At a country inn the suit case became a knapsack. Kenny went forth
into a world of old houses, apple blossoms and winding roads, likening
himself to Peredur who had gone in search of the Holy Grail. The Grail
in this case was the holy boon of his son's forgiveness.

He went with the break of day at a swinging stride, his penitential
inspiration in the full flower of its freshness. If misgiving claimed
him at all, it was merely a matter of shoes. They were the kind, built
for walking, likely to be in a state of unromantic preservation at his
journey's end. Kenny found in them a source of discontent and
speculation.

For the passion of life which to Brian's fancy haunted the highway,
Kenny had delightful substitute, fairies quaffing nectar from
flower-cups of dew or riding bridle paths of cloud on bits of straw.
In everything he chose to find an augury, from the night of birds to
the way of the wind, the curl of smoke or the color of a cloud.
Thirsty he longed for the drinking horn of Bran Galed or better still
of Finn, for Finn's horn held whatever you wanted. And for a pattern
in moments of diversion, there was always the fairy Conconaugh, who
made love to every pretty shepherdess and milkmaid he met. Many a
farmer's daughter smiled and blushed at the gallant sweep of Kenny's
cap.

So he tramped, peering delightedly under bushes for the green suits and
red caps of the Clan Shee, and every cleft of rock became the portal to
a fairy dwelling. At sunset he discovered a fairy battle in the clouds
and when the moon rose, silhouettes, fairy-like and frail, scudded
mystically across the face of it. Old Gaffer Moon, full-faced and
silver!