OILEÁN THÚR RÍ

It’s Tory Island to the Sassanaugh. We’d been raised to revere the traditional music and watched each year as the instrument-bearing pilgrims piled into the wee boats for the crossing.

I had my mouth organ in my bucket to keep it dry, eager to take part in this year’s festival, to add my contribution to the guitarists and fiddlers, the flautists and tin-whistlers.

Brendan Og, the up and coming chanter from Falcarragh, was to make his debut there this year. He had quite the following already. It was said he could sound like a choir on his own.

The King of Tory stood on the dock. It looked like he saw nothing, but I knew better. Many a youngster had been turned away by his wicked glare throughout the years.

I was going to avoid the power in those eyes. I’d slip alongside the¬–

“CONNOR!”

I froze mid-step. Of course ... there was always Mammy.