The Irish hero Fionn asked his companions, "What is the finest music in the world?"
"The cuckoo calling from the highest tree," guessed one.
"The ring of a spear on a shield," cried another.
Other champions ventured: the bellowing of a stag across water, the braying of hunting hounds, the song of a lark, the laughter of a pretty girl.
"All good sounds," agreed Fionn.
"Tell us, chief," one warrior asked. "What do you think is the finest music in the world?"
"The music of what happens," answered Fionn.
And that is what I like about living on this hill above Dingle Bay. No TV. No alarm clock. The phone never rings. The wind whispers. The rain patters on the roof. The crows caw in the copse below. The bacon sizzles in the pan. The music of what happens.