I Spent a memorable evening last week with the last of the Clancy Brothers. It wasn't planned. Liam Clancy was in town to record a television show and I bumped into him in a well-known Belfast hotel as a friend and I were desperately trying to pin down a bite to eat at 10.30 on this Sunday night.

Predictably, a bite to eat was not to be had in this erstwhile European City of Culture at this ungodly hour of the night, so a hungry man's only recourse was to repair to the hotel bar harbouring the slim hope of a ham sandwich that would mostly likely curl at the edges.

I had met Liam Clancy before. Earlier this year, at the launch of his autobiography in Barnes and Noble's elegant bookstore in New York, I had listened whilst he sang a few sea shanties and acted the Blarney boy to an enthralled crowd of gullible Irish-Americans.

We might as well have been in an Irish pub in Santa Ponsa. But the crack was good if you liked that sort of thing. I usually don't.

I had never liked the Clancy Brothers. Hunched over Bob Dylan records in the Sixties and analysing each pearl of wisdom that dropped from the Master's lips, I was astounded to learn in later years that Bob Dylan had learnt much from the Clancys, and had indeed recorded an alternatively worded version of 'The Patriot Game' called 'With God on his Side'.

Back then, I couldn't understand why Dylan liked the Clancys. Youth is a terrible thing. And here was a founder member in front of me.

Drinks were consumed and, as the hour struck midnight and Monday arrived with a bang, Liam announced that this day was the occasion of his 67th birthday. He thereupon ordered a number of bottles of champagne and began to talk.

But this was not ordinary talk. This was inspired talk from a man who wanted to speak about his life and the people who'd influenced him.

He talked about New York, the Kennedys, Pete Seeger, Dylan Thomas, Brendan Behan, WB Yeats, Patrick Kavanagh, Frank Sinatra and Shakespeare. He talked about old Irish storytellers, fiddle players and balladeers long since gone.

But it wasn't so much what he talked about that fascinated our small group. It was his use of language. This was no ordinary Paddy shooting the breeze. We all knew we were listening to something special, something lost that we don't hear anymore. We were listening to a conversation touched by genius.

Every once in a while, one of us would gamely chip in with stories and yarns of our own but our voices soon trailed off. Compared to him, we gibbered like inmates of the Big Brother House. Liam Clancy was in a different league.

After a while, he excused himself and left. We thought he had gone to bed. Surprisingly, he returned 15 minutes later clutching a small, battered concertina that he'd fetched from his room. He started to play and sing. But this was no stage performance for the paying punters. This was a man singing for himself.

The hotel lounge was eerily silent as he sang a hushed, plaintive version of 'The Patriot Game', accompanying himself on the little squeezebox. It was the first time in years I'd felt the hairs rising on the back of my neck. I realised Bob Dylan was right to like the Clancys, and one smart guy to sense the worth of what was behind the Aran sweaters and showbiz bluster.

Next day, I went out and bought a collection of WB Yeats' poetry. Reading it in my hotel room, I completely forgot to watch 'I'm A Celebrity: Get Me Out Of Here!' As I pictured Ant and Dec slouching towards Bethlehem, I realised the Last Clancy had done his job well.