Irish Country Living editor Mairead Lavery pays loving tribute to her late father, Laurence Wolohan, whom she lost a few months before her 13th birthday.

To have one day back with my father would be the most extraordinary and wonderful gift I could ever imagine receiving. I was mad about my Dada and, what’s even better, I knew he was mad about me. We just clicked. He was the one person in the world whose approval mattered to me, the one person I could talk to about anything. All our interests matched and all of my memories of him are good.

He died suddenly having just turned 50 when I was a few months short of my 13th birthday. I was broken-hearted. His sudden death left me bereft. I had lost my very best friend and it would take me years to even acknowledge how emotionally scarred I was because of it.

If I had him back for one day, I think I would spend most of it just listening to him as he talked about politics, people and farming. I can still hear his voice in my head and I loved his enthusiasm and energy, and the fun he brought to everything he did. I know we’d have an outing; Dada always loved going places. We’d go visiting and he’d probably even invite a few people home because he loved entertaining.

I’d want to ask him about his parents and grandparents – was my great-grandmother Annastatia really as tough as she looks in photos? I’d talk to him about his school days and I’d give anything to know who his best friends were. I have his Leaving Cert from 1937 and he got excellent results in algebra, history and geography. I am told he once considered emigration to Canada, but changed his mind after my mother agreed to marry him.

I’d want to tell him all about the choices I made in life. I can imagine all the questions he’d ask and the interest he’d have in what I did and hopefully he’d approve too. And I’d love to have my husband and children meet him.

Above all, I would love to have him for one more day so as to help mend a broken heart that never fully healed after his death.

To be enveloped in one last hug, to receive a look or word of encouragement and a radiant smile from him would be simply wonderful.

Nash 19 restaurateur Claire Nash lost her father, Sean, in 1990. An area manager with Mitchelstown Creameries and a renowned breeder of Irish red setters and gun dogs, she would love one dinner at home with her dad.

What I’d love most is just one day back in our home from start to finish. Dad and his friends could go hunting and later on we’d all gather at the table for one last dinner. We’d sit there all night and have the chat and the banter, the smell of cigars and whiskey in the air. When Dad died, he left a huge void in all our lives. Along with the priest and the doctor, the creamery manager was a cornerstone of the community. Dad had a photographic memory and a fierce brain; he’d have huge ledgers and could add four or five digit numbers crossways. Yet he only needed four hours’ sleep. If we got up at nine o’clock, Dad would probably have been up since five.

Dogs were his true love. He bred a wonderful kennel of Irish red setters and working dogs and he’d go off to England, Scotland and Wales and bring back three or four international champions. He made friends all over the world and there were always people in our house, whether it was falconers from Scotland or buyers from Japan. He’d ring home and say: “There’ll be a few more of us for dinner,” and you couldn’t ring him back because there were no mobiles.

Dad always encouraged us. When I was nine, he gave me one of his bitches and I bred her. She had seven puppies and he allowed me to sell them and keep the money. Two of them went to Newfoundland. When I was 16, he allowed me to set up a little coffee shop in our gate lodge. He sent us all to boarding school and through third level, and I’m sure they were difficult times and that my parents probably sacrificed a lot.

I remember him standing in Shannon when I was emigrating and crying, but he’d never had said: “Don’t go.” When I’d come home on holidays, we would literally sit for lunch and dinner without moving around the table talking and Dad would say: “Tell us more of your stories.”

There was always time with him and conversation was king. I see so much of my dad in myself. The bit of devilment, that love of people and sense of fun. I sometimes fly by the seat of my pants a bit, which Dad would have done. And I’d be very competitive, which he was. We have the same star sign; there’s just a week separates us.

He was a great man too for a drop of whiskey for a medicinal cure; when he’d make porridge with the top of the cream, he’d pour a capful of whiskey in to it. I give that for Christmas for nothing in my restaurant.

It’s still the most special breakfast you could ever have.

‘We used to have screaming matches; we were quite alike – very strong-willed’

In conversation with Maria Moynihan

TV3 presenter Elaine Crowley lost her dad, Sean, when she was 23. He died aged 63 after a battle with cancer. He was a primary school teacher and a history buff who would have loved the 1916 centenary celebrations.

If I had one more day with my dad, first of all I’d have a big huge hug because he was the best hugger and I suppose no one loves a girl more than their daddy does. There’s a great comfort in that, knowing that you’re the centre of their world – even though there’s 10 of us. But he especially loved his little girls.

Then I think this year has been very poignant because my dad was a massive history buff, obsessed with 1916 and the War of Independence, so I’d love to take the tour of the GPO and Kilmainham gaol and go to the famous sites that have been celebrated during 1916. He was a mine of information about everything to do with Irish history. If I was ever wondering about something that happened, I’d pick up the phone and go: “Dad, who was that guy and when was that guy shot and who was interned in Limerick Gaol?” I mean, he just knew everything.

He was a primary school teacher and most of the people who went to that primary school were really good at history because he loved it so much.

We killed each other. We used to have screaming matches; we were quite alike – very strong-willed. I reminded him of his mother and his grandmother particularly. I was quite stubborn and I used to have a shocking temper so we clashed quite a lot. He used to call me Nanzie and Nanzie always thinks she’s right.

He used to do funny things to me sometimes just to piss me off because he thought I was a bit stuck up, for want of a better phrase. One time for Christmas holidays, he got me a job for a joke (I didn’t realise it) – plucking, cutting the legs and the wings off turkeys. He didn’t know I didn’t mind doing that. I never minded – I just hated dealing with people so I didn’t like being a waitress. So that backfired on him. He was stunned. I was 40 deep in turkeys and he came over taking photos and laughing because he thought I’d have a big hissey fit.

I think he always knew I’d be grand but he did worry about me; he knew I was a bit fragile. He was the first person who copped that I had depression and stuff like that as a teenager. I think career-wise he always knew I’d be successful. I was just in TV3 a year before he died so he was delighted with that, but he did say: “Oh there’s Nanzie off to read the news. Not the real news now – I’ll catch the real news on RTÉ at six!” The real news! Fecker.

But he kind of worried about me the other way. When he was dying he would have taken one or two of the others aside and said: “Listen, keep an eye on her and make sure she’s OK,” which is nice.

You miss the emotional side of your dad – you always will. I don’t care if you’re nine or 90, if your Dad dies it’s horrible and it should be horrible. The love of a parent, particularly a father for a girl, I think is very, very special. When it’s gone it’s like the rug is pulled out from under you. I miss his hugs and knowing Daddy’s always there.

In conversation with Mary Phelan