It was a bit warmer today, but the sun is just a memory now and the wind blowing down the narrow streets carries a chill that goes deep. It cannot reach me here, however. I am in The Pump House, a fine pub in Kilkenny in the southern reaches of Ireland. To my left a small fire flickers warmly in the fireplace, on my right is a glass of Smithwicks (rhymes with Phythics), foam clinging in rings to the side of the glass, measuring my progress sip by sip. Were there usable electricity here, it would be perfect.