He sits atop an old wooden chair in a dimly lit Scottish pub. He gazes my direction, I pretend not to notice him, secretly my heart is pounding. Is this the man I had been dreaming of for all these years?

I accompany my three friends and find a place beside the old carved wooden bar to watch. Fingers flying across strings and whistles, heavy breathing, feet tapping, it was hard not to get into it. Pulsating rhythms of traditional session music bounced around the packed rooms, I watched him from the corner. Musicians had always been an attraction of mine, maybe it was some silly romantic notion of being serenaded every night by a gravelly voiced stranger.

One of my friends jumped up to dance. We had been trailing the sessions for our whole journey, an appreciation for great traditional music we had gained as children growing up in the smokey halls of Australia. It was in our blood (and our feet). Then it was my turn, dragged from my stool that I had ever so precisely perched myself on for the best view possible. There was no greater feeling then bouncing up and down to the beats of a bodhran drum. The locals cheered; thinking at first we were just another group of tourists come to photograph their little piece of scotland. Nothing gets you into the feel of a new place like music and dancing. He was watching, I could feel it on the back of my neck, then the corner of my eye.

What would be my next step?