FESTIVAL DIARY:YESTERDAY, I parked my car on the optimistically named Sun Hill. Killorglin, like Rome, was built on multiple hills, and I won't develop that theme other than to say that, to the dispassionate observer, there are some easily discernible differences.
A market town, it was developed by the Normans, who built their castle above the ford of the Laune river. Some remains may be seen behind Paul Kingston's hospitable premises, although I think those who packed into it in recent days had things other than history on their minds.
From the lords of the manor came the fairs and eventually King Puck. There is a story of how a flock of goats alerted the townsfolk to the approach of Oliver Cromwell's army and enabled them to escape and that, since then, the goat has served as a reminder of deliverance.
Maybe so, but Cromwell's men got here anyway and the names of some of his captains and soldiery are still prominent around Kerry. Langford Street, where yesterday's cattle fair was held, recalls one such name.
This event is but a shadow of the cattle fairs of yesteryear. The marts have taken over the buying and selling of livestock. I paid the ritual visit and moved to the bustling market.
The Highest Authority moved me quickly away from a lady who had an ingenious device for cleaning wine glasses and the bottom of vases; you know, the bits you can't reach with a tea towel. The encounter reminded me of how in previous years I had bought an instrument guaranteed to make an omelette from one egg. Dozens of eggs were sacrificed before I quit.
There is another Ireland, not easily recognisable by those of us who are city dwellers. A part of it was here and was literally dancing to a different tune. People were here to enjoy themselves and, if things went slightly awry from time to time, well, it was Puck after all.
Of course some folk found that their capacity was not infinite, but they were quietly tolerated. "Was there any trouble last night?" I asked.
"Yerra no," was the reply, "just a few fellows hopping off the pub doors when they weren't let in, nothing serious."
The rain continued unabated and many took refuge in the pubs, which began to resemble Japanese commuter trains.
Music and song began early and continued late. This was the Ireland of my father's time, when no explanations and no apologies were required.
There were signs of change, though. Yesterday Madame X, who for a fee would predict your future, advertised herself as the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Once it would have been the seventh son of a seventh son. The sisterhood are everywhere. Another promised to read the future through a crystal ball. Perhaps Brian Cowen could pay a fleeting visit?
• Maurice Neligan's Puck Fair diary continues tomorrow