After twenty months here in Spain, we have made the decision to move to a farmhouse in rural Ireland. When we departed from Germany/Luxembourg, it was done in haste and we had barely any time to accept what had befallen us.
Late last year, we found a buyer for our house in Saarburg,
and decided to use the money to invest in a property here in the Valencian
Community. But following the ravaging storms of November and a litany of unfortunate
events, it became evident that this was not the place for us. This was
confirmed by Livia’s struggles to adapt to the classes; the main reason for our
need to move in the first place.
So we decided to review the list of countries that we had
drawn up that we would both be willing to move to (my list was longer than
Bonny Bee’s!), and of course there was only one that we shared: Ireland.
In early December, I made some appointments to view houses
in parts of the country that seemed attractive, and we took a trip by plane to
Dublin a week before Christmas. We figured that if we liked the place in
midwinter, we would certainly like it in summer.
It was an enchantment: so much so, that even five months later,
the children keep asking when we’re going to Ireland. We drove across to the
west coast and back again looking at various properties. One of them was a
lovely little house nestled in a valley surrounded by lush, green forest in a village
called Cloone. The neighbour, a farmer called Frank, came by and explained
about the history of the place. It was a grey Sunday afternoon with scattered
rainclouds, but that didn’t deter us.
Frank almost convinced me to buy the place, especially as it
was so cheap. The agent had said that everyone who had come to see the property
had taken one look at it and driven on, which I thought was harsh, but we kind
of liked it. So I said goodbye to Farmer Frank and more or less told him that
we would see him in a few months.
That would turn out to be a lie.
I checked on my phone for somewhere to go and eat lunch and
one of the places was a lovely pub in Dromod, a small town about 15
minutes’ drive away. When we walked in, the atmosphere was very Christmassy and
the menu short but very appealing. The lady of the house came over to us and
asked us what we wanted to eat. She also asked what brought us to Dromod. I
told her we were looking for a house to buy.
“Oh really?” she replied, “My husband’s a property
auctioneer and he’s just over there. Let me get him; just a moment.” Bonny Bee
and I both had a feeling that we were supposed to be here, in this place, at
this moment, and about two minutes later, a jolly man who had obviously had a
long, happy and peaceful life surrounded by his friends and family, came over
and introduced himself.
“Hello there, Adrian speaking,” he said, with a smile that
contained a hundred kindnesses and an eye twinkling in a manner that I have
never seen before, “I hear you’re looking for a house in the area. If you tell
me your criteria, I’ll see what I can do.”
So I told him we were looking for a house to buy within our
budget that wasn’t too badly neglected. We were hoping to buy a house in cash
with the proceeds of our previous one, and we were willing to make concessions
regarding the state, as long as there was the potential. He shot me a
penetrating glance that radiated reassurance, and promised to return in a few
minutes.
When he came back, he handed me a brochure of a house not
far from Cloone and just a handful of kilometres from a well-equipped town called Ballinamore.
“Four bedrooms, an acre of land, top of a hill surrounded by
forests, lakes and grazing pastures.”
I looked at it and realised I had actually made enquiries
about this very place. So I asked him: “Did you get a call from someone in
Valencia a few weeks ago?”
“Yes, yes I did. We spoke about the big storm you were
having,” he replied.
And it was at that moment I knew we had to go and take a
look at that place. I told him we had seen a house in Cloone that would be our
preferred choice, but we were happy to take a look.
“Stay there, I’ll call the owner now. There are still a
couple of hours of daylight left.” We had a huge drive ahead of us to a place
called Bohola in Mayo, but we felt we had to do this. “Yes, he’s there, you can
go over any time after you’ve finished your lunch. We’re having a charity event
this evening, so I have to go and get prepared now, but let me know in the
morning what you thought.”
We thanked him. I asked his wife what the charity event was –
it was to raise money for a local care home. I slipped a twenty in the bucket
and we left to take a look at this place.
It was down a narrow lane past some rather grand houses and
through a forested area. When we came out the other side, it was like we had
passed through some Tolkien-esque portal and found ourselves on the top of the
world, closer to the heavens and a mere raised hand to reach the clouds.
