In a pub that fills on Brigit’s day a lone whistle gives a last gasp and a drunk singer stands berated. We lift the latch, and his song veers off its stave as we enter a room of shifting looks and feet and take our place at the table by the fire. My friend draws back the bow of the dead man’s fiddle hung silent on the wall ten years and follows the whistle’s lead. The woman of the house conducts her unruly clients, and memories of a brother’s music work a saint’s charm on arthritic fingers. Like Brigit’s cloak the tunes unfurl, seamless, unchecked, spilling from bar to street round and round the statue to hover over offerings – a bowl of white hyacinths, beads, a Matchbox car – fanning the candles’ crazed dance in the draught of the well then skimming over water, upstream, to wind around the cross. Dust, raised by each stroke of the fiddler’s bow sparkles in the sun that warms her shoulder; our eyes fix on the compelling pendulum of motes as they settle in slow motion on her hair. She nods and winds the music down, drawing the cloak back in to hang it on a sunbeam, then hands the fiddle back across the bar.