Back to basics in my Connemara hideaway
ONE of the nice things of being one’s own boss is that we are in control of when we take time off. The drawback is that most self-employed people are so engrossed in their work, they find it hard to take a break. There is always something to be done and unless you have someone really dependable to leave in charge, being absent for two weeks can be more trouble than it is worth.
Many farmers get bored after about seven days anyway and are delighted when it is time to return home. The best solution I find is to enjoy a few mini-breaks, of maybe three or four days duration here in Ireland, ideally near the sea.
This has many advantages, the best one being you avoid airports. I read a wonderful piece on flying recently which stated “Being processed through any large airport has all the warmth and efficiency of a modern industrial abattoir. Shuffling along in an endless snake-shaped queue is like sides of beef moving slowly down the production chain”.
I couldn’t agree more and with that in mind I loaded up the car and headed west to lovely Connemara. It was raining when I left home and joining the motorway at Kilcock, I was in Galway in less than two hours.
Having negotiated the roundabouts on the Clifden road, I stopped for a break at Brigit’s Garden in Roscahill (inset). This is a delightful spot and not only is the food good but the gardens themselves are enough to make you linger for a few hours. I had been there many times before so I pressed on as far as Maam Cross and turned right.
From here on my destination has to remain a secret as it is too nice a spot to share. Suffice to say it was a small and very old stone cottage, close to a beach with white sands and a few islands dotted around a gently curving bay.
As I arrived the clouds parted and sunlight and shadows skidded across the mountains that towered in the background in that constantly changing mix of light and cloud that is unique to the West of Ireland.
While walking along the road to the beach, I passed small groups of black faced ewes with their lambs. Nearby, a few suckler cows and calves lay contentedly on a small grassy promontory that looked out across the bay.
At that point I realised there was nowhere else on the planet I would rather be. No hotels, pubs, cafes, ice cream stalls or shops. Just mountains, sea and sand with the only sound the gentle swish of the waves as they rolled to the shore.
Back in the cottage there was of course no TV and I almost wished I had to pump water by hand rather than have it from a tap. An old and battered radio sat on a windowsill but happily it didn’t work. It might have but I couldn’t figure out how to properly adjust the safety pin that acted as the aerial. But then who needs music when you have superb scenery, a good book and the sound of wind and waves.
The next morning a mist had descended obscuring the mountain tops and a gentle but persistent western rain was falling steadily. I lit the stove and settled down to read What the Curlew Said, John Moriarty’s sequel to Nostos