When we get to Fanore I put my foot down. It's raining on the beach, but I get into my swimming kit and dive into the surf. Caitlin, my daughter, sits on one of the lovely white boulders scattered across the beach. To the south-west we can see the cliffs of Moher sporting a quiff of black cloud; to the west is Inis Oírr, the island where we spent the previous night. A shaft of sunlight brushes the island then crosses the sea to our patch of sand. I come out of the sea reinvigorated – and determined.

"I mean it," I say. "No more mention of that bloody TV series. It's taking over – like bindweed."

"Go on, Father …"

"Stop it!"

The west coast of Ireland, more precisely County Clare, is under attack, you see, from a plague that originated on Channel 4 in the late 1990s. I'm not going to name the virus. Suffice to say it is spread by television and involves three catholic priests, one known by the diminutive form of the name Edward. Anyone who catches this bug is compelled to visit County Clare in search of proof that real life in this quiet backwater is hilariously similar to the afore-not-mentioned series in all its crackpot, rustic eccentricity.

This kind of televirus is not new. On the North York Moors the village of Goathland was infected by the ITV series Heartbeat and ended up as a comatose parody of a 1960s village. In the 1980s nearby Thirsk swelled with tourists enticed by the BBC's All Creatures Great and Small.

I would not be party to the downfall of County Clare.

"This," I reminded Caitlin, "is a trip to find the best Irish music pubs, and nothing to do with Father T**. It means visiting as many pubs as possible and I will not be side-tracked."

"Your dedication's admirable, Father."

"Stop calling me Father."

Caitlin gives up on one of Clare's steeper hills

Since our arrival with bicycles a few days before, we have taken this mission seriously. Starting at Lough Cutra, just over the county border in Galway, where we took part in the inaugural Lough Cutra Triathlon, we headed west and then down the Clare coast to the village of Doolin, and then across to the smallest of the Aran islands, Inis Oírr.

We heard fiddlers and guitarists, banjo-pickers and penny whistlers. West Clare has its own style of playing and is particularly famed for its flutes, fiddles and concertinas. At the pub on the island there was a concertina-player and we got the feeling – fuelled by pints of rich dark stout – that we were being absorbed into a community.

But the ghost of television was always there. Caitlin dragged me out to the wreck of the ship that appears in the opening credits of the series. You know, the bit where the camera swoops across Craggy Island before crashing into the front door of the priestly dwelling. We got into a drunken session at the pub with a delightful rogue called Jerry, and Caitlin could not stop herself. "This is just like a scene from …"

We left the island next morning. I felt like a fugitive, a voice in the wilderness of televisual parody. Hence my outburst on the beach and the cleansing dip in the ocean.

"Don't forget our true purpose," I say. "We've to find that big thumping heart at the centre of Irish music, the best craic in the best pub. I'm talking about real living culture – not a televised parody that kills the real thing stone dead."

Another pint of Guinness

That evening we set out again, this time to O'Donoghue's in Fanore, a blue-painted stone pub set on the thin shelf of land between the sea and the great limestone mountain that is called the Burren. Pat MacNamara, our host at the excellent Orchid House B&B, shows us the way. On the road we pass an abandoned farmhouse, the walls partly built with ship wreckage. There are the remains of an old horse-drawn wagon in the lean-to.

"Until the 1970s people were self-sufficient here," says Pat, leaning on the gate. "They grew their food and never spent money they didn't have."

They also entertained themselves and this area, secluded from the rest of the world, became a hotspot for musical talent. Nowadays County Clare has a big reputation among Irish music enthusiasts. Some say it is the spiritual centre of the Celtic sound.

Pat jumps away from the gate, swiping at his neck. "Feck! Midges!"

Caitlin gives me a look but says nothing.

O'Donoghue's turns out to be every bit as good as we hoped. There's a trio of young musicians playing in one corner, a fire in the hearth and seafood on the menu. If the craic is a little subdued, we remind ourselves it is Tuesday night.

"Friday and Saturday," says the young landlord. "We're a bit quieter in the week."

We sit in a corner eating scallops.

Linnanes in Kilfenora

"See?" I say to Caitlin, gesturing to the convivial Irish pub scene before us. "Not a hint of pandering to the tourists, no attempt to be what we want or expect them to be – especially not because of some cursed TV series."

She shakes her head. "They watch television too. Don't you realise? Even the word 'Feck' itself was made up by the Father T** writers."

I don't believe this but, annoyingly, I can't prove it. Eventually we agree to settle the question, not in the traditional way – Wikipedia on a mobile – but by the novel method of talking to local people.

Next morning we cycle out in a downpour, passing through coastal pastureland thick with spring gentians and orchids. Around lunchtime, as a watery sun emerges, we cruise through Ballyvaughan and turn south, heading uphill to the top of the Burren.

Nothing can prepare you for the utter desolation that is Europe's finest, most diverse floral treasure trove. A former pine and hazel forest felled by stone age man, the Burren is a limestone desert riven by deep fissures and cracks in which tiny plants thrive. We ride into Kilfenora, in the heart of the Burren, passing some fine-looking pubs – one of them, Nagles, also a gentlemen's outfitters. We park our bikes at the hostel and step outside to Vaughan's pub. Little do I know it but this is the epicentre of the T** epidemic, the heart of the syndrome.

