Never a nation to miss a chance, the path to Dún Aonghasa is littered with people pushing wares from bockedy prams.

Bottles of water. Single cigarettes. Bags of broken biscuits. Shower caps. Cheap umbrellas.

‘This is simply hateful,’ said Mac. ‘Like the shrines of old where a bleeding statue begats an army of hawkers and peddlers.’

He spoke to the crowd.

‘Do we never learn?’

But what with the rain and the sellers and the journey, no one was listening.

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