So, after we left the possible serial killer inn keeper with the peacock with the facial tumor, we went into town to listen to the boys play at the pub.
By this point in our great Irish adventure, we had discovered that the directions the locals give, no matter how absurd they may seem, are usually accurate. So when the innkeeper had rattled out that we should park by the first pub of the three in town and just stay there because otherwise there would be nowhere for us to go, we took her seriously.
We had gotten there too early, so there was no music, and I honestly probably would have gone back to the B&B to sleep if I hadn’t been terrified of being chopped into small pieces the moment I closed my eyes. So we sat in the pub and waited for the music.
Finally, four boys who didn’t look old enough to drink by American standards came in and took their seats by the window. They took out their instruments, chatted to each other, checked their phones, got a drink. Finally, the boy sitting at the center just sort of shrugged and they started to play.
And they were all brilliant. They didn’t smile, they didn’t look at the people clustered in to hear them. From the semi-vacant expressions on their faces, they might as well have been in a horribly boring math class. (more…)