The house with the big brown gate

This time last year a line from a Lois Lowry novel ran around my head. “It wasn’t the same. I’m pretty good at making the best of things, but it wasn’t the same”.

My family and I had fallen out of love with Dublin. But rather than wallowing in grief or bitterness, we decided to up stakes and move. North Wexford would be our Nirvana, Gorey our Big Smoke.

Making new memories is our goal. It was Wilde who said that memory is the diary we all carry about with us. Memories sustain and we have two in particular that bear retelling.

It was a Saturday afternoon last November. A rotten dark rain fell and blew for the day. My wife and daughter braved a trip to Dublin. My son slept the good mid-teen sleep.

From our front window we can see two wind turbines. This Saturday these beasts were being almost whisked off their perches. I had to get up there to see them. I drove and barely made it through the rain. I parked halfway up the hill. I could hardly see a thing with the downpour.

The path to the turbines was blocked by a jeep and trailer. The jeep owner appeared through the squall like Captain Ahab. I asked him if my car was blocking his path home.

“Not at all. But could you come up here and stand this side of the trailer”.

Standing my ground

I was a little puzzled. I thought he maybe didn’t want to hit me blindside when he reversed. I could hear the turbines blowing on the hill. A big churning sound like two Boeing ostrich engines, always flapping, never to fly.

It was at that moment I saw a pack of sheep charging down the hill. A flock of sheep is the collective noun of course, but the woolly dudes were mean.

Mr Jeep muttered: “You just block any of them that try to pass”.

The sight of sheep grazing in a distant meadow gladdens the heart. They’re less dreamy when they are careering towards you. They looked like 20 or so four-legged prop forwards. I was in their way. I asked Mr Jeep about two particularly wild-eyed creatures leading the charge.

“Who are the white-headed fellas?”

“Ah, they’re the rams. No bother”. I nervously stood my ground. None passed on my watch.

They were hustled in and Mr Jeep thanked me. I was about to step up the hill when Mr Jeep said: “You’ve just moved into the house with the big brown gate. I recognised the car reg. You’ll love it down here.”

He knew more about me than he let on. I probably told him more than I should. We shook hands and went our ways.

Moving into early March and the hedges were beginning to fill and the hills were turning greener. From where we live we can take two scenic walks. When COVID kicked in, the walks became a godsend.

Two walks, one to a farm, one to a crossroads, both well within the then prescribed 5k limit.

Every walk was different, the roadside flowers waking, blooming and perfuming the air. We met a few more of the neighbours at a social distance, we got some exercise and, best of all, we put the world to rights.

A lingering moment

It was on one of these walks that we had another moment that lingers. It was a Friday evening on our way back from the farm. The cattle were being fed and off in the distance we could hear the drone of a distant tractor. This was right in the middle of lockdown and I thought, no pints for the ploughman. The tractor driver was probably teetotal and there was no ploughing at this time of the year, but it was still a melancholic thought.

As I mused on it, two little dogs ran up to us, little pooches. I couldn’t tell you the breed but they were hunters. My wife is not keen on dogs so I drew them to me and played with them. We heard a voice from further up the boreen, “Don’t worry, they’re grand”. And as their owner approached, I could see he had a big black shotgun behind his neck and shoulders. The butt of this thing would cost you a few teeth but we weren’t alarmed.

He came up and stood beside us, socially distant of course. I told him we had moved down a few months ago – “there at the bottom of the hill”. He said: “The big brown gate.”

When I asked how the hunting had gone, he swung the barrel of the gun around, and tied to it were his prey; three browny-grey rabbits. They flopped about, they were probably still warm. “Would you eat them yourself?” I enquired.

“No, they’re for the dogs,” and his little hunters jumped around at the sight of them.

Right at that moment, a car seemed to materialise from nowhere and a blond woman stuck her head out the window. “Will you throw one of them at my door, we love them.” And off she drove. We small-talked a few moments.

“Redmond is my name. And it’s a double-barrelled shotgun”. Back up in Dublin I’d have chewed the pavement if someone had produced a cap gun but this was almost a non-moment.

In happy golden days I would have shaken Mr Redmond’s hand, but social distance again prevailed. I didn’t think an elbow bump quite fitted the mood as I would have been staring at both barrels.

So we said our goodbyes to Mr Redmond, the dogs and the three bunnies. As we walked on we agreed that this new life of ours is the best life. The sky is our canopy, the seasons are our colours and nature frames our days and nights. Isolation was never so splendid.