After a long day--and night of writing--Christopher and I retired to our new favorite haunt, The Banshee. Christopher has the brilliant idea of bringing books with us to give away to the manager if we can find her. So we do. We meet Bobbi the manager, talk to her about how edifying we felt the place was--a balm to a fantasy writer's soul. She brings us Banshee hats, buys us a round, and later…brings by this incredible gentlemen. He looked to me as if he walked off the cobblestone streets of old Dublin. Thinning gray curls waving on top, mischievous arched brows, and a stark white stache and beard. Bobbi introduces him as the owner's father and a member of the Irish Republican _ _ _ _ _ _ _? Neither Christopher nor I could remember that 3rd word, but it wasn't Army. This gentleman gestured for us to sit and said, "Let's have a conversation." He began to unfold the lore of the Banshee: how the place is haunted, full of magic, built with love. He told us of a forehead-tapping spectre and of the furniture and panneling, all made/crafted from the wood of the original building. Upon this gentleman's leaving, he told us that, it was his honor to meet us. US. He was kind, but wrong. The honor was all ours. What a cool night.