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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 conf

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 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 confl

cian 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 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 conf

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 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 conf

s, 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 conf

st.

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 decided to go for it. Bad choice. Woody Allen explained the difference between a schlemiel and a schlimazel. A schlemiel is a person who goes around spilling soup. The schlimazel is the one he spills it on. In my time, I have been spiller and spillee more times than I care to remember.

I laid out an itinerary that included stops in London and in Malta. I needed to visit the British Museum and British Library and I arranged an interview with the young investigative reporter who unearthed the story about the drowned Chinese language students. I also penciled in two days in Belfast. I could change my return if I needed more time.

Unfortunately, getting there wasn’t as inexpensive as advertised and I would have to be at Gatwick at five in the morning to catch my flight. The flight back was at an equally unpalatable hour, but I bit the bullet and made my reservation.

After wasting my time at the British Museum and the British Library, learning nothing, I was happy to learn that a tour of Bushmills had been arranged for my second day in Belfast. I arrived in Belfast at 9:00 a.m. on Thursday morning. After I settled into my B & B, I visited No Alibis. The owner wasn’t in and wouldn’t be back until the next day. Okay. Time to check in at the John Hewitt bar. I had sent five e-mails to Pedro at the John Hewitt without a response. Leslie had said that was just the way he was and that I was expected. I wasn’t. Pedro had no idea who I was and said it was too late to arrange for a book signing or discussion in the next few days. I asked about the Rebels and he said they weren’t around. I kicked roc