Hugh Leonard chewed on his cigarillo, billowed out blue smoke and fixed me with a jaundiced eye: “I think you’re only here for a holiday.” That was his one and only comment on my submitted script for his writing for television workshop at Listowel Writer’s Week. And all my dreams went out the window with that blue smoke. To say that I was gutted is putting it mildly. After my all my hard work composing that 30-minute script and all the hassle to get to Listowel for Writers’ Week. The gospel according to Hugh Leonard was that I wasn’t even worthy of being there. Somehow, I sat there through to the end of the morning session and left the building hurriedly only to be confronted by a drenching mist. The rain suited my mood and I allowed hot tears to fall as I made my way through the town. I paused at some stage and took shelter. The door behind me swung open and a familiar voice said: “Come on in out of the wet, girleen.” That voice belonged to none other than John B Keane himself and he took my arm and guided me inside. I sat on a wooden bench, while he pulled two half-pints and came to sit beside me.“I see you’re a writer,” he said, pointing to the badge pinned on my lapel. Me? A writer? “I’m not so sure,” I said. There was a silent pause as we sipped our drinks and then I told him about seeing his plays at the City Theatre in Limerick. In fact, our family booked a whole row every time the Listowel Players came to town. There was another silent pause and I could no longer hold back the tears. Through hiccups and sobs he coaxed the story of the dismissal of my screenplay that morning.He listened, that great man, making soothing noises all the time and finally as I stood up to leave, he invited me back that evening when he was having a bit of a “do” with the Listowel Players. He warned me to be there before eight o’clock when the doors would be locked.That evening the sun broke through the clouds as I made my way back to John B’s. The master himself, Bryan MacMahon, was there in his beautifully tailored grey suit.[ Listowel Writers’ Week, the curator’s story: ‘It was an oppressive atmosphere’Opens in new window ]He indicated the space beside him and when I told him my name, he somehow got the impression that I was Hugh Leonard’s wife and ordered a drink for me, but he left before I could put him right. Then the door was bolted and the night took wings. There was joy in listening to the great talent of the Listowel Players, in particular Norah Relihan, who brightened the whole place with her smile and glorious red hair. There were excerpts from Sive, Sharon’s Grave and The Man from Clare. Norah Relihan gave a magnificent rendition of that speech from Synge’s Riders to the Sea – “They’re all gone now...” – and brought tears to everyone’s eyes. The sky darkened. There were songs and stories, and Tom Murphy the playwright was singing when there was a knock on the front door. Through the stained-glass window, I could see an outline of two men in uniform.There was shocked silence and then a sudden outburst from John B. “Don’t let them into my house,” he roared. He had to be restrained by a number of the men present who secreted him away to avoid a confrontation, but his muffled protestations could still be heard. The front door had to be opened to the law and the two uniforms came in very slowly to assert their authority. We stood there shocked. The place was being raided! Why? This was Writers’ Week in Listowel but apparently for some unknown reason a bar extension had not been granted. One burly uniform came forward and shone a powerful torch on each face in the room.[ On the latchiko – Frank McNally on the rise and fall of a mysterious Irish insultOpens in new window ]I was trying to blink away the zigzags of light that were blinding me when someone whispered: “Out.” And we slid away like criminals from John B Keane’s in Listowel that night. We kept moving one after the other until we reached the Listowel Arms. There in the lobby we sat on the floor, looked at each other and burst into hysterical laughter. It didn’t last long. The uniforms had followed us and our great night was well and truly over. I remember it well. But all was not lost – my TV script became a stage play and went on to win the playwriting award at the Kilkenny Arts Festival. They say that what happens in Listowel stays in Listowel but now, more than 50 years on, perhaps I will be forgiven for telling the story of the night they raided John B’s. I was there.Listowel Writers’ Week runs from May 27th-31st