sing was ferns. I should have been able to envision the prices, but I foolishly let the waitress seat us. Leslie was anxious to tell me about the John Hewitt Bar in Belfast, where a group of young artists, including writers, painters and musicians, hang out. He said I should go there sometime, that the Rebels would like In May of this year I had my first taste, in Belfast, of Bushmills 20-year-old single malt whiskey aged in sherry casks. It was an unforgettable experience. Appropriately enough, the idea for the trip to Belfast was hatched over a Bushmills in Minneapolis with a new Irish friend. Like most wild goose chases, a trip to Northern Ireland seemed like a good idea at the time.

I had met Leslie at a Caribou coffee shop (the omnipresent local equivalent of Starbucks) in Minneapolis. Leslie was a musician and a recent ?migr? from Northern Ireland. I ordered a caramel latte and we chatted between the hisses of the coffee machine. I described my book, The Cellini Masterpiece, to him and he bought a copy on the spot. A few days later I got a note from him saying how much he liked the book. That being music to my ears, I invited him to join me for a wee taste of Ireland in a local pub. It was appropriate not only because of Leslie’s nationality but because Rick in the story is a confirmed Bushmills addict.

Although he preferred John Jameson, Leslie was more than pleased to accept Bushmills. We met at an upscale watering hole with a cherrywood bar, a piano tinkling in the background, and a bartender who parted his hair in the middle and wore a bow tie. The only thing missing was ferns. I should have been able to envision the prices, but I foolishly let the waitress seat us. Leslie was anxious to tell me about the John Hewitt Bar in Belfast, where a group of young artists, including writers, painters and musicians, hang out. He said I should go there sometime, that the Rebels would like t

rthern Ireland seemed like a good idea at the time.

I had met Leslie at a Caribou coffee shop (the omnipresent local equivalent of Starbucks) in Minneapolis. Leslie was a musician and a recent ?migr? from Northern Ireland. I ordered a caramel latte and we chatted between the hisses of the coffee machine. I described my book, The Cellini Masterpiece, to him and he bought a copy on the spot. A few days later I got a note from him saying how much he liked the book. That being music to my ears, I invited him to join me for a wee taste of Ireland in a local pub. It was appropriate not only because of Leslie’s nationality but because Rick in the story is a confirmed Bushmills addict.

Although he preferred John Jameson, Leslie was more than pleased to accept Bushmills. We met at an upscale watering hole with a cherrywood bar, a piano tinkling in the background, and a bartender who parted his hair in the middle and wore a bow tie. The only thing missing was ferns. I should have been able to envision the prices, but I foolishly let the waitress seat us. Leslie was anxious to tell me about the John Hewitt Bar in Belfast, where a group of young artists, including writers, painters and musicians, hang out. He said I should go there sometime, that the Rebels would like

d my book, The Cellini Masterpiece, to him and he bought a copy on the spot. A few days later I got a note from him saying how much he liked the book. That being music to my ears, I invited him to join me for a wee taste of Ireland in a local pub. It was appropriate not only because of Leslie’s nationality but because Rick in the story is a confirmed Bushmills addict.

Although he preferred John Jameson, Leslie was more than pleased to accept Bushmills. We met at an upscale watering hole with a cherrywood bar, a piano tinkling in the background, and a bartender who parted his hair in the middle and wore a bow tie. The only thing missing was ferns. I should have been able to envision the prices, but I foolishly let the waitress seat us. Leslie was anxious to tell me about the John Hewitt Bar in Belfast, where a group of young artists, including writers, painters and musicians, hang out. He said I should go there sometime, that the Rebels would like

k in the story is a confirmed Bushmills addict.

Although he preferred John Jameson, Leslie was more than pleased to accept Bushmills. We met at an upscale watering hole with a cherrywood bar, a piano tinkling in the background, and a bartender who parted his hair in the middle and wore a bow tie. The only thing missing was ferns. I should have been able to envision the prices, but I foolishly let the waitress seat us. Leslie was anxious to tell me about the John Hewitt Bar in Belfast, where a group of young artists, including writers, painters and musicians, hang out. He said I should go there sometime, that the Rebels would like

sing was ferns. I should have been able to envision the prices, but I foolishly let the waitress seat us. Leslie was anxious to tell me about the John Hewitt Bar in Belfast, where a group of young artists, including writers, painters and musicians, hang out. He said I should go there sometime, that the Rebels would like to meet me and listen to me read my book; he was quite sure that I could get coverage from local news media. He told me about a reasonably priced B & B that was just across the street from a mystery bookstore called No Alibis.

Wood burned in my head as the wheels began to turn. It did sound worthwhile, and besides, the next time I went to London, I could take advantage of a cheap flight to Belfast.

The bar and mystery store seemed pretty good reasons to make a trip to Northern Ireland, but a possible trip to the Bushmills Distillery ... I was hooked.

I contacted the distiller and told him about my book, thinking there might be a commercial tie-in. He suggested I send a copy of the book to their public relations branch in New York City. I had already done that than a month earlier, with no response. I probably would have put off the trip indefinitely if it weren’t for the confluence of two other events. One was a super-low airfare to London on the web. The second was a breaking news story about a Maltese sea captain who had forced his Chinese illegal aliens to swim to the Sicilian shore instead of taking them there.

What a plot idea for my second book! Suddenly I had a reason to go back to Malta, though I had just been there a month earlier. I de