A bay mare was standing over a foal curled up sleeping at her feet. Yawning and struggling to keep her eyes open, she was snoozing herself in the sun-drenched paddock of a small white farmhouse.
If I had stopped the car to admire the scene every time the scene was this perfect, then I would not have made a mile’s progress on my third house-hunting trip to Ireland.
In the country lanes, drivers slowed and waved to me on every bend. A cyclist put his foot on the ground and grinned as though genuinely pleased to see me. Everyone here has time. That’s how it seems anyway.
The shop windows say ‘Closed on Tuesdays’; the restaurants are ‘Open Friday and Saturday nights’
In a market square, I sat on a bench and sipped a takeaway coffee bought in a supermarket. ‘How are you today?’ said the lady, like she really wanted an answer. All the shop windows say ‘Closed on Tuesdays’; the restaurants are ‘Open Friday and Saturday nights’. Good for them.
A short drive up the lane and I was early for my appointment to view what turned out to be more of a holiday home. And the 18 acres, while picturesque, were being pounded by the run-off from the hillside above, pouring through a land drain.
I went from there to another farm that was derelict but somehow inhabited. In one room was the largest heap of plastic bags stuffed with empty Guinness cans you ever saw. Hundreds of them. The agent shook his head solemnly. ‘Poor bloke,’ I said. We stood chatting about mortality for a while.
After shaking his hand to say goodbye, I decided to drive inland to a complete wild card. I left the West Cork coastline to drive almost vertically up a steep range and down the other side.
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