Rory Fitzgerald
It was a moment of madness. Just as Storm Jorge charged towards the Irish coast, I spontaneously booked a holiday cottage perched just yards from the West Cork coastline. I felt the whole family needed a getaway, after a remarkably busy few weeks, and since our Christmas holidays were marred by one of the kids having to spend most of that break in hospital.
As we drove westwards on the Friday afternoon, our car was buffeted by severe gusts, while torrential rain blurred the windscreen, overwhelming the wipers. A news bulletin on radio warned us to “stay away from coasts”. The kids burst out laughing upon hearing this, knowing where we were going.
Upon arrival, we followed the cottage’s owner’s battered old jeep down a precipitously steep gravel track, as rain continued to bucket down from a glowering sky. Our first glimpse of the cottage was of its roof romantically situated a hundred feet below us, perched on the very edge of a little harbour. After a hair-raising ride down the track, we rushed inside to its warm sanctuary, and looked out in amazement at the waves crashing on to the rocks below. The kids quickly disappeared into the interior to explore each nook, and to commence the inevitable arguments over who should have which bed. With a knowing smile, the cottage’s owner complimented me on my bravery, before handing over the key.
Before darkness fell, we managed to scramble across the stream and down to the shingle beach below, ignoring the rain in our excitement. The silhouettes of the cliffs towered above us on each side, and the beacon shone across the tumultuous harbour, through the murk. As night enveloped us, we returned to the shelter of the cottage to stoke up the fire. Before, long it was glowing warmly, drying out our wet shoes and coats.
We played games, talked and laughed, leaving the kids stay up later than usual, as a holiday treat. Eventually, they were persuaded to sleep. The next morning I was awoken at 7 am by them rushing in excitedly shouting, “There are dolphins!” To add to their excitement, it then began to snow – as a little aperitif before the storm hit later that day. We made the most of it, and soon the kids had improvised a sledge and were flying down.
The scene around the cottage was immense. It was nature at once gentle and rugged. Our stone cottage was the last remnant of an abandoned village, and it was easy to imagine the little harbour full of life, as it had been in the past. The churchyard by the shore told the tragic tale of the village’s abandonment, evidenced by hundreds of tiny rough-hewn grave stones – a tangible legacy of the famine – which had devastated this part of West Cork with particularly cruelty.
Despite its sorrowful history, the place elated the children, who were free to run to the shore to skim stones and to go fishing. They declared a firm desire to move to the little cottage. I tended to agree with them, for the magic and beauty of such places brings real happiness. After a couple of days spent on that quiet shore together, sharing our wonderment at the sea, the storm and the stars, we carried some of that happiness back home with us too.