Walking into Dick Mack’s was a little like stepping back in time and everything a proper Irish pub should be. This wasn’t some plasticky tourist copy – this was the real deal. Quaint, battered, and unorthodox. No one else in the pub seemed to bat an eyelid at the cobbler’s bench on the left-hand side of the room, where a tall man was making belts, busy punching holes in the leather, while opposite, a traditional bar ran the length of the wall filled top to bottom with dozens and dozens of different whiskeys. Around the walls were shelves, cubby holes, and glass-fronted cabinets filled with everything from books to boots, shoe laces to paintings, and old boxes to wellingtons. A long bench with stools on either side took up most of the centre of the room, while up against the bar, rush-topped high stools were squeezed into the remaining space. On either end of the bar were tiny snugs, almost like confessional boxes with small windows opening onto the bar.

‘This is interesting,’ said Hannah, watching the man working on the leather belt.

‘It’s been a bar and cobblers since it opened in 1899 and it’s now run by Finn,’ he nodded towards a young man, serving behind the bar. ‘He’s the great-grandson of Tom MacDonnell. The place has been in the family for four generations.’

‘Does anyone ever leave Dingle?’ she asked, curious rather than critical. How wonderful to belong so steadfastly somewhere.

‘Some, but they often come back, and why wouldn’t you?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘It’s God’s own country.’

She laughed. ‘I hate to tell you but I’ve heard that said about Yorkshire, America, New Zealand, Australia, and Kerala in India.’

‘There’s still nowhere I’d rather live. Dingle is full of expats and blow-ins from Cork and Dublin, not to mention folks from as far away as Germany and the US. After all, it’s twinned with Santa Barbara in California.’ He sighed with satisfaction. ‘It’s good to be home.’