My first céilí was an inter-Celtic Fest Noz.

The Irish put on their show, all posture and points as they step-danced with smiles.

The Galicians piped their part, solemn in their duty, huddled and forlorn in minority and gone soon after.

But it was the Bretons held the night, bawdy and raucous in their drink, blasé in their step.

Melodic inhale, exhale of accordion’s Z’s, listed on and on, into night.

We circled, fingers entwined, no judge to score form.

Just souls in the blue-black rhythm, rediscovering themselves.