The novelty of living in a place where a policeman called Ambrose lives in a house whose door you can knock on if you need him will never wear off on me.
I’ve asked around and no one here can remember any crime, aside from years ago they seem to recall there was a murder. But except for the odd murder, policing in West Cork usually consists of an old person having a broken oil burner and Ambrose taking them a portable heater.
The doctor reminded me of Dr Meade from Gone With the Wind when he’s about to start amputating limbs
It’s rather like an episode of Heartbeat, and feels as though one has gone back in time by at least 60 years. Every time I drive past Ambrose’s house with its Garda sign above the front door, I feel a surge of happiness.
There is also a doctor in a tiny bungalow at the end of the high street.
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