SATURDAY, AUGUST 10
It’s hard to describe where we are now. I have never been in a home so beautiful, both architecturally and in its setting. It is strikingly contemporary, but rooted in, it’s bones, an old stone farmhouse. The large front living room/dining room is entirely glass, and rests on the edge of a cliff, only a small bit of grass in front, with a panoramic, semi-circular view of the ocean. The front windows extend at least 30 feet, and windows wrap around the corners probably an additional 30 feet. Skylights add to the feeling of being completely outside. The old stone house is behind this glass enclosure from which there is a view of the ocean and a small stone island, Myross Island, the closest land.
When we moved in, the day was stormy, with high winds, and a violent sea, animated with the constant movement of white caps. Flocks of crows and seagulls dove into hidden cliff dwellings, cows hunkered down on a rolling hill to the side of us, trees bent low. Off on another nearby hill, the family’s source of wind power whirled in rapid circles.
“The ocean is so peaceful,” said O, the day before when I said I thought her house was breathtaking. Perhaps hers is the understatement of the year. Peaceful, yes, but also enchanting, continuously entertaining in its changing nature, and mystifying.
The thing about this mostly glass house is that we felt oddly protected, not overexposed to the elements. The glass is so thick that even in the 50 mile an hour winds, there was no rattle. The solar heat, even on a cloudy day, warmed the room. Occasionally the cahcahing of the two hens who wandered around the windows looking longingly inside, reached us. No whistles or thumps accompanied the wind, though. The five dogs slept peacefully on the faded, pale oriental rugs.
I wrote a poem the other day about Ireland, asking for a terrarium to settle my restless soul…haha, and look where we are!
And this is only the upstairs living room. There is also a living room downstairs. It sits “closer to the sea” O explained the day before. Upstairs, along with the comfortable couches, there is a grand piano and a large dining room table. Downstairs, the living room is a study with high ceilings and floor to ceiling bookshelves. A raised area holds a large desk, looking out at the sea over long swaying grasses. The sitting area contains a round table to work on, and comfy couches. Three huge bedrooms, and two gigantic bathrooms are also on this lower floor. That’s the inside.
Outside is the garden, one sunken, one the same level as the upstairs living room, and a green house. A trampoline, apple trees, the hens’ cage and a swing inside the sunken garden which is protected by the remains of old stone walls. Behind the house are the stables and riding arena, the long dirt road to another long dirt road to the street where M lives, and another dirt road that passes the horse fields and leads to the cottage and the pigs.
It’s paradise. But when we learned the doors don’t lock, that there are no keys, it scared the shit out of us. But O and her teenage daughters promised us it was perfectly safe, “No one comes down here,” they said.
We moved in in the morning, and immediately took the five dogs down the dirt road that leads to the other dirt road, in one direction to M’s and in the other to the ruins of a stone church and cemetery on a cliff.
Then we were off to Skibbereen for the Saturday market, which was truly, as reported by the locals, overrun with tourists and felt strange because of it. One farmer overcharged us. Another, a German, used a fake Irish accent, which he thought was cute. We were annoyed. The line for the bread was long. But in the end, we did most of our shopping at Aldis anyway, and then hurried back, 45 minutes from Skibbereen to O’s house.
With winds high, we piled the dogs into the truck. Max, the biggest jumped right in, Ruby, his sister, followed. Then sweet Zoe, who isn’t quite right, called “special,” the runt who the family kept anyway, with her crooked head, and smaller body and brain, put her front legs up to the back gate and we lifted her back legs inside. Saffi hesitated but finally joined her family. Sweet, 12-year old Lucky, Saffi’s grandmother, can’t jump in. Age gives her the privilege of riding in the truck’s backseat. High off the ground in this big truck, Chloe, the dogs and I were off to “the farm.” Automatic gears, truck as wide as the roads…a 20 minutes drive to a 180-acre property the family purchased from an Irishman, jailed in the US as an illegal immigrant, and probably tax evasion.
If the house is exquisite, what word can I use to describe the farm. It isn’t really a farm but fields of grasses and shrubbery, some of which was cleared of trees by the imprisoned Irishman because he hoped to have a farm. But O and her husband plan to reforest it, using funds from the EU to help the environment. In addition to the fields, there is a pond. Atop the hills, we could see all the way to Glendore and out to the ocean. The dogs were in heaven. The wind created waves through the tall grasses. The dogs bounding every which way through them.
We returned to a massive cooking experiment, prepared in a restaurant-sized kitchen. It’s a bit disconcerting to be in a new kitchen, particularly after being so comfortable at F’s house. Chloe made cauliflower with a bread crumb crust, and a smashed potato dish. I made an onion, chickpea soup. After hours of cooking, we ate an awful meal. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
When we sat at the dining room table, Chloe said, “I hate to say it but I feel a little bit like I’m in Black Mirror.” Why? I asked. The darkness outside made it so we could see our reflections everywhere in the glass.
