cacophony

“I’m a rover, seldom sober
 I’m a rover of high degree
 For when I’m drinking I’m always thinking
 How to gain my love’s company,”

- Irish folk song

By the fireplace are gathered a circle of no fewer than 12 people, each of them seated with a traditional Irish instrument. There are a few bohdrans, accordians, guitars, a tenor banjo and a lot of very drunk people in full voice, all belting out traditional Irish folk songs between swigs of dark, thick, frothy stuff in big glasses.

Around them are people at tables heaped with hearty, simple food. Sometimes they talk over the music, at other times join in. This is more ritual than performance.

The musicians are swaying in time, tapping their feet and facing each other so at first, you feel like you’ve intruded on a private rehearsal but every now and then someone will look up and smile at you. You sing along if you know the words - which aren’t hard to pick up after the first chorus - and clap your hands.

Your friends all share your soda bread. Then you make new friends and they have some too. Everyone is grinning. A boy child whirls around to the fiddle and knocks over a pint belonging to a drummer. The drummer laughs and yelps in time with the music. The boy and his mum go to the bar to replace the pint.

The waitresses speak in thick brogue. A woman dances with her elderly mother, who seems to be in a stout and music-induced rapture. For an afternoon, under the eye of Angus Mac Og, she is at home.