logged a solid five miles by the time they looped back to the village.
“How’re your boots holding up?” Marco asked her.
“Fine.” She glanced over, narrowed her eyes. “Yours?”
He had the grace to look sheepish. “I maybe might’ve worked up a blister, and yeah, yeah, I should’ve used that glide stuff you offered me.”
“I have moleskin in my pack.”
“Course you do.”
She just pointed at the car. “Sit, take off the boots and socks. We’ll fix you up.”
“It’s not bad. I just started feeling it in the last mile.”
He had indeed worked up a small blister on each foot.
“This’ll cushion them,” she told him as she applied the moleskin. “And since it’s pub time, you’ll be sitting down awhile.”
“I’m ready for pub time.” He wiggled his toes before sliding on his socks. “It’s sure nice going into a bar and not working it. Music, too, right?”
“Absolutely music, too. And I’ll be designated driver.”
“It’s my turn.”
She just shook her head. “I’ve still got the keys.”
She’d researched the pubs and figured they could do a crawl or settle into one—with her sticking to soft drinks and water.
She wanted the atmosphere, the music, but also wanted to try for the long shot. Doolin was famed for its traditional music, and her father had made his living playing that music.
Wouldn’t he have, at some point, played here?
He might play here still, she thought.
When they walked into the pub, Breen decided they’d made the perfect choice. It held a long bar of dark wood backed by an old stone wall where shelves held a myriad of bottles and jugs.
Most of the stools there were already occupied, as were the scatter of low tables. The music of a bright fiddle played out of the speakers as people ate, drank, talked.
A low fire burned, red at its heart—a peat fire, which made it all the more perfect. On the wall crowded old photos, signs for Guinness and Harp and Jameson.
It smelled just as she thought an Irish pub should, of peat smoke and beer and food fried in the kitchen.
One of the waitstaff, a woman with stick-straight black hair in a bouncing tail, paused on her way to the bar with a tray.
“Are you after a table then?”
“Yes, please.”
“Take your pick, but for the one in the corner there. That’s for the musicians.”
They grabbed a two-top.
“It’s kinda like a movie, right?”
Breen could only grin. Lunch at a pub had been wonderful, but this? A perfect cap to a perfect day.
“It’s everything I wanted.”
“You gotta have one beer,” he insisted. “It’s like sacrilege or something otherwise. We’re going to eat, stick around for music. We probably won’t drive back for hours.”
“A half pint,” she agreed. “My dad drank mostly Smithwick’s, so I’ll have a glass of that.”
The same waitress came back to them.
“And how’s it all going then?”
“As good as it gets,” Marco told her.
“That’s lovely to hear. Americans, are you?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia,” she repeated, and made it sound as exotic as the cliffs. “I’ve not been there, but been to America twice. Once to New York City to visit cousins, and to Wyoming.”
“Wyoming?”
The waitress smiled at Breen. “I wanted to see cowboys, and so I did. A vast place is Wyoming. And so I’m Kate, and I’ll be serving you this evening.” She handed them menus. “Can I get you some drinks?”
“I’ll have a pint of Guinness, and my friend wants a half pint of Smithwick’s. I bartend at home,” Marco continued.
“Do you now? Well then, we may call on you to pull some pints once the evening rolls on. The Cobblers Three are popular, and will fill the place before we’re done. You’re fortunate to have come early enough for a table. I’ll get those drinks for you.”
Marco, being Marco, picked up the menu. “That hike gave me a serious appetite.”
“Waking up in the morning gives you a serious appetite.” But she glanced at the menu herself. “I’m going to try the shepherd’s pie.”
“I’m going for the mussels for a starter. Want to split?”
“Have you ever known me to eat a mussel?”
“More for me. And they’ve got Irish lasagna. What makes it Irish? I need to find out. Man, I haven’t checked your blog since lunch.”
While he did, Breen just sighed into the moment.
“Breen, you got sixteen more comments on yesterday’s, and you’re up to fifty-eight on today’s.”
“Really? What do they say?” She scooted her chair over to read with him. “They really seem to like it.”
“Damn right. Wait till they read what you write about today. What are you