It was pretty good, lots of fire and energy. Drinkies: French wine, English ale, Dutch and American beer, Irish porter, lemonade and tea of some species. Munchies: Spanish cheese, Mexican salsa & chips, Scottish shortbread (homemade), crudités (Frooonch, of course), and good old American brownies (we invented them, you know 
) We were a most international bunch, aside from the music itself. There were ten of us, with three flutes, two whistles, three fiddles, a button accordion, a concertina, a mandolin, two guitars, and a cittern. Oh, yes, and two punters.
Our lovely hostess was continually (and needlessly) fretting over her sweet and bumptious Irish Setter, worried that havoc would ensue (as if we weren’t taking care of that already), and in the course of his inevitable escape outdoors she voiced a hope that he’d run away for good as he was prone to long stretches of adventuring. Naturally, when I stepped outside for a smoke he was right there and wanted to come in. 
She fretted some more, and relating the apocryphal tales of bodhrán heads and greyhounds to her, I suggested that if Dylan (for that was the dog’s name) was such a handful, she could always make a drum of him. Hilarity ensued, and I gave myself points. The cats were smart and stayed on the cellar stairs where it was safe, staring at the madness of humans. Who knows what the cockatiel thought.
Our hostess also brought us the sad news that one of the household’s menagerie -a hamster- had gone to his Maker that day, and the session was promptly designated a hamster’s wake. We all agreed that there was a tune’s name in that. I played a bittersweet air for the posthumously dubbed “Binkie” (sorry, Dale), and then the insanity immediately switched back to high gear with some very smoking reels, thanks to the very awesome mandolin player who had wound up driving the session, and rightly. And so the evening went. It was mighty.
I bowed out around midnight as is my habit, and got my usual razzing for it.
Folks, ITMers know how to par-tay.
N
