John O'Mahony meets novelist Dermot Healy on a stony Atlantic shore

It rarely behoves a critic to betray total ignorance, but during the interval of this play I had to come clean when two French women asked me what it was about, fearing themselves victims of a language barrier. But no, this new script by Dermot Healy deliberately hovers shy of subject, plot or even a coherent conversation, with a set of indeterminate Pirandelloesque "characters" who might or might not be wraiths in the frazzled memory of old Mr Staines. Staines prefaces the piece by wandering around in his underpants listening to an old Count John McCormack record.