The Cider does the trick of cleaning the palate. The fiddle player finishes up his last tune and walks around to collect donations. I drop in a few euros and flash a smile. He wasn’t that great to be honest but I realize that this is the mans living. The pub starts to empty by the time I pull the last two drops from my glass. With only a few horribly drunk individuals left, and most of them too far gone to even move under their own free will, I slip out the back door to find the staircase to the upper rooms. Wonderful, another back alley. At least this one doesn’t have the remains of the airline food I wolfed down on the flight over.