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Ireland, County Galway. The hills of Connemara. Knockduff. I could be more specific if I wanted you to find the house that was built for me, and grand it is: white stone and round. Fat like a castle’s turret and covered in a slate roof, it is. Full to bursting by design and fuller still by its occupants is the house built by Ruairí MacEibhir. And truly, difficult to find if you don’t know the way and have never been shown.
‘Tis built half against the large mound of land that is Knockduff, surrounded by it’s own garden wall of carefully placed stones and overlooking a nice bit of field before you come to the sea. Galway Bay. In that field are a barn and a stable, horses (at times there may be four spirited stallions carrying about that no one seems to own) and my pride. My man. Ruairí raises the great beasts, trains them and teaches others to ride.
Outside is my husband’s realm and inside would be mine. Plaster walls, plain white paper with hand-painted detail (the work of Ruairí’s fine hand), hard wood floors and great wide windows. Of course with my brood, there are also piles of mending, scattered toys and books, bread always baking and a hearth always lit and warm. It is here that I spend my time, surrounded by children and those of the parish that need help be it with schooling, washing, feeding or things best left not put to paper lest some bloody English tyrant see fit to file report.
‘Tis built half against the large mound of land that is Knockduff, surrounded by it’s own garden wall of carefully placed stones and overlooking a nice bit of field before you come to the sea. Galway Bay. In that field are a barn and a stable, horses (at times there may be four spirited stallions carrying about that no one seems to own) and my pride. My man. Ruairí raises the great beasts, trains them and teaches others to ride.
Outside is my husband’s realm and inside would be mine. Plaster walls, plain white paper with hand-painted detail (the work of Ruairí’s fine hand), hard wood floors and great wide windows. Of course with my brood, there are also piles of mending, scattered toys and books, bread always baking and a hearth always lit and warm. It is here that I spend my time, surrounded by children and those of the parish that need help be it with schooling, washing, feeding or things best left not put to paper lest some bloody English tyrant see fit to file report.