There was a time when only nuns, priests and brothers went on retreats. Nowadays everyone is at it – even the council. Last week the councillors from our area along with some ‘senior’ supervisory staff were taken off overnight to ‘reflect and look forward’.

I expected the thing to be held at a convent or seminary or some such forbidding Victorian institution. We ended up at an adventure centre in the hills near Slievenamon. I wondered why we were told to bring tracksuits, running shoes and shorts.

Todd, the supervisor at the recycling depot, as one of the ‘senior’ staff in our area, was coming along but The Whip had to stay at home to mind the shop. He got the job of driving myself and Todd to the retreat in his vintage Volvo, the auld yoke nearly calved going up to the place. When we got there, our faces fell – it looked like an internment camp without the barbed wire.

“Is this where ye’re stuck for two days?” The Whip asked

“Looks like dog kennels,” says Todd.

“I wouldn’t leave my dog here,” says The Whip.

Retreat organiser Teresa Keary from the personnel department was standing at the door, clipboard in hand.

“Look at the camp commandant,” says Todd, “there’ll be a tight ship run here, nothing surer – that lady was born with a whistle in her mouth and a whip in her hand.”

“Maybe I should stay,” says The Whip, “sounds like my kind of event.”

“I’m afraid,” says I, “pleasure is not on the agenda here.”

“Well, in that case,” says The Whip, “ye need something to fortify yerselves before ye enter the valley of darkness.”

With that he turned the car and we went back down the mountain.

“What are you up to?” says I.

“Trust me,” says he as the Volvo sped down the narrow roads. He turned left and right and right and left until we arrived at “The Climbers Nest”, a public house out in the middle of nowhere.

“I’ve heard about this place,” says I.”

“It’s where I bring my secret lovers,” says The Whip.

“And do you come here often?” asked Todd

“Only when I get very lucky,” says The Whip

“Like tonight,” says I.

“Come on,” says Todd, “let’s get a bit of lubrication in before we face Hotlips Houlihan back at the camp.”

The Whip drank water while Todd and myself schulled three quick pints before heading up the mountain again.

The second climb was proving too much for the Volvo and the engine was about to die until we hit a bit of flat ground and with a sudden spurt of energy the antique propelled itself past the gate and nearly in through the front window of Mountain Lodge, our new home.

The door opened and there stood Teresa Keary, clipboard in hand and a face like thunder.

“You’re late,” she snapped as she ticked off our names. “Leave your bags here and go straight into the first session. Kurt is leading the meditation.”

We were frogmarched into a big darkened room with an open fire, cushions spread around the floor, candles burning and a kind of a water fountain contraption gurgling away in the corner. The other participants were sitting cross-legged or lying down.

Kurt, a bearded and ponytailed hippie-type, the guru of County Council retreats, stood before the fire cradling a candle in his hand. He was like a wizard from a Harry Potter film. I found a cushion near the back wall while Todd stretched himself out on his back on the carpet.

The guru lifted his head and spoke in a soft Australian accent: “We begin with a little meditation, folks, to help us leave our busy world to one side and empty our minds. Now, let’s focus on our breathing,”

All I could focus on was my bladder and the need to empty it; the pressure of the three pints and the sound of the gurgling water in the corner were causing a crisis in my urinary department. As Kurt led us through mountains, hills and forests of the mind, all I could think about was finding a big bush behind which I could relieve myself.

When he finished, Teresa took over and announced we were going on a night hike. I was never as happy in my life. I now know what a dog feels like when its owner says: “Walkies Fido.”

As she droned on about arrangements for the two days, I stood there fantasising about the kind of a tree I’d pee behind.

When she started lecturing us about the risk of causing forest fires, I put my hand up. “Teresa,” says I, “don’t worry about forest fires, I am willing and have the wherewithal to quench any conflagration, now, in the name of God, an bhfuil cead agam dul amach?