County  pride is a powerful thing. It can be expressed in so many different ways. You can be clad from head to toe in your county colors on occasions like the recent hurling All-Ireland final or the football final coming up this Sunday. That way all know where your allegiances lie.

Or you can be much more subtle and nuanced than that and just as passionate beneath the skin. I have a powerful recent example. 

I could not get to Dublin for the hurling final. I traveled up to Spiddal in Connemara to watch the battle with my three sons Cuan and Scobie and Dara and our mutual friend Martin Conroy, who has always been almost like a fourth son to me. They were gathered before a big screen in a new bright pub in the village, lining one end of the bar.

The pub is spacious and, as I joined them for the beginning of the game, I saw a lady sitting alone at a table behind them behind a pint of Guinness.

Dark haired, somewhere in her late thirties, wearing casual clothes, no county colors on display, she looked perfectly comfortable and assured in her own space. She was watching the game intently.

You'd guess that her man was maybe not interested in hurling, was probably playing a round of links golf while she watched her game. Something like that.

The Galway minors beat Kilkenny in the curtain raiser. My sons and Martin were in great form when the big game began.

Kilkenny, as ye know, were hot favorites, so we were all cheering for the Tipperary underdogs. It was nip and tuck from the start, a real thriller, a hard but stylish clash. Tipperary gave as good as they got in the first half, and there was nothing in it at halftime.

It was still tight in the third quarter, and Tipperary even edged in front at times. I needed to go outside for a quick cigarette.

Outside the lady was also smoking, and we spoke as you do in the smoke zones. She said she was from Kilkenny and that she had primarily gone for a cigarette because every time she does that the Cats score a goal!

We went back inside, and dammit, within a couple of minutes Kilkenny are awarded a (dodgy) penalty, and their chief marksman Henry Shefflin drove it home.

The only foul stroke of the game is pulled by a Tipperary player. He is red carded and sent to the line. Kilkenny get on top of them, score another goal, win handy enough in the end.

The lady had been quietly clapping the Kilkenny goals behind us. They were ladylike claps, and she did not cheer or shout.

The minute the game was over, though, she finished her glass, smiled sweetly at us and walked towards the door.

She had leather soles on her shoes. Somehow they tapped out a Morse of total jubilation as she opened the door and departed.

I don't know how she did it, but that slow defiant hornpipe of her Kilkenny feet was as effective as a black and amber jersey, two flags and a hat. Beautiful. 

Incidentally, that one foul stroke, delivered in the heat of the moment by a respected player with a good reputation, somehow emphasized the heat of all the hurling passions in the heartlands of surely the best team ball code in the world.

But it also hallmarked the level of control which 99.99% of the hurling stars are able to exercise even in the heat of battle.

They are, after all, equipped with weapons of ash if they decide to use them as such. They don't except on the very rare occasions when somebody gets a rush of blood to the head.

No, they use them like wands to orchestrate the power and the passion and the beautiful balletic elements of our unique national game. It was a noble exhibition to warm the heart. 

Coming back down to Clare the following morning, I am driven to detour through the Burren's windy roads under the mighty Corker of Black Head.

It's a lovely bright windy forenoon when I reach the fabled spa town with its matchmaking and craic reputation still running strongly right through every September from beginning to end, day and night, Saturday and Sunday, an Indian Summer kind of festival for farming folk from all over the land enjoying their Indian Summer days too. Already they are dancing at the Spa well with its health-giving sulphur water, and they will dance away every morning and evening and night from now on in all the pubs and hotels.

I have a cup of coffee in the Roadside Tavern and just soak up the old atmosphere. Outside on the bench I get into conversation with a Burren farmer I vaguely know. 

He told me a great story about once having a cow that was a mighty milker altogether. But what did she not get into the habit of doing? 

She would lie down on her side and reach down and milk herself of all that rich warm milk!  There was a cute cow now for you.

But she had a cute owner too. My friend did not want to sell her because she was such a good milker. He got a handy neighbor to design a customized helmet/harness for her so she could no longer steal her own milk. It worked very well too.

But a side effect in such a busy tourism area as the Burren was that there were always carloads of puzzled tourists taking photographs of the cow with the odd hat. "She looked as if she had dropped down from outer space!" the farmer said.

I leave Lisdoonvarna still laughing and drive through the crags and limestone pavements. I don't see any cows wearing odd hats. But do ye know what you can see?

It's serious too. Changes in farming practice on these special lands have meant there are less cows now grazing on the rocklands, and   the hazel scrub is making a significant comeback that you can notice. 

The radio news is doleful enough on the day. It is all about the government struggling to come up with measures to save the banks and tax the rest of us to the absolute limit.

I see a small herd of wild and free goats off to my left.  They are a majestic sight against such a background.

I thought about them for a while as I passed. They do not reap, neither do they sow, but they live well and in the end a few of them will provide skins for the bodhrans beating out the heartbeats of our great music. 

I switched off the radio and drove through the afternoon beauty serenely towards home.