I met a wandering man crossing over the new Shannon Bridge. He walked with fluid stride, tweed jacket draped about his massive shoulders, strong weathered features beneath grey hair that curled like fern fronds, a worthy subject for a sculptor’s study in hand-cast bronze. He looked me squarely in the eyes, I bade him a good day – he stopped, he was on for chat – here is what he had to say: “Until lately the Sidhe na h-Abhainn, lived their age-long happy lives on that green there on the quay by the Shannon’s tide. Around those bollards I saw them dance the Rince Fada and the High Caul Cap, at dead of night many bemused, half-drunken, unseeing ship-bound sailors heard their ceile’s delight. But then the building of this bridge uprooted them from their pleasure ground, forced them a few miles downstream to Carrigogunnel to inhabit that ancient mound. Alas! So far anyway, the Sidhe seem unable to accept this great upheaval. Nor do they dance much now, nor their haunting ceol Sidhe play – but strangely ever since, whenever up-river winds blow above force six, around this new bridge all can hear their anguished, vengeful keening play strange tricks”. I went my way and thought awhile and I then allowed that his was at least as plausible an exposition of the situation as any of the professional highly technical hypotheses that have so far been offered in explanation of that unique phenomenon – and more acceptable forbye! Ah Venice! Now well may your bridge sigh!