The other day, I went to visit WB Yeats’s grave in Drumcliff churchyard. While I was there a coachload of tourists arrived. They immediately got on with the business of snapping the great man’s alleged last resting place (there is some controversy on the matter) before getting on with the serious business of visiting the souvenir shoppe. That whirring sound you hear is of the great man rotating at 5,500 rpm in his grave — wherever it is.