I bought a book today – “The Spirit of Ireland” by Christopher Somerville-- and it had this wonderful story (the book was published in 2001; I have no idea when this little incident occurred):
"The frame of the doorway between the kitchen and the pantry is where Gussie Russell finally comes to rest. I turned up an hour ago, unheralded, at the little roadside house above Doolin, armed with what in rural Ireland is an unrejectable calling card: the name of a mutual friend. Gussie, taken unawares while puzzling over the oily innards of a motorcycle, shepherded me indoors. Since then he has been on the prowl from window to door, from table to cupboard, eyes shyly lowered, a gentle man considering the options of hospitality, unsure what to offer a stranger with as yet unstated requirements.
Now Gussie leans back against one wooden jamb and crosses his ankles, planting his boot soles on the base of the other, a serge-suited diagonal bisecting the hollow rectangle of the doorway. From a leather case he inches a scratched old tin whistle, and contemplates it in his palm. At last his eyes lift to meet mine for a moment. “Well, so you’re a friend of Cathal McConnell’s… So now I’d like to find a tune for you.” Silence returns, and lengthens. “Well, Cathal would be fond of ‘The Five Mile Chase’,” murmurs Gussie, “and that’s what I’ll play for you.”’ He puts the whistle to his lips and flutters a little preliminary run of squeaky blips and pops, quarter-sounds that fall through the quiet of the room. Gussie nods to himself, settling more comfortably in the doorway. “Will you tell Cathal when you see him next that I played you ‘The Five Mile Chase’?”
The tune curls around the kitchen, at first hesitant, then taking on speed and fluency, a running tune, a bridge between two strangers, a courtesy offered as proxy to a seldom-seen friend."
