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A trip to Northern Ireland seemed like a good idea at the time, like most wild goose chases. The idea for the trip to Belfast was hatched over a Bushmills in Minneapolis with a new Irish friend, appropriately enough. It was an unforgettable experience. Of Bushmills 20-year-old single malt whiskey aged in sherry casks, in Belfast, in May of this year I had my first taste.

It was appropriate not only because of Leslie's nationality but because Rick in the story is a confirmed Bushmills addict. I invited him to join me for a wee taste of Ireland in a local pub, that being music to my ears. A few days later I got a note from him saying how much he liked the book. To him and he bought a copy on the spot, the Cellini Masterpiece, i described my book. I ordered a caramel latte and we chatted between the hisses of the coffee machine. From Northern Ireland; migré leslie was a musician and a recent é. I had met Leslie at a Caribou coffee shop (the omnipresent local equivalent of Starbucks) in Minneapolis.

He told me about a reasonably priced B and B that was just across the street from a mystery bookstore called No Alibis. He was quite sure that I could get coverage from local news media, that the Rebels would like to meet me and listen to me read my book; he said I should go there sometime. Hang out, painters and musicians, including writers, where a group of young artists, leslie was anxious to tell me about the John Hewitt Bar in Belfast. But I foolishly let the waitress seat us, i should have been able to envision the prices. The only thing missing was ferns. And a bartender who parted his hair in the middle and wore a bow tie, a piano tinkling in the background, we met at an upscale watering hole with a cherrywood bar. Leslie was more than pleased to accept Bushmills, although he preferred John Jameson.

I could take advantage of a cheap flight to Belfast, the next time I went to London, and besides, it did sound worthwhile. Wood burned in my head as the wheels began to turn.

I was hooked. . . But a possible trip to the Bushmills Distillery , the bar and mystery store seemed pretty good reasons to make a trip to Northern Ireland.

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. One was a super-low airfare to London on the web. I probably would have put off the trip indefinitely if it weren't for the confluence of two other events. With no response, i had already done that than a month earlier. He suggested I send a copy of the book to their public relations branch in New York City. Thinking there might be a commercial tie-in, i contacted the distiller and told him about my book.

I have been spiller and spillee more times than I care to remember, in my time. The schlimazel is the one he spills it on. A schlemiel is a person who goes around spilling soup. Woody Allen explained the difference between a schlemiel and a schlimazel. Bad choice. I decided to go for it. Though I had just been there a month earlier, suddenly I had a reason to go back to Malta. What a plot idea for my second book!

I could change my return if I needed more time. I also penciled in two days in Belfast. 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 laid out an itinerary that included stops in London and in Malta.

But I bit the bullet and made my reservation, the flight back was at an equally unpalatable hour. 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, unfortunately.

I kicked rocks all the way back to my hotel. I asked about the Rebels and he said they weren't around. 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 wasn't. Leslie had said that was just the way he was and that I was expected. I had sent five e-mails to Pedro at the John Hewitt without a response. Time to check in at the John Hewitt bar. Okay. The owner wasn't in and wouldn't be back until the next day. I visited No Alibis, after I settled into my B and B. On Thursday morning. I arrived in Belfast at 9:00 a.m. I was happy to learn that a tour of Bushmills had been arranged for my second day in Belfast, learning nothing, after wasting my time at the British Museum and the British Library.

The good news was that they were sending a cab to the station as a token to an honored guest. ****! Including the distiller, but since it was Friday afternoon everyone except the tour staff would be gone, they told me I was expected. When I asked him about the Bushmills Distillery he said it was a three-hour train trip and that I had better contact the Bushmills for instructions using his telephone. Which I had imagined I would be signing at the John Hewitt, i was happy to sell him the ten I had with me. The owner said he had sold the five copies he had bought and needed more. The next morning I made another visit to No Alibis.

I couldn't think of a better way to end the day, after all I'd been through. When I arrived at the distillery the tour manager gave me a ticket for a tour of the distillery that included a whiskey-tasting at the end. The cab was waiting.

" Bryan said with a twinkle in his eye, "Let's try a few other things. A delightful blended whiskey that I had loved for years, next came the Black Bush. I already knew what they tasted like but I didn't want to argue. Including Scotch and Jack Daniels, then I had a taste of other whiskeys. He had me sample Bushmills and the other brands of Irish whiskey and I could actually tell the difference. A wonderful stereotypical Irishman with a reddish moon face was my guide.

" "One more to go. "
It tasted just fine to me. "This is twenty-five years old. I had no place to go and he soon came back with a glass containing a darker-hued liquid. " he said, "Just stay here. But I nodded enthusiastically when he asked if I liked it, my taste buds weren't as sharp as they had been before, for some reason. The next stop was the 10-year-old single malt.

Flight back to Gatwick. And the 5:00 a.m, pedro, john Hewitt, a warm haze blurred all thoughts about Rebels. Certainly the cherubim and seraphim never tasted anything more divine. But this was in a completely different universe, regular Old Bushmills is a little taste of heaven in a bottle. It retailed for somewhere around 125 British pounds a bottle. The last sample was a honey-colored single-malt whiskey that was the top of the line and bottled in extremely limited quantities.

To find out what that means language School, you'll have to read my next novel, And I also got to meet the Catman of Malta, oh yes. Except I came home with some great ideas for the next novel, i could have skipped it. And my trip to Malta? I got a personalized bottle of 10-year whiskey and a certificate of being an official taster, as I left. Even if I didn't get to meet the distiller and I still don't know if Bushmills wants to work with me, ireland had worked its miracles on me.