‘Better stick to shorts,’ advised Monica. ‘We’ll never get to the loos.’

‘I’ll be right back,’ said the man, and began shouldering his way against the tide of people to the bar.

‘We don’t know what we’re getting,’ said Laura.

‘That’s the joy of travel,’ said Monica. ‘Surprises.’

‘I think I’m getting the hang of it at last,’ said Laura ruefully. ‘I’ve led such a sheltered life.’

The man handed each girl a glass of brown liquid. Laura took hers wondering if they sold sherry by the tumbler everywhere, or if it was only in this particular venue. Only it wasn’t sherry, it was whiskey, and it was neat.

After watching Laura’s range of expressions from horrified realisation of what she was drinking to appreciation as the fiery liquid warmed her, Monica said, ‘We may as well be drunk as the way we are.’

Laura wondered how much longer it would be before Monica started saying, ‘top o’ the morning’ and ‘begorrah’.

‘Well now, girls,’ said the man who’d bought them drinks. ‘What are you doing in these parts in January? Have you just come to see Himself?’ He nodded to an old publicity photograph mounted on a battered showcard.

‘We have,’ Laura admitted, sipping her drink, beginning to feel its effect.

‘He’s great now, isn’t he? He’s a lovely man but I warn you, he’s often late to things if he doesn’t really want to do them.’

‘Oh.’

‘But it’s OK, the crack will keep you entertained until he turns up.’

Laura was surprised to discover it did. The air was buzzing with chat, with laughter, people squashing past with drinks. The sheer numbers of people helped boost the limited warmth coming out of a couple of ancient heaters and added to the cosy atmosphere.

Laura had pressed euros into the hand of their self-appointed escort and bought more drinks, and the time passed quickly enough.

An hour after the appointed time, a roar started at the back of the room and gathered momentum. It was in the wake of a tall man in a tattered sweater, black jeans and boots. Dermot Flynn had arrived. For a second Laura wondered if he was in the same clothes he’d been wearing in his author photo but concluded he just wore a lot of black. He leapt up on stage without using the rickety steps and turned round and greeted his audience. He raised his hands for silence and then smiled.

Laura felt as well as saw the smile. It was like a zillion-watt lightbulb. The whiskey probably had something to do with it, she realised – she was now on her third – but it was truly dazzling.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Dermot Flynn had to shout over the applause and the whooping that had greeted him. Eventually, the crowed quietened apart from the odd stray whistle.