I’m in a good pub in Miltownmalbay the other night and I don’t have to go home. There is a warm Miltown bed awaiting me when the night is over.

It is the Christmas season and outside, when you are forced out the front for a smoking break, the stars are stabbing bright holes in the sky. There is a fat moon, the great Plough is ploughing the airy acres, Mars is winking a slightly bloodshot eye and, inside, the real maestro of the Clare fiddlers, the great Vincent Griffin, is hushing the house with one of his slow airs.

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