Although it was really a folk festival, the committee had decreed that on the opening night there should be entertainment for the locals. So an old-fashioned country-and-western dance and a céilí had been arranged before the folk groups started. In a white suit a crooner from the fifties sang Walter Glynn’s version of “Where My Caravan Is Resting”, then came a local fiddle band who played too fast to dance to, then a long-retired country-and-western showband from Castlebar who looked into each other’s eyes as they swept through old popular airs. The band played behind low hardboard screens depicting sunsets, palmtrees and blue morning stars. The elderly singer sang with an American accent and wore a shirt with silver tassels. At the announcement of each new song the folk crowd gave a patronizing, exaggerated cheer. Every so often a priest with a low brimmed hat and billowing coat held a draw in aid of Knock Airport. He was greeted by raucous applause. As the dance proceeded he was out between every tune, sometimes a fraction late, so that, with a backward wave of his hand, the band ended the tune before it had rightly begun.

He saw off crystal vases, cigarettes, a bottle of Black Bush. At one stage he was bartering a tray of Bournville chocolates which he was holding high over his head when someone, it was said, tampered with the generator, one of those fuckers from Dublin it was said, the lights went off and, no way put out, he continued to talk on unseen and unheard while the tent floor buckled as the dancers raced across it. There were aggressive roars of laughter. Shrieks. Screams. The light came back on like the flap of the confessional being suddenly slid back.

The dancers, who were in their thirties and forties, old couples who had come for the nostalgia of the sixties showband tunes, were in each other’s arms kissing. Men were on their knees. One man’s trousers were down round his shins. The priest shook the chocolates over his head. “Number 242, a red ticket,” he roared down the thunderous microphone. The dance continued. The sixties people in their old-fashioned gear went country. The wind charged through the entrance. The stewards drew heartily on their cigarettes. The chairman of the Parish Committee spoke.

And though the Adams girls were asked to dance, they refused.