Dobić dziada with delivery to Ireland

Fifteen years ago the first story about Jakub Wędrowycz was published. He was neither handsome, nor young, nor even clean. Across three novels and seventy short stories, Jakub Wędrowycz has proved time and again that a peasant will let no living soul get the better of him. Nor a dead one, for that matter.
An irate old man in felt-lined rubber boots, a quilted jacket and a cap with earflaps. A Terminator running on moonshine. A self-appointed exorcist, vampire hunter, poacher and bootlegger.
The quintessence of staggering boorishness and yokelry, combined with low cunning. A peasant with the mentality of the worst kind of rowdy backwater petty nobleman, ready to murder his neighbours in defence of rights he has granted himself.
Not entirely sober, not particularly pleasant, terrifying in both appearance and smell, devoid of even a trace of good manners, he set off on a spree as if he had broken loose from his chain. Blood was spilt: that of militiamen, neighbours, officials, vampires, zombies, dwarves and every other kind of vermin that crossed his path.
Yet despite all these flaws, readers fell for him with a sincere and deep, if unrequited, love...