“That’s Mullet peninsula,” the manager told him. “It’s where the Playboy of the Western World came from.”

The intention was to spend the next night somewhere in Galway, but Jonathan Adams was drawn to explore the isolated peninsula to the north, and so at noon the following day they entered Belmullet town after a long drive through the unpopulated bogland of Erris. The Nephin Beg range of mountains, which had been shrouded the day before in mist, now rose clear and pure.

An old Fair Day was in progress in the town. Cattle and sheep and chickens were being bartered. Gypsies sold socks, gates and radios. A man swallowed lit cigarettes and brought them back up again still burning. Dogs fought. Goats butted the sideboards of carts. Men sat on steps eating sandwiches. Cows shat on pavements. Men sat on tractors licking ice-cream cones. It was like watching some medieval pageant. They drove from Erris Head in Broad Haven Bay down to Blacksod in the south, amazed at the isolation, the white sandy roads that ran by the sea; the Inishkea Islands, holy, absolute; the wind-glazed violent cliffs; the meteorological station; the endless bogs, the rips and cracks through the huge dunes; the black curraghs; the lighthouse that sat perched on Eagle Island like a castle in a fairy story; the piers, the harbour, the sea.

“What’s the island beyant?” asked Jonathan Adams of a man who was oiling his Honda 50. He straightened up with a grimace.

“They are a great bike,” said the man, “if you look after them.” He wiped his hands on his trousers, looked at the Honda and then looked at the island. “That’d be Inishglora,” he said, and felt his wet nose with his thumb and forefinger. “The Isle of Purity.”

“Oh.”

“That’s right. Yes indeed.” He grimaced again. “It’s where Brendan landed.”

He saw that this remark did not signify anything to the Adams family.

“Brendan the navigator,” he explained, “the lad who discovered America – like the rest of us. Except that he was the first. Though of course that may not be true.” The family and himself stood looking out, with the Honda up on its stand, and the car engine running. “And it’s where the Children of Lir are buried, God bless them.” He felt his nose again. “And there you have it.”

“Thanking you,” said the Sergeant, humbly.

“And what part of the world do ye hail from?”

“Fermanagh,” said Jonathan.

“Oh, but they’re giving you a hard time,” said the man, and he shook his head sadly. “The sooner you drive them to feck out of there the better.”

Sheepishly, they got into the car, the man slapped the roof and they drove on. And the man stood there, his hands on the grips of the Honda, looking out on Inishglora as if he were seeing it for the first time.