He opens up the lid and looks astonished that the fiddle is still there, as if it were a waif that might have gone astray but didn't. The bow is there. He puts the rosin to the bow and sweeps the bow across it absent-mindedly before the other fiddler asks him for a loan of it. Then hands are outstretched towards pints. They grasp them in a cheironomic sequence and everyone imbibes in his or her good time with inhaled breath, then an exhalation.
Sleeves lift lazily in an off-beat chorus and wipe away the foamy white moustaches.
It is nearly time to think of tunes but not quite yet. If you can't afford a trip to Ireland, this is the best substitute you are likely to get.