A reminiscence of the author's days in Ireland. No one here is real-she insists- but things in the Ireland she visited are unreal anyway so that she labels her account as an ""overexposed photograph"". Having inherited a sizable legacy at the age of thirty and considering herself a connoisseur of bars -- she had drunk everywhere and with everybody -- she decided to buy a pub is Cork. From here her story is a series of vignettes, as seen now from the other side of the bar, of her customers -- of Phelan, a petty Robin Hood, with a tubercular family; of Paddy O' Donovan, a skilled tradesman, talented liar, intermittant pledge-taker; of her advisor, Daisy, who insisted that Mrs. O' go to Mass on Sundays or run the risk of losing her trade; and finally of Sean, an ex-seminarian, a renegade from the faith, with whom Mrs. O' fell hopelessly in love. Sean's death was her breaking point with Ireland - she hadn't intended falling in love with any one or anything and she resented that Ireland had become a part of her -- but drinking friendships are easily broken. Her story, a mawkish bit of trivia, smothered in a bogus nostalgia, fashions nothing of value. A shabby, shallow hoax.