The Gate in Garryglass

I haven't had a chance to post lately, due to deadlines and events and life in general, but now I've booked flights for next month and I'm getting excited. I wanted to report on one small piece of the renovations (I'll spare you the pictures of the new drainage system!), and why I want to save the front gate.

Those of you who follow me on Facebook have read about my very energetic Irish caretaker Diarmuid (the Irish for Dermot), and his ambitious plans for the cottage, including building a sunroom in the front and gifting me with a “feature,” which is apparently a boulder the size of a small car, and that he’s eager to get rid of. I haven’t seen it yet, but I’ve never been the proud owner of a giant rock, much less an Irish one, so why not? (As long as he’s the one who’s moving it!)

Recently I wrote a post on FB and asked whether I should keep the front gate and gateposts or simply eliminate the whole package and fill in the gap (to make room for Diarmuid’s sunroom, apparently). The overwhelming response from readers was to keep the gate (over 100 responses, and fewer than five voted against the gate), for a variety of reasons. That’s what I wanted to do from the start, until Diarmuid came up with his own idea, and I’m glad so many people agree with me.

But the discussion made me think about why Irish houses have gates at all, because they often don’t do anything except sit there. I came up with multiple answers. One is: West Cork is a dairy region, and there are a lot of cows, which periodically must be moved from one pasture to the next. Sometimes a cow will stray from the herd and end up where it shouldn’t, like in your back yard. 

A cow paid me a visit

Another: if a house lies on a busy road (Irish urban houses tend to be built close to the road), a wall with a gate provides some sense of privacy and protection, and defines the boundaries of the property.

Right on the main road

But often the gate doesn’t serve any practical purpose. So maybe there’s a more subtle question: does a front wall and gate convey a sense of status? Dignity? Importance? Often when driving around near a town, in what might be called a suburb, I will pass a relatively new house (maybe less than fifty years old) with a gate in front, at the edge of the road. Notice that I say “gate” and not wall with gate, because many of these gates are free-standing and don’t keep anything out. At best they signal “Enter Here.”

I’d offer you a picture of the former Connolly home in Knockskagh, built in 1907, but it was abandoned in 1956 and no one’s lived in it since, so it’s kind of falling down. 

The Connolly home in Knockskagh, built in 1907

But I can show you the house next door, from more or less the same era, where my great-aunt lived with her husband, and its gate is holding up much better. As you can see, there’s a nice sturdy pair of gateposts and a wall across the front that doesn’t serve much of a purpose, and few people pass by to admire it (only cows and a few sheep).

So what is this fascination with gates in Ireland all about? I think it’s symbolic. There is a kind of psychological transition when you pass through the gate posts, even if they wouldn’t keep out a rabbit. It’s interesting that this same response seems to come from Americans (or at least, American FB readers who follow me) as well as local people.

So I’ll be keeping my gate, which may involve some wrangling with Diarmuid, since he’ll be the one who will be pouring the concrete for the new steps. And I may have to hunt down an ironworker (or aluminum worker?) to make me a new gate, or maybe find a salvage yard. But that’s part of the fun of the place--and I get into some of the most interesting conversations that way!

Bonus picture: my back neighbor's
new ducklings, born last month

The Cottage

I first visited Ireland in 1998, spending less than a week there, wedged in between quick tours of England and Wales with my family. We found the places where my father’s parents were born, armed with no more than the names of the county and the townland, which is the smallest division of land in the country. We didn’t know anybody.

That trip changed my life. When we arrived in Leap, a village in West Cork, the first thing we saw was a pub called Connolly’s. We had no reservations for the night, but we scrounged up a room at a bed and breakfast—and the landlady introduced me to her mother-in-law, who had known my Connolly family years earlier. We ended up staying a day longer than we had planned.

After that first trip I kept going back—with my daughter one year, with a friend another year, and quite a few times since. I found a cousin there (again, thanks to that landlady), and she took me to see the last house my Connolly family had lived in, abandoned since the 1950s.

When I began to write, one of the first books I ever finished was set in Leap and a small pub there. That was in 2001. It took a while to find a publisher for that, and it went through quite a few changes, but eventually it blossomed into a series—the sixth book will come out in 2018.

And last year I bought a cottage in Ireland, in a townland called Garryglass (which is Irish for “green garden”), in the village of Drinagh, which has a population of about 500 people—and two pubs. From the back of my property I can see the steeple of the church where my great-grandparents were married, a mile away. On the other side, across a narrow lane, I can see nothing but rolling hills and cows. And it feels like home already.

At the moment I don’t plan to retire there, although I could: it’s a small simple house, all on one story. The taxes are low, and the electric bills are too. I have my own well there. And I have plenty of relatives in the neighborhood! It’s not particularly old—probably built around 1950—but everything works (and things like wiring and windows have already been upgraded). It’s located near a town that I love, Skibbereen, which has shops and an arts center, and good food, and a farmers market that’s been held weekly for centuries. The area is rich in local history, both ancient and modern (Michael Collins was born only a few miles away from the cottage). But it’s also modern, with reliable wifi and satellite television. The best of all possible worlds.

It’s lovely to fantasize about living there, even if it never happens. So far I’ve spent only two weeks at the cottage, in November 2016, but I hope to get there three or four times a year. I want to see Ireland in all seasons. I want to get to know my neighbors, including the cows. And it’s a wonderful place to slow down and unwind—and, I hope, write.