My first visit to Newgrange was by courtesy of C.I.E. Bus Mystery Tours. I was about eight years old. The day trip was a long awaited treat promised by my mother. I did not realise then how that simple outing was going to change the direction of my whole life and give substance to the vague dreams and expectations that excited my young mind as my mother and I set out together on that overcast summer morning.

The Mystery Tour brought us first to Tara, seat of the High Kings of Ireland, then on to Slane where St. Patrick lit his Pascal fire, and finally to Newgrange. Our guide told us impressively that we were standing in the Valley of the Kings. My first feeling was one of disappointment. All I could see was a large lump in the middle of a flat muddy dung-splattered field with black and white cows grazing indifferently among the standing stones that circled it. In those far-off days Newgrange was a rather shabby and uninspiring ruin which still awaited Professor Michael J. O'Kelly's painstaking excavation and recent marvellous restoration.

That afternoon the Sun-God of Newgrange was notable for his absence. A chill drizzle lent a further disenchantment to the view. Rather to escape the leaden aspect of the day from any vivid hope of adventure or discovery a damp file of us volunteered to enter the dark, forbidding passageway that penetrated the mound. Each of us was handed a candle which we lit as a frail talisman against the errors of the unknown. To my relief and surprise the air felt dry inside the great tumulus though the narrow and claustrophobically low passageway forced us to crouch as we made our way forward. For once being tall for my age was a disadvantage as I bent low and clung onto my mother's hand.