With a punt each way and a pint in the hand

Paddy Flood celebrates winning the 2008 Irish Grand National. Photo / Tourism Ireland

In Ireland more people read The Racing Post than the Book of Kells. Racing is a religion. Gaelic is not the national language of Ireland. Equine is. And everyone is fluent in it. A mastery of the language can be very profitable. Keeping your ears open in the bars and hotels in Dublin can be a rewarding experience.

The concierge at the Merrion Hotel had heard a whisper and it was a quality whisper. The barman disagreed. The concierge's tip wouldn't make the trip. His whisper was the best.

The Maitre d' gave me a name too. He said it was well-drawn and would run a decent race on easy ground. One of the chambermaids was also in the know. She named an outsider, tapping the side of her nose as she did so. A passing bellhop tipped me the wink and made me look outside at the driving rain. The going was yielding. He advised me to factor that in. And gave me a further name.

"A sure fire thing" he said. "Always trust a Carberry".

The Merrion Hotel is Dublin's best hotel. It was the birthplace of the first Duke of Wellington. Its walls are covered with artwork. There is a framed letter from George Bernard Shaw who was born down the street. A statue of James Joyce shares the grounds with the hotel's family of ducks.

Everyone there wanted me to win the Irish Grand National. Everywhere I went people were happy to share their whispers. The driver on the Hop On 'n' Off Sightseeing Tour (the most entertaining city tour in the world because of the driver's hilarious sit-down running commentary comedy act) told me who he fancied.

Regulars in O'Donoghues (the pub where the folk band The Dubliners started) told me about a mare that was on good terms with herself and was made for a bit of cut in the ground.

The barman at Doheny and Nesbitt's put me on to another horse which had done well at Lingfield Park despite being disappointing at Pontefract.

It must have been the hat.

I know nothing about horse-racing but my hat gave people the opposite impression. My "Made in Sri Lanka" baggy grey cloth cap acted like a magnet to the city's compulsive punters. Everyone assumed from my headwear that I was horsey.

Everyday conversation throughout Ireland is peppered with phrases like "Beef and Salmon", "Dawn Run", "Flashing Steel", "Bunny Boiler", "Hardy Eustace" and "Bentom Boy".

Mention the "Blue Square Touche Cup" and Pat Taft in the same sentence and you'll have friends until closing time. Everyone wants to mark your card. Especially at National time.

If I had followed everyone's suggestions I would have bet on the whole field. Everyone had a recommendation. All except the waiter in chef Ed Clooney's excellent Cellar Restaurant at the Merrion. He ringed the steak on my menu.

There are 27 racecourses in Ireland, more per head of population than any other country in the world. There are 300 days of meets every year. You can't go very far in Ireland without someone talking horses. It's in the blood.

There are some wonderful rural courses. Like Tralee, Tramore near Waterford, Ballinrobe on Loch Carra in County Mayo, Bellewstown (from the Gaelic Slieve Baile na gCailleach, meaning "Town of Hags") with its views of the Mountains of Mourne, Clonmel (the name comes from Chian Meala, meaning "Pasture of Honey"), Kilbeggan, Gowran Park, Limerick, Tipperary and Thurles. Every September Laytown, a seaside village in County Meath on Ireland's east coast, holds a meet on the beach. It was started by a priest in the late 19th century.

The world "steeplechase" was coined in County Cork in 1752 when two gambling men wanted to settle a bet as to who had the faster horse. They organised a race from the steeple of the church in Buttevant to that of St Mary's in Doneraile.

Downpatricks is probably the oldest course in Ireland, having held meets since 1685. Byerley Turk, one of the founding sires of all thoroughbreds, ran there in 1690 on the way to the Battle of the Boyne.

Thirty miles southwest of Dublin, The Curragh (An Currach, meaning "the Race Course") is mentioned in the earliest Irish manuscripts as a meeting place of the Celtic Kings who were fond of their horse racing.

Official racing began in 1741 and in the 1760s a Jockeys' Club was founded in a coffee shop in Kildare town.

The Turf Club came into being in 1790. The first Irish Derby was run at the Curragh in 1866.

Twenty miles south of Dublin, Punchestown (Valley of the Ash Trees) stages some of best jump racing in the world. The first recorded meeting was in 1824.

Fairyhouse, northwest of Dublin near the village of Ratoath in County Meath, is the venue for the Irish Grand National, first run in 1870, now part of the Easter Festival and Ireland's richest steeplechase worth 250,000 euros ($625,233).

I went with my friend Paul, who has a problem. He thinks he knows about racing. He doesn't know he doesn't. He is in denial. He won't admit that his life is one long confetti trail of booking slips.

Wise man that he was, the writer J. B. Priestley knew that "Man, the creature who knows he must die, who has dreams larger than his destiny, which is forever working a confidence trick on him, needs an ally".

His was tobacco. Mine happens to be Irish whisky. And it came in handy as I watched my mentor at work.

Confront an Irish whisky lover with nature and he must commune with it. The world twinkles and hums about him; life becomes miraculous and everything everlastingly picturesque.

With a short in his hand, a decanter by his side and a couple of miniatures in his pocket, the whisky devotee feels that he has life taped; he feels envied and enviable; sane in a mad world.

Paul is like that when he has a racing card in his hand and he is leaning over the rail of the paddock ring.

For him, racing is a pleasure that never palls. It arouses him. He talks a good horse, gives the impression he knows all the trainers and jockeys intimately almost to the point of indecency and knows which gelding likes the going soft and what filly likes it yielding. He steams and lathers as much as the horses before the off.

He gets frisky before a big race. He loves to go racing.

He didn't do too well in the first at Fairyhouse. Neither did I. We both lost on the 2.40 and 3.10.

Mr Carty the bookie happily took our money. But Paul still knew that there had only been nine winning favourites in the history of the National and only five English-trained winners.

We watched the horses being stalled for the big race. I watched Paul stride purposefully towards the bookies' stand. I edged off to the Tote. We watched the race unfold. The runners and riders came into the closing stretch.

Everyone roared. I was enveloped by a huge cloud of whisky fumes.

The horses crossed the winning line. And I turned to see Paul ripping up his slip.

I had also come nowhere. The 2008 Irish Grand National was won by 33-1 outsider Hear The Echo.

Neither of us was on it. Jockey Paddy Flood seemed to be the only one in Fairytown who was on it.

We fared even worse on the McGarrell Reilly Homes Handicap Hurdle and the Avon Ri Leisure and Corporate Beginners' Chase.

It wasn't our day.

Neither Paul nor I won the Best Dressed prize. But we would have been co-favourites for the Most Distressed Punter.

Paul lost his coat and I lost my hat. When I won the last race, the Gigginstown House Stud Point to Point Flat Race, with an each way bet on Pandorama, I threw it in the air.

Being a bad and habitual loser, Paul just grrred. He should have listened to the bellhop. Always trust a Carberry.

Especially if she is a Miss.

CHECKLIST

The Irish Grand National is held every Easter Monday.

Getting there: Air New Zealand, in conjunction with partner airlines, has daily services to Dublin. Fares start from $3170pp return.

Where to stay: The Merrion Hotel is at Upper Merrion St.

Further information: For information about racing trips to Ireland, see Horse Racing Ireland. For general information on Ireland, see DiscoverIreland.com/nz.