You weave your way through a patron sea. Trad music echoes off the wood paneled walls, deadening the voices that surround you. You notice an open spot near the end of the bar. Wooden stool, weathered bar, the patina drapes over you like a cloak. The bartender catches your eye and delivers a knowing glance. They nod their head, you nod yours. You swing your seat towards the crowd, facing the din head-on. You hear the thud of a heavy glass and turn around. Ruby and crimson, it sparkles like a flame. It’s an Irish Red Ale.
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