House-Sitting in Ireland
Our second part of UK time was to do something different: stay put. Not that we needed a break from the van already—we’d just gotten back to it—but to move less. A lot less. We’d originally planned a week or two auto-touring Scotland and Ireland after the concert. But as that unfolded it got expensive and sounded like a ton of work. So we scrapped it and found a house-sitting gig instead: free room and board, stay in one place, explore when we want. Kerri, once again, found the perfect opportunity—three weeks in southern Ireland, an idyllic house that had once been the local hotel, built in the 1700s deep in rural countryside. We talked with the owners and committed.
The flight from Scotland to Ireland was quick and uneventful. Personally, I don’t even have a memory of taking off. I slept from the moment I sat down to the landing. We disembarked, passed through customs, and picked up a compact MG rental—our steed for the next few weeks. I would slowly learn this was one of those “smart” cars with all the fancy driver-assist electronics. I hate modern car assists, and this one proved no different. It didn’t take long before it—like a snake startles a horse on the trail—slammed on the brakes because it spotted another car on a side street. No risk at all, but it created a bigger one.
Irish roads are barely a single car’s width, so opposing traffic is a dance: both drivers slow and move as far over as possible, even two wheels off the pavement. The “smart” MG didn’t like this, taking over steering at times to keep us on road, heading for a head-on. Other times, while trying to pass slow-moving tractors, it wouldn’t let me cross the center line. Better to crash into the tractor than pass it, the car had decided. You can turn off these assists if you navigate the poorly coded menu on the dash, but UK law mandates all settings return to default ON at every restart. I so hate nanny-states. I digress.
Our first day consisted of driving south through and out of Dublin. Luckily I’d had practice driving on the left from New Zealand, so all went smoothly. Kerri barely had to make back-seat-driver corrections or grab the oh-shit handles. A few hours later we arrived at a bed and breakfast where we’d spend a couple nights before our house-sitting obligation.
Sightseeing after a night of rest was a drive into the mountains—a long, rainy drive, it being Ireland and all—to a forest trail Kerri had read about online. What better activity after completely destroying my legs, knees, and feet over the past week? I endured as best I could while it rained on us both. The forest trail was worth it, but there would be a price to pay. We drove down the other side of the mountain, passing through lush pasture lands with more sheep than can be imagined – not that we captured any in an image.
We arrived at the gig, met the owners, and got a tour. Yes, a tour was required. The “house” (which I intentionally hadn’t looked at photos of beforehand) was a huge multi-story rock and brick structure standing tall against deep green grass, berry bushes, and trees. It overlooked the River Barrow from the windows upstairs. Yes, I said stairs. The house was three stories tall but had rooms on every half-level, each with a flight to traverse. Eight bedrooms, three living rooms, two conservatories, three full bathrooms (that we found—I’m sure there were more), a large kitchen, and a dining room. Our bedroom was at the top floor. The kitchen and dining room—the only two rooms with WiFi—were at the bottom. This meant on any day, my now near-crippled knees would scale and descend every single step, both ways, at least twice. I had to bring Kerri coffee in bed in the mornings (husbandly duty), which she stopped after a week of husbandly tears.
Our stay wasn’t completely free—we’d be caring for a dog, two cats, two ducks, and a small flock of chickens. Honestly, that made it better. A daily routine of feedings, gathering eggs, and dog walks (twice a day) sounded perfect. But the most difficult part was the eggs. A pair of ducks and half a dozen chickens can inundate a couple under a mound of eggs within a week. We had no idea, so we weren’t preparing every meal with eggs from the get-go. Once we realized, it was already too late. We struggled to ever get below two dozen eggs on hand.
For the most part Kerri and I embraced the stationary life we rarely get. After a day-one grocery trip, we didn’t leave the house and surrounding route for a week or more. Eventually we took a weekend day to get out. Not far down the road sits the oldest working lighthouse in the world. Since it involved stairs to climb, Kerri wanted the tour. If you’re going to climb stairs, tour mode is the way—the group stops at each level while the guide tells you about this or that, giving the knees time to recover before the next flight. I couldn’t understand much of the guide’s talk; Irish accents throw my brain sideways. I get enough to answer basic questions, but not to grasp a historical lecture. Nevertheless, after 45 minutes, we emerged at the top level to a small viewing platform. The guide immediately, and without asking, grabbed Kerri’s phone and told us to stand near the edge for a photo. Kerri kept her distance from the edge, and awkward as it was, we got a rare photo of us both.
Another day, Kerri had more sights on the to-do list. First, an old railroad tunnel that could be hiked (but not biked—many a sign demanded dismounting). Every few yards inside was another arch, like a doorway into rock we mortals couldn’t pass. Each decorated by nature in its own unique way, each with its own story. I admit, it was quite cool. Then off to an ancient tomb—really just a large rock in a field that archaeologists somehow determined held folks buried a millennium ago. Other ruins. A beach. A historical nature walk. More ruins. Finally back to the old house for another week of work.
That Thursday night we drove half an hour to a pub Kerri really wanted to visit. Each week locals gather there to play Irish music while patrons drink thick, dark beer. This has gone on for hundreds of years (I made that up, but probably true), so we took part. Once again, cooler than I expected, especially when one local sang a couple songs in old Irish with the patrons joining in at times. Surreal, to say the least. Before we left we sat outside, at the smoking area, and conversed with numerous locals. Kerri learned the best way to socialize, is to smoke. Or at least hang with the smokers.
