MY IRISH cousins, Sean and Conal, and Sean's girlfriend, Kate, had joined me on Dartmoor to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day. It was March 17, 50 years ago, and we were all in our early 20s.

"You're right, Bri," Sean said. "It really is glorious Devon."

The east wind was lifting Kate's dark brown hair. Her pretty face had a rosy flush.

It was the trio's first St Patrick's Day in the UK. Exchanging a little banter we came to the waterfall and had a look at the ruins of the blowing house before moving downstream.

Crossing the River Meavy I slipped on the wet stepping stones, but a weird, arm-flailing dance prevented me falling in.

"Reality's just an illusion," Conal said, after his shoulders had stopped shaking, and the laughter had given way to impish grins.

They followed me up Devonport Leat where it rushed white down the steep side of Raddick Hill. Glancing back I wondered if the solitude was getting to them. At the top the landscape opened up. Brown hills swept into sunlit distances. A scattering of tors stood in the bottom of the sky.

"Where are we going?" Kate asked.

"Along the straight and narrow like your mother advised you to do," I smiled.

"Seriously, Bri," she said patiently. "Where are we heading?"

"Crazywell Pool," I said.

"Good," she nodded. "I love Devon."

The pool was authentic wild Dartmoor — reedy, boggy, untouristy. Kate caught hold of my hand, like words became redundant.

"And now," I said. "What about a visit to a pub?"

The turf verge, beside the narrow road, was bright with celandines, not shamrocks. The old inn had a big open fire. A handful of farm workers were at the bar, complete with tweed caps, pint pots and pot bellies. The vision of Kate, shaking out her hair as she stood by the fire, had them nudging each other.

"Nuthin's better than a pint of scrumpy, ma boody," one rotund rural Romeo confided with a wink.

"Is that a fact?" Kate smiled. "OK, then, I'll try a pint of the nuthin."

The laughter of Romeo's cronies had him blushing. After all, a girl who looks like a pre-Raphaelite princess shouldn't take the mickey out of blokes. The Irish colleen had broken the rules.

The trio joined me at the table, with bottled Guinness in their glasses.

"Happy Saint Patrick's Day to us all," Kate said, lifting the Liffey Water.

"Slainte," I replied and we clinked glasses while the pub dog joined us.