In the little Avis Micra, fly set off from Dublin airport to find Mayo Abbey, somewhere in County Mayo. Google Maps had refused to acknowledge its existence, but fly is full of certainty, as some saint got there in 612 and set up an abbey. Read about it. Must be true. Richmond Residents’ sat nav however did get me to Balla (called Bael by the locals, I have been informed already) and luck did the rest. There were a couple of spats along the way with the sat nav, The Voice going silent and sulky when its directions were not slavishly followed - Fly occasionally got distracted. After a suitable silence, an exasperated “Recalculating”, and we were friends again.
One distraction was, at a pub lunch, (barmaid had been to Brisbane of course), a local parish map showing a nearby thirteenth century ruined castle and church, on the shores of the lough. Forty minute walk to check it out was the assurance. The gateway advised that this was private property, farming land, no responsibility taken, and beware of the bull. Fly was nonchalant. Flies can deal with bulls.
…. There was a slight altercation. Bull was sprawled across the walking track to the ruins, sitting chewing contentedly. I asked if he intended to remain thus, and his uninterested stare seemed to signify a yes. So fly decided on discretion and picked a way around (through the cow pats.) Ruins and nearby chapel observed and obsessively photographed¸ the trail back posed some challenges. Rain of course, but it is Ireland. Friendly trees helped there, and also afforded a toilet break. Then a stile – there were several, mostly stone ones, in the stone fences – but this one was a modern one, a metal ladder-like structure. It was firmly guarded by three un-hospitable cows, who simply would not budge. So fly had to climb a side wall into a sheep field. Sheep are much less stubborn, though more stupid, and a clutch of them readily moved away from a gate to let me through. Another field, this time full of cattle. I am well off the designated circuit to the ruins by now. Finally a lowering in the stone wall offered escape, and on the other side – a cemetery, very old. What else? With another ruined chapel.
Eventually got back to the Micra, and found The Voice quite comforting.
The Hayloft is super. I am full of contentment. Sitting at the table writing this, I look to my right and through the four-light timbered windows I see very fat turkeys, chickens, ducks and pigs. The turkeys are gobbling contentedly – they have a long term future – Christmas. The pigs go to market tomorrow. The chickens are so grateful they can lay eggs.
The hosts are an English couple who came here three years ago. An “Irish-change” I suppose, like our “tree-change” or “sea-change” cultures. They have converted the derelict hay loft of Plough House Farm into a wonderful cosy refuge. The walls are bagged stone, about two feet thick (at least, that’s how deep the window casement is). But all appointments are very convenient and comfortable. As a bonus, the TV is tuned to BBC 1 and BBC 2, (courtesy of a satellite dish), and the radio can access BBC Classic FM. I might just sit here for a week and not go anywhere.
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