They have no idea what they missed that day.

Hurrying down Galway's Shop Street many of them barely acknowledged the man standing on a huge wooden barrel, wearing a cap topped off with a huge feather. After all there's no shortage of people dressed peculiarly and busking along this busy stretch of road.

They didn't give themselves enough time to be drawn in by the music of this man, the nearest I've seen to a medieval minstrel in a long time. The majority were prepared to give only the briefest of glances or a minute of their time, and then they were off to spend more money.

"What is that?" asked one, pushing through the curious onlookers, pointing at the wooden instrument in the dextrous hands of the bearded musician. "That" was a hurdy-gurdy, also known in France – where it is extremely popular – as a "Veille a Roue"

The sun lit up Lynch's castle; it was one of those afternoons that made you think the summer might still make a last minute appearance, no matter how late. The road was dry enough and warm enough to sit down, so as to let this man gradually draw you into the web he weaved with his timeless music.

Dressed in a suede shirt, the shoulder worn shiny by the bell-adorned strap holding the 110 year old "Veille a Roue" to his chest, he beat out a rhythm on the brown barrel with clog-clad feet, his eyes closed in rapture. The complexity of the sounds he made was revealed with time – a melody danced intricately over the constant drone of the background bass, punctuated with the rhythmic rattling of the "chien".

The more he played the more the spell worked its magic, Breton and Basque melodies both making their presence felt, and Irish reels and jigs giving way to traditional Scottish airs. As instrumentals would blend into songs his voice, verging on the unearthly, would lay down words I couldn't understand, sometimes almost frenziedly, and other times mournfully.

His hurdy gurdy was an ornate work of art – intricate mother of pearl perfectly complemented the decorated wood, the carved face of a woman smiling enigmatically, as if she was lost in reverie, remembering all the music played over the century of her life.

He took me from the bawdy revelry of a medieval banquet to a forest full of trees and sunshine, from thoughts of things I knew, to things I'd never dreamed of. And all while sitting on a street that had, until only 6 months ago, been a choked nightmare of traffic, noise and fumes.

Pol O Ceallaigh got it right that afternoon – as soon as I closed my eyes it all made total sense – it was trance music without a studio full of electronics, a room full of people, or a head full of chemicals.

And then the music stopped, and I was back in Shop Street.

It was the first time I'd ever heard the hurdy-gurdy man, and it transformed a day of duties in the city, making me glad I'd taken the time to listen. To really listen. (14/9)

More Hurdy-gurdy info can be found @ http://www.hurdygurdy.com/hg/hghome.html, http://www.mhs.mendocino.k12.ca.us/MenComNet.

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