The current owner, Emmet, a man from the East of England,
was there to greet us. A softly-spoken fellow with a German wife called
Bettina, he shook our hands and invited us in. They lived in the caravan parked
out the back while they were renovating the interior, not because it was
uninhabitable, but because under Irish law, if you don’t occupy the house, you can
apply for up to 70,000 euro of subsidies.
They were selling up after only two years not because they wanted
to, but because Bettina’s health was deteriorating and they needed to live nearer
to a specialised clinic that could help her. It was truly out of the way, but
it had a charm that drew us in. Emmet showed us around and told us a lot about
what was wrong as well as the good stuff, which was refreshingly honest.
I took a few photos to remember it and discuss it with Bonny
Bee later on in Bohola when the kids were asleep. I told Emmet we had seen a house
in Cloone that we were going to pursue, but if that doesn’t work out, we would
be in touch. He thanked me for my honesty. I also called Adrian and told him –
he thanked me too, and we left for the west and that was that.
Or was it?
That night, after a dram of the finest whiskey I had ever
drunk in a splendid ancient inn, I had an epiphany. That house near Ballinamore just
wouldn’t leave my mind. It was more expensive than the one in Cloone next to
Farmer Frank, but it just seemed to have slightly more potential. There was no
kitchen, no bathroom, and the windows were very drafty, but all the things we
could do with it were so tantalising.
So we drove over a hundred kilometres back to Ballinamore to take
another look. We just hoped Emmet was at home when we arrived because we didn’t
have his number. The skies were clearer and the wind was more clement, and the
whole wacky operation seemed like the best thing to do at the time.
He was pretty surprised to see us, to say the least. We got
out and told him that we were unable to stop thinking about the place. He was
definitely excited about that. Bettina was there and she had a broad smile on
her face despite the obvious pain.
We asked more in-depth questions and went through everything from the electrics to the water supply, from the septic tank to the rafters below the roof. We understood the house needed some TLC, but we were prepared to give it what it required. Outside, Emmet told us, there are hares, deer, pine martens, hedgehogs, brown squirrels and sheep. There is so much space on the land that we can more or less do with it anything we want.
After a good hour and a half, possibly two hours with a great deal of wandering round getting a feel for the place, and having consulted the children who gave it a massive thumbs-up, we resolved to buy the place. Emmet and Bettina were delirious. In my mind's eye, I pictured the pond, the tree house, the huge boulder, the grove, the herb garden, the roses, the lupins, hollyhocks and syringa that I'm going to pepper the place with.
Then they told us a story: a few months
earlier, they had the house virtually sold to an American lady from New York.
One of those with spurious Irish ancestry, you get the gist. She had paid the
deposit and was about to leave, when she realised she didn’t have a driving
licence and the nearest bus stop was two kilometres away. So she pulled out,
and that turned their lives sour. They were feeling despondent. Well they could
now look forward to providing Bettina with the help she needed and move to a
more convenient location.
I called Adrian.
“Hi, guess where I am right now…”
“Oh I don’t know, Bohola, wasn’t it?” he replied.
“Nope, I’m standing next to Emmet and we have decided to buy
the house in Ballinamore.”
You could visualise the level of relief on the phone as I
told him that. He was also pretty surprised. We went back to the inn for lunch
again and the children got ice cream on the house. There was a celebratory air
after the gala evening the night before and the confirmation of the sale of the
house. Adrian took all my details and resolved to get cracking on the sale.
He took me by the hand and announced in a merry yet meaningful
manner: “Raymond, congratulations on buying a picture-perfect parcel of land in
the green and lovely county of Leitrim. Welcome to the community!”
We were home.
Driving back to Dublin, things just felt right: we had
planned to move on our own terms this time. This was going to be the point
where we could put our lives back on track.
The next thing was to seek a school with amenities for Livia.
Just four kilometres away, there’s a school so I called and spoke firstly to
the deputy head and then the head. The head told me that the school had several
members of staff and a dedicated class for children with Special Educational
Needs. The application was so straightforward: a two-page questionnaire and a
few other details, then finished. This is in blatant contrast to the
administrative psycho-drama I had getting the kids in our preferred school here
in Valencia.
So now, the next thing is getting us there…
At some point near the end of June, we will leave our apartment of 20 months and head
to France for a week to decompress. After that, we will
arrive in Dublin to begin the next chapter.
