Tales of Ireland
April 17th 2008 21:37
Farm after boring farm left me thinking – Ireland sure ain’t all it’s cracked up to be!
Finally reaching County Mayo, which is located in the West of Southern Ireland, my view instantly changed… quite literally. We were to visit Newport which is a quiet little village watched over by a large church on a hilltop. The road coming in winds with the curves of a gently bubbling stream, opening up as it flows through a series of arches that form the bridge connecting one part of the village to the other. A few twists and turns and we were driving next to an embankment which lined the road, hiding the view on the other side, a row of small houses lining the other.
Driving through a narrow stone archway was like stepping through a portal into another world. The tarred road melted into sloshy, rain-soaked tracks which led to a tight gathering of rustic farm houses. Outside ours a stone barn stood, weathered by the breath of time, the tractor standing proud beside the walls, splatters of mud sprayed along its side from a day spent hard at work in the fields. The farmer stood in the doorway, his faithful dogs at his side, jeans tucked into his wellies and large coat billowing around him like a storm cloud. With a firm shake of the hand, a nod of the head and a whistle to the dogs, he was back in his tractor and puttering his way out to feed the cows.
The small front room was just big enough for us to squeeze into, the lounge suite looking as old as the house itself - anything different and it would have looked out of place in the humble surroundings. The sweet smell of grass filled the air, mixed with the faint aroma from last nights fire, whose ashes still lay in the open fireplace. Overhead a single, naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a yellow light across the room. The heat from the range* warmed the house, the blast of chilly air that rushed in when we arrived swallowed up. Above it, clothes hung drying in the warm air and a large kettle warmed on one of the hot plates. Soon steaming mugs of tea were passed around, the water collected from the stream that gurgled down from a nearby mountain and sweeter than any I have ever tasted. Stories of yesteryear began to flow and dusty albums housing ancient photos were opened and spilled the tales of generations long ago buried in the land they toiled so hard over.
Dinner was a simple dish of whole boiled potatoes with creamy Irish butter melting into their flesh, juicy lamb bred and culled on the property and thick chunks of onion and mushroom on the side. More steaming tea was poured and after dinner slices of Barmbrack, a sweet bread with currants, suddenly appeared on the table. The house creaked and sighed as the water heated in the pipes and at one point the rosy cheeked farmers wife said, ‘Aye ya be listenin’ to tha thunda in me house now!’. It had been a long day after an early morning flight and the long drive across country from Belfast, so with tummies full and content it was time to slip into the land of nod.
Driving through a narrow stone archway was like stepping through a portal into another world. The tarred road melted into sloshy, rain-soaked tracks which led to a tight gathering of rustic farm houses. Outside ours a stone barn stood, weathered by the breath of time, the tractor standing proud beside the walls, splatters of mud sprayed along its side from a day spent hard at work in the fields. The farmer stood in the doorway, his faithful dogs at his side, jeans tucked into his wellies and large coat billowing around him like a storm cloud. With a firm shake of the hand, a nod of the head and a whistle to the dogs, he was back in his tractor and puttering his way out to feed the cows.
The small front room was just big enough for us to squeeze into, the lounge suite looking as old as the house itself - anything different and it would have looked out of place in the humble surroundings. The sweet smell of grass filled the air, mixed with the faint aroma from last nights fire, whose ashes still lay in the open fireplace. Overhead a single, naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a yellow light across the room. The heat from the range* warmed the house, the blast of chilly air that rushed in when we arrived swallowed up. Above it, clothes hung drying in the warm air and a large kettle warmed on one of the hot plates. Soon steaming mugs of tea were passed around, the water collected from the stream that gurgled down from a nearby mountain and sweeter than any I have ever tasted. Stories of yesteryear began to flow and dusty albums housing ancient photos were opened and spilled the tales of generations long ago buried in the land they toiled so hard over.
Dinner was a simple dish of whole boiled potatoes with creamy Irish butter melting into their flesh, juicy lamb bred and culled on the property and thick chunks of onion and mushroom on the side. More steaming tea was poured and after dinner slices of Barmbrack, a sweet bread with currants, suddenly appeared on the table. The house creaked and sighed as the water heated in the pipes and at one point the rosy cheeked farmers wife said, ‘Aye ya be listenin’ to tha thunda in me house now!’. It had been a long day after an early morning flight and the long drive across country from Belfast, so with tummies full and content it was time to slip into the land of nod.
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