Q is for Quality and a Quiet simplicity

Dear Nigel,

I am freshly back from a holiday in Ireland and leafing through your book for inspiration. I find a recipe for 'Poor Man's Potatoes' (pg 113) which seems to fill the bill entirely. Not only does it remind me of Old Ireland but also New Ireland's fantastic culinary heritage has left me bloated and craving simplicity- a piece of toast or a pile of new potatoes. Like you, a fairly empty store cupboard and bank balance also turned me in the right direction. By the time the potatoes had softened in the stock and the peppers remaining plump and juicy, I was in no doubt that there would be plenty of taste and I would not be left feeling disappointed. As always, you didn't let me down. Perhaps next time I might add some smoked garlic or fennel seeds as you suggest; but for now this is plenty.

We went to Ireland in search of new songs, travelling from Dublin to the West coast and back again. In the West our main stay was at the tiny village of Doolin on the coast in County Clare. Doolin is the home of Traditional Music in Ireland, to those who know. Here on the edge of the Atlantic Way, by the harbour which ferries folk over to the Aran Islands, are three busy little pubs with music playing into the night. Over in McGann's a guitar and banjo were accompanying a singer with long dark hair and Celtic looks. A young lad of perhaps fourteen (also from the McGann clan as it turned out) came and did his bit on the penny whistle. He played his few tunes very well and it was nice to see young blood with a bit of old whiskey in his veins. The pub was full to heaving and I got talking to the old guy next to me who turned out to be an architect who had turned to making banjos after an injury. He'd come to see one of his famous handmade banjos is practise played by a true professional. He said he had more business than he could cope with and an ever longer waiting list. There aren't many banjo makers out there, apparently.

On to O'connor's the next evening where an even tighter-packed pub was waiting for the music to begin. This should have been the epitome of our week - this is where it all started and became 'known' - and yet the musicians here were dragging their feet; with long gaps between the songs where they sat and chatted between themselves or went on their phones. I have never been into a pub where the musicians were less keen to play. They were obviously there just for the money, and in the end we made our excuses to the people were were sat with and left for McDermot's and a group of lively young players who were simply having fun and who would happily have played all night, I think .

But before that, for me, the highlight of the evening. An old man stood up. He had the face of Old Ireland, with tight knobbly cheekbones in a red shiny face and smiling eyes, grey hair and a beard. And he entertained. He sang only two songs and then went away. Meanwhile, the accordion player hung his head and looked down, pretending not to hear. The fiddle player fiddled with her iphone and picked her nails. Only the guitarist kept a few chords going while the old man sang.He sang of 'Dublin in the Rare Old Times', and he did it beautifully. This was the kind of Ireland that I had come to hear. I thought, give an old man his two minutes of glory and make his day. How little would it cost you?

Mary, my B&B lady told me the old man had been going to O'Connor's for over thirty years. The musicians were obviously used to his interruptions and resented it. And yet, they had no great desire to play themselves. All he wanted was his few minutes to shine; and he went away a happy man. It was only when he picked up his crutches and turned that I realised he only had one leg. But he left with a huge smile over his wizened face and his eyes lit up the night.

Ireland never fails to inspire me, musically, and yet there is a massive commercial side to it all these days. Even in Doolin, the village has doubled in size in the last ten years. In Dublin, where music plays till three or four in the morning in almost every pub in the Temple Bar part of the city, all the musicians are selling  their Cd's and there are bouncers on the doors. As we'd been there listening to music since about four in the afternoon, trying to measure our drinks, and  had a nice meal, by about eleven in the evening I'd had enough and just wanted to listen and dance. The atmosphere was electric. A young lad with red hair and a beard was entertaining on his own on guitar. Music was more modern here with each musician having his own take on a handful of classics. A group of Irish girls out on the town were having a riotous time dancing and singing along. They impressed me, though, that they still knew all the verses to 'The hills of Athenry' (but I think that owed more to the football than anything else.)

At some point near midnight a man ran into the pub waving a huge silver soup terrine over my head. A load of men in synthetic blue shirts raised their arms and cheered. Clearly, this is some strange local custom as I'm not sure any soup I've ever made has elicited quite that response.

A little later, we were thrown out of the pub by a man with surgically-enhanced biceps who looked younger than my sons. It's a long, long, long time since I was thrown out of a pub. Still, something to impress my wayward older brood. It seems we weren't drinking enough by that time in the evening, though I'm not sure that dancing with beer glasses is to be recommended either.

Martha