It's quiet inside – too quiet. I see a neatly painted interior, scrubbed wooden tables and floor, a friendly face behind the bar already reaching for the pumps. We enter and take a table. The American couple opposite are talking in low, earnest tones. A young woman, who turns out to be Orla, the landlord's daughter, comes over with two pints of Guinness. She and Caitlin exchange a glance.

"Isn't this where …?" says Caitlin.

Orla nods. "Series three, episode one. Right here."

The American couple jerk into life. "No way! Awesome! The one where he buys drinks for the Chinese?"

I'm surrounded. "Is there music here tonight?" I say, forlornly attempting to change the subject.

"You'll have to go to Linnane's up the way," says Orla, "They have a session."

A short while later, walking alone up the street, I spot a giant medieval stone cross, one of a number that once guarded Kilfenora's boundaries from devilish dangers. Outside Linnane's pub a man with a pint in his hand hails me like an old friend and immediately starts a conversation.

"Now me pa was a Kilfenora man tru and tru," he says, launching into a series of unsolicited anecdotes about his forebear, each more incredible than the last, culminating in a real whopper: "In world war two pa's brother got captured by the feckin' Germans and locked up in Colditz. So what did he do? I'll tell you. He parachuted into Germany, fought his way into that castle, and rescued his brother!"

A pint of Guinness has weaved a magical path out of the pub and into my hand. How did it know I was here? And what about that word, "feck"?

"It's nothing bad at all," my new friend assures me. "Robbie Burns himself used it."

I'm inclined to disbelieve everything he says, but at the bar, another local man says it's true. "I think Robert Louis Stevenson had it as well."

"OK. So what does it actually mean?"

"I have no feckin' idea."

ireland map

In the corner four talented musicians are kicking up a little storm. An Asian couple and some locals are tapping their feet. The walls are decorated with photographs of music sessions, most featuring the Kilfenora Ceili band, which was founded in 1910 and has won many awards.

The landlord, Gerard, tells me tonight's musicians are mostly members of the famous band, as was his own mother for many years: "Kilfenora has a great reputation for music." He nods at the Asian couple. "People do come from all around the world."

I listen for an hour. This is a pub I'd heartily recommend: even on a Wednesday night it had a little magic about it. Back at Vaughan's, I find Caitlin and Orla planning a little surprise.

"A detour on your route tomorrow."

Caitlin grins. "Just for tea and cake."

The cast of Father Ted

Next morning the rain is slicing in from the north, our new direction of travel. We pedal up the hill. The wind strengthens. I grit my teeth as the trees hunker down smaller and smaller, then finally give up entirely, leaving us alone in a barren upland area where there is one large grey house partially obscured by torn curtains of freezing rain. It is an unmistakable house, one once inhabited by three Irish priests.

I growl at Caitlin who is giggling with excitement – or maybe it's her teeth chattering with the cold. The owner, Cheryl, answers promptly and we are soon inside her cosy kitchen, watching in embarrassment as puddles form at our feet. Plates of scones and cakes appear, followed by pots of tea.

Cheryl is originally from Manhattan, but on a visit to County Clare she met and fell in love with a local farmer, who brought her to live in this house. It must have seemed as remote and inaccessible as any outpost of the wild west – until the producers of an unlikely TV comedy came to call.

"Channel 4 used it for external shots," she says, "Most of the internal stuff was done in a studio in London."

Nevertheless, her home came to symbolise the whole surreal madness of Craggy Island, and she still gets visitors from all over the world. Cheryl is so hospitable that I forgive Caitlin for dragging me here – and the cake is fantastic. We eat several scones each and make a big dent in the raspberry crumble.

Once outside again I tell Caitlin. "OK, so Kilfenora is the home, the mother lode, for Father T**. But now that's it – forget it. No more."

Three hours later, soaking wet again, we arrive in the attractive market town of Ennis, home to well-known music pubs such as Brogan's, Cruises and the Diamond Bar. Having stowed the bikes and dried out, we head off to find some music, first at Faffa Considine in Parnell Street, where there is an intense session already under way.

While we are there, Orla rings me from Kilfenora: "I want to send a car to pick you up and bring you back to Kilfenora. Please come. You have to see our céilí."

There really is no escape, I tell myself. I'm just going to have to accept it. So 12 hours after leaving, we land back in the heart of Father T** territory in time for the céilí, in a hall next to Vaughan's pub.

I sit down on a bench and listen and watch. I can't join in. That much is immediately obvious. This dancing takes years of practice. The Kilfenora céilí, I observe, is not about making a buck out of tourists; it is about fun after a hard day on the farm. This is exactly what I wanted: the great thumping heart of Irish music. There are no tourists here anyway, apart from Caitlin, myself and one botany student from Colorado.

An old man joins me on the bench. "Are you enjoying the céilí?"

"It's wonderful."

He tries to explain a bit about the various dances. I move closer to him.

"Can I ask you something? The Irish word 'feck' – is it rude?"

He considers this seriously. "It is."

"How rude?"

He calls to his wife, a kindly grandmotherly lady in a floral frock, and puts the question to her.

"Well," she says in a tone to settle the matter, "feck is rude, but not as rude as fuck."

They both start to laugh and I do too. I have one more question for them. "Did you ever see a television series called Father T**?"

He shakes his head. "I never saw it myself – only heard of it."

"Some people say the word 'feck' was created by that programme."

He laughs. "That can't be right. My own father used it when I was a boy."

I breathe a sigh of relief. County Clare is, I reckon, safe from the televirus for a while yet.