Originally, the search for the parochial house is my idea, but I soon begin  to regret it and to think longingly of lunch. We have travelled a long way without any success. At a T junction we  turn right leaving behind us Noughavel Church and the ruin with the Memorial chapel of the O'Davoren's and St MacDuagh's Well.  Interesting as they are we aren't looking for these.  The narrow winding road seems to go on and on, endlessly, with few houses, and even fewer cars. Mullaghmore, that holy mountain, appears on our right.  It looks, as it always does, as though it has been twisted and flattened out of shape by some mysterious force. I'm not expecting to see it and I begin to think that we must be on the wrong road. Could we possibly be lost? We consult our map again and again. We are definitely in the right place. But there is no house to be seen, and no one to ask. Perhaps the house has long since fallen into ruin. Perhaps it has always been a figment of the imagination.  The whole mission seems impossible.

            Finally we see a low cottage up ahead of us, and a man who appears to be balancing something large and white on a gatepost. As we draw closer we find he has a giant puffball in his hands which he proudly shows us. No puffball could possibly be so large, but nevertheless there it is. The scene is surreal.   Rather embarrassed, I ask him if we are on the right road for the parochial house.
            "The next house," he says. "A mile and a half down the road." He grins from ear to ear and waves us on.
            I drive, still doubtful, until we round a bend, and suddenly, there it is, stark and conspicuous, flanked by the grey cliffs of the Burren. All around us the landscape is peaceful.  The surrounding fields are full of grazing sheep. The white gates stand open welcomingly and a child's tractor lies on its side at the front door.
            We stand then in a little group outside the gate, reluctant to go in. We haven't been invited, we aren't expected, and this is clearly somebody's home. The summer sun shines brightly overhead but the house itself is solid and grey. It looks very real and very permanent. A curious goat wanders out through the gate and studies us for a moment before deciding to ignore us. There is no one anywhere about.
 In my mind I picture the parish priest fleeing across the grass, hotly pursued by his two curates, a nimble nun wielding a stick in their wake. They are like shadowy ghosts of some former inhabitants. They are also like old friends.  The words "Feck" and  "Drink" and "Women" float up faintly and are carried by the breeze over the limestone hills. As we continue to stand and stare almost in reverence at the holy site, the object of our pilgrimage and the scene where so many extraordinary events have so recently taken place, I spot something glinting on the muddy road in the sunshine. I bend down and pick it up. It is a 10p piece, a small memento of the busy film crew and the collection of talented actors who have just spent weeks here filming  "Father Ted."