-for-government armchairs, he declared in mock outrage "Jayz, when ye're gone, ye're really gone!”, lolling there awhile and shooting his politician's schtick before gathering up his things.

As in the Randy Edelman song, there wasn't much to pack, including a large mug of loose change from a filing cupboard. I met him again about a month later outside the chamber and he greeted me as warmly as you would an old friend.

Like all villages, Leinster House has its trusted places for eating, drinking and meeting. The most innocuous is the Coffee Dock, a modernistic, airy spot not likely to be found in many villages.

For serious engagement, it's the bars or restaurants. These are jovial and respectful spots (with rare exceptions) with good porridge and boiled eggs for breakfast and better-than- average gossip, where members and staff and ministers rub shoulders and park trays.

The Visitors' Bar is for the craic, while the Members' Bar is more sed­ate, though admittedly I have only visited once in the past six months.

Like the select bars of yesteryear, it had a hushed ambience with seanadóirí and teachtaí in grave discussions over their lattes and sambos. Honest to God, I did not spy a single pint or short anywhere — but it was lunchtime.

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Most villages have a degree of social stratification, and early on I was alerted to this by some hoary veterans of the Oireachtas. Two parties were mentioned particularly in these dispatches: the first for a sort of snobbish aloofness, the other for the omerta of the arriviste.

Most local politicians counter this nonsense with their studied, sunny dispositions and by firing chirpy greetings indiscriminately at allcomers, sometimes with unexpected results. During the spring hot spell, I hollered at Danny Healy-Rae a favourite phrase of my late father's when the weather was too warm to be stuck inside: "You're on the wrong side of the house today, Danny!”

From his response, Danny clearly construed that I was speaking politically rather than meteorologically.

"What d'ya mean?” be barked back, and I was reduced to explaining myself awkwardly.

I still burn a little at the memory.

He shuffled off unconvinced, and I resolved to work assiduously on him. Now, I am happy to report, we are reasonably good mates.

I think, anyway.

Of course, no village would be complete without some sort of sports club, so we have a modest gym next door, and close by are the gardaí from Pearse Street to keep us safe from any predations.

Unlike at Westminster, we have no chapel such as St Stephen's and no clergy in situ. For those of us who need a little spirituality in the midst of a busy week, there is a quiet holy communion down the street in St Anne's at quarter to one every Tuesday.

I have always had a fond affinity with village life and I feel very privileged indeed to have been given the chance to discover this one.