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The village is composed of uniformly whitewashed cottages, about half with thatched roofs. Walking down the lane towards the sea, I see ten thousand whitecaps on an angry, green sea. The sky is both brilliant with sun and dark with an approaching squall line. The tiny harbour is crowded with 30 pleasure craft (mostly single masted sailboats), and a half dozen trawlers. The wind whistling through the lines sounds like a bad horror film soundtrack: Whiieeer, WhiiiEEEER, WHIIIIRRRrrrrr. A slack line clanks against an aluminium mast at the pace of a runner’s heartbeat. Birds zip past, looking more like paper caught in a dust devil than creatures capable of powered flight.

I head back to town and take refuge in the Centennary Stores pub. The Sunday noon session is getting underway. I find a single seat at a table of Germans, next to the musicians. Over the hour the circle of musicians grows. There’s three fiddles, two bouzookis, an accordian, pipes, bodhrain, banjo, concertina and harmonica. Despite the size the session is quite good. Vigorous and fast, no one instrumentalist dominates. It’s wonderful when you see musicians in it to play with each other, no one trying to overwhelm or show off their virtuosity. "Seattle you’re from? The Fiddletunes is up by there. Grand festival." I give up my seat to a late-comer, a Canadian on fiddle. The others encourage him to play a solo of Orange Blossom Special and he gets the most vigorous applause of the session.

It’s family hour in the pub. "It’s fine to see so many children, isn’t it," says the man next to me at the urinal (gee, converations never start this way where I come from). I’m thinking of all the second hand smoke."And it’s not like in England, where the parents bring the kids but just let them run loose so they can get smashed. Here it’s a nice thing for the family to do together." It’s true. The theme seems to be men with babies. There’s a man standing, monitoring both a baby in a car seat and a Guinness on the bar. Another man holds an infant, who looks enchanted with the music. He kisses her on the cheek. A toddler behind me is dancing to his own beat. Three girls, sisters, are behind the accordian player, with a dad. The oldest one, 12 or so, is working on homework. The 4 year old is curled up in mom’s lap. The music goes on, and this is how the next generation gets it.

22 October 2000

Wexford town, Co. Wexford