This, indeed, is happiness. Finishing a novel like this, by one of Ireland’s master writers, is like savouring a fabulous meal, and yet being willing to start all over again.

This gentle, humorous tale, with occasional touches of pathos, is set in the fictional town of Faha, in County Clare. It is a story told by an ageing Noel Crowe, who lived there aged 17 with his grandparents, having lost his faith and left a seminary where he was training to be a priest. It is a time long gone, but Williams preserves it as only an Irishman can, with gentle humour and deep affection for the characters he has created in the village and its surrounding townlands.

Faha has not changed for a thousand years, but change is in the wind with the coming of electricity. The enigmatic Christy McMahon, working for the electricity company, comes to board with Noel’s grandparents, introducing the young man to a new way of life, especially involving traditional music in the pubs thereabouts.

Williams’ use of language is superb, evoking the gentle pace of life around Faha; the deep love Noel sees between his grandparents, each with individual eccentricities; Noel’s own realisation that he is in love with not one but all three of the town beauties, daughters of the local doctor; and Christy’s mission to atone for past behaviour.

One of the best scenes is a glorious description of the amorous acrobatics that took place in the local cinema, where Noel had his first adult kiss; only bettered by the salesman’s patter demonstrating electrical appliances to replace archaic domestic goods, once electricity was connected.

Williams’ writing is insightful, tender and romantic, seemingly effortless, but every word has been polished and set in its place to perfection.

He writes in the tradition of perpetually raining Faha, where storytelling passed the time, dissolving the hours of the dark. It was an unwritten law that a story must never arrive at the point, or risk conclusion. Where time was the only thing people could afford, tales might not be finished this side of the grave. And if one must go to that place, as we all will, let there be a Christy McMahon to sing over it.

Reviewed by Jennifer Somerville