In the second part of our Ireland double bill, Larry and family continue their half-term break by heading out west, by train, to the gateway of the Wild Atlantic Way. I want to find a pub. Not a particular pub, specifically, nor any pub, but a pub in my imagination, in my memory. I have a vision I've experienced before, of walking into a thatched, white-washed stone bothy, with low ceilings and wooden beams and packed to the rafters, the atmosphere as close as a rainforest, jostling to the bar with racked Guinnesses (Guinneii?) all settling at various states on the counter, and a band playing in the corner, with fiddle, whistle and drum, and the rising feeling inside that this is exactly my kind of place. I've experienced it before, last time I was in Ireland, in a cold January over twenty years ago, and I long for it. Everyone tells me that that's every Irish country pub, so, armed with that optimism, I pack the family to Cork, where I feel my imagination is manifest.