“Yes, of course, Ian! Sports! Now that’s how you increase tourism!”
Ian looked skeptical. “I highly doubt that rowdy footballers are the sort of visitors Doolin’s village council would welcome, sir.”
Rory grinned, happily imagining a lively crowd frolicking through the village’s sleepy streets. “We might even have enough business for a second pub.” Now that was something to look forward to!
Ian harrumphed. “You might as well start an ice hockey team and be done with it. Then the Americans will descend in droves.”
Well, even that was bound to be better than staring at the surf all day, watching the boats dock and set sail like clockwork. Was it any wonder the visitors wandered off after an afternoon, preferring to drive thirty minutes south to the great Cliffs of Moher to spend their Euros? Doolin may be the MacCormac ancestral home, but it was dull. There was simply no getting around that.
Or was there?
“Ladies and gentlemen of the council,” Rory began with a winning smile, addressing the six people gathered in Doolin’s sole pub. Behind the bar, the pub master was washing up the beer mugs before opening for business. “I’d like to propose an annual event in Doolin—”
“We already host the Irish Music Fair,” one be-spectacled and gray-haired woman interjected.