Spike Island, an elevated swamp hut that squats in the marshlands, lies just beyond the Salty Dog.
It is hostile terrain, but Spike Island is ready. Hewn of drift-wood, with a defensive shell of hedgehog spines camouflaged by pond-weed, ditch-vines, elephant grass and soupy leech-sludge - the only way in is the raised walkway.
Inside: inside is for huddling around the music - folk, trad, cajun, seisiúns of slip-jigs, creole field-hollers, Delta blues chants, beardy men playing paradiddle on a piccolo snare. Those fond of a jig may jig; those who just want to lean in closer to the smell of the mandolin-man can do so too.
Late late into the night, you'd find Old Boy Meaney setting a match to the barrel-fires, and starting a bit of a song.
Spike Island. Once you are in, its hard to get out.
Bearded dancing men and sirens of song or string: If you think your music really truly fits this description, we would be happy to hear from you about performing: [email protected]