Irish pub etiquette is as delicate as the head of foam on a pint of stout: You offer him another drink. He says, no he's all right thanks, and, sure America must be a grand place. You say, are you sure you won't have another? He says, no, I won't.

So you signal to the barman for one refill instead of two, and suddenly the gush of chat and charm slows to a thin miserable dribble.

Drowsy Maggie was there with the Rakish Paddy and the Lilting Banshee and the Cow That Ate the Blanket, and all the other great old Irish tunes you could think of. They blasted from bagpipes, wheezed from melodeons and thundered off the goatskins, at all hours godly and ungodly, until you'd think the musicianers would perish from exhaustion.

I took the tongs and beat the sods and shrieked and beat and screamed and crushed the glowing lumps until they spattered over the stone floor in a lurid wet mash. My blood felt like murder and I didn't care if I set the house and my own self on fire, only to have light and heat. Cold, scared, raging and helpless, I met the Furies of Inishbofin.

No ordinary CIE Irish tour bus guide would have dared to call Limerick by its proper nickname "Stab City." Or chat so candidly about Irish taboos-divorce, contraception, unemployment, the Northern troubles, and the fate of Ireland's gypsy tinkers and travellers. Or entertain you with quirky anecdotes dug up in years of folklore research, musical gossip and diddled-out hornpipes and reels.

If you know nothing of Ireland—how to drive there, muttering Hail Mary’s with your elbow on the wheel and your hands fumbling a Saint Anthony medal and rosary beads; how to drink there, in stupendous marathon rounds; how to chat there, filibustering gossip, boasting and harmless lies—you end up on a pre-packaged bus tour bound for Killarney.

Irish set dancing should not be confused with the high-stepping solo step dancing which originally inspired Vaudeville tap dancing and now has Riverdance and Lord of the Dance selling out venues around the world. Neither does it resemble the hoppity-skippity ceili dancing dragged out with the green beer every Saint Patrick’s Day.