St. Patrick’s Night in Blairsville, the kind of evening where the mist clings to the Blue Ridge like a damp Irish wool traveling cloak. We gather at The Lodge, the air thick with the scent of corned beef and bangers and mash.

The bagpipes echo through the hollow. The sound floating along as though drifting in Lower Young Cane Creek. Then, they appear: Curtis and Kim, The Mountain Gypsies. She, with her upright bass that seems carved from a lightning-struck oak, and he, gripping his guitar like a man who’s bartered for his soul in a Dublin pub. They don’t just play; they conjure a rhythmic tale that blurs the line between the Appalachians and the Cliffs of Moher.

The crowd, in a sea of emerald sweaters and questionable plastic hats is swept up in a Celtic fever. It’s the sort of music that makes you want to sell your estate and wander the highlands with nothing but a flask of Jameson and a sturdy pair of brogues.

By the time the last reel fades into the Georgia night, your Guinness will be empty, but your spirit will be dangerously full.