Years ago I spend a month on the Burren, ruins and holy wells in the day, musical pubs at night. It was March and there was a warm east wind blowing over County Clare, so the windows of the pub in Doolin were open, making the blue fug from peat and tobacco swirl about. Famous for its music, which went on every night, tourists or no, the old men came to play the old tunes. It was a privilege to be there.
Through the open window we saw a huge black Mercedes (from Shannon Airport) pull up and a small man in a heavy coat got out once the chauffeur had opened his door. The Chauffeur came in, exchanged words in Irish with the publican who then spoke to the old fiddle player on the stool. Money changed hands and we all got a free pint. The newcomer sat on the stool took out his penny whistle, played a set with great skill – jig, reel and slip jig I think – then left and the big car drove away. There was talk round the bar, but it was Gaelic, so the only word I picked out was “dot com millionaire.” Someone’s bucket list.
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