The Irish Country Cottage

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While we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy. My name's Thomas. Thank you so much for being here. Tonight, as our Irish themed week of stories continues,

I'll be reading to you. We'll be making a soothing journey from a village in the Irish countryside to a cozy and inviting cottage, nestled among rolling green hills.

“Thank you to Lisa for writing this lovely tale,”

her first to feature on Get Sleepy.

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Now, before we hear our story, let's take a moment to get comfortable and ready for rest. Whatever kind of day you've had, now is the time to let go.

And give yourself permission to switch off. Let's bring awareness to our breath, inhaling deeply, and exhaling slowly. This sends a signal to your mind and body

that it's time to rest. Drawing in a deep breath, filling your lungs with air, hold it for just a moment, and then slowly exhale.

If you like, take a couple more of those so deep breaths, exhaling steadily each time. And then allow the natural flow of your breath to take over.

As you go deeper into a state of relaxation. Now, cruise your eyes, and as your mind clears, imagine the scene where our story takes place.

See the old stone houses,

some with that strufs,

“and brightly painted doors and window frames.”

It is springtime in this village, and despite the lateness of the hour, the sun still bathes the buildings in a warm glow. Throughout most of the troubled streets, it is quiet and peaceful.

On the main street, the shops are closed after a busy day. But from one doorway,

the sound spell out into the clear air.

This is the old village pub, where laughter and friendly conversation can be heard. It is in this pub, where our story begins. In this pub,

the on-chair in which you are sitting, is plush and comfortable. It is probably set by the fire side

“in this quaint village pub for many, many years.”

Just like the faded books on the shelves,

which are covered with a light layer of dust. The rich, PT's smell of the fire, and the scent of the moat barley from behind the bar, drift into your awareness. The sounds of warm,

companionable conversation surround you. And somewhere, a horse hair bow brushes lightly against a fiddle, teasing a tune, yet to be played. It is getting late,

“and although you could spend hours more by the cozy fire side,”

you will soon have a fire of your own at home, which you are very much looking forward to. Stepping onto the cupboard stone of the village square, you breathe in the clear air of a spring evening, and the promises it holds for the lush green seasons ahead.

Behind you, the music and sounds of good cheer, tumble out onto the streets in a gentle load. The tin whistle, the fiddle,

and the rhythmic drumming of the barren, make good companions, as they weave together, creating a tune that fades as you walk. The village is old,

stone walls and fouched roofs can be seen poking out at intervals, among the more modern buildings. Most of the homes in the village square are cottages, lovingly maintained and restored across the years.

Their doors are painted of a variety of bright and welcoming colours, reds, greens, blues and yellows. Window boxes spill over with spring blooms, cinnieths, geraniums and nastarships. Their bright shades are another dash of colour to the scene.

Here and there,

and the lamp posts surrounding the village square.

Although the setting sun promises at least another half an hour of light, there are few cars here in the village. Most visitors opt to travel in and out by foot, or by bike. You collect your own bicycle from where you left it, near a cast iron handwater pump in the square.

The hand pump has weathered over a hundred years in this very place, and for generations past, it provided village residents with water from the well below. Even now,

it serves as a meeting place of sorts,

where villages gather to share news, and discuss the latest happenings.

“It's important as a social hub in the village,”

it's reflected in the fresh coat of glossy black paint, that has been carefully applied, allowing it to weather the coming years. As you collect your bicycle, you admire the pump,

thinking with appreciation of the care and attention required

to maintain historical items,

so that future generations can enjoy them too. Although it is not quite as antiquated, the pump reminds you of your own bicycle. It is a beautiful old thing, sturdy handlebars,

a newly oiled chain, and a fresh coat of green paint, have staved off any rusting, and given it a new lease of life. You wonder to yourself,

“how many times this bicycle has made the journey to and fro,”

from the cottage down to the village. There is a woven wicker basket, affixed to the handlebars, and it is here that you place your purchases for their day. You only intended to stay in town for a short while,

but to have so much to see and do, and so many pleasant faces, you found yourself delightfully distracted. Now though, it is time to head home,

and settle in for an evening of relaxation. The spring air is so pleasant,

“and the light still spinning out over the lush green hills,”

is so beautiful, that you decide to take your time and walk. Wheeling your bicycle alongside you, you listen to the rhythmic, click, click, click, click of the chain,

as you leave the village, crossing the old stone bridge. Beneath, you can hear the steady flow of the river, as it trickles down to the ocean. You wonder what flora and fauna might be found there,

just below you at this time of year. Tadpole is perhaps, or froglets, and the patches of blue bowels that spring up year after year, along the river bank.

Perhaps, tomorrow, you will take a stroll along the banks of the river, and see for yourself. The cobbled path beneath your feet,

stones scattered here and there.

On either side, the path is lined with head screws.

“There is a narrow strip of grass running down the centre,”

left mostly untouched and untrodden, by countless wheels, feet and hooves, of decades passed. The bushes and plants of the hetero come alive at this time of year. They form their own little ecosystem,

a world of plants, insects and animals,

thriving in abundance, hidden just out of sight. There are rich green leaves and grasses for small animals to hide within, darting in and out.

“They create their own unseen system of tunnels,”

allowing them to move safely from place to place. Raspberry bushes bear ample amounts of fruit. In just a few weeks' time,

they will hang low with the weight of succulent, delicious berries.

For now they, like all good things, they must be given time to grow. Your bicycle clicks along beside you. It's noise alerting a rabbit up ahead. You just about see her as she darts into the head tree

with a flash of her cotton tail.

“You know that she is probably returning below ground to her warn.”

Where no doubt she has a nest of baby kits snuggled together, waiting for her return and a good feed. In a matter of days or weeks, they too will leave the nest, and venture out into the world themselves.

But for now they are small, vulnerable, and tucked away safe and sound. In some areas, the head tree gives way to ancient stone walls, which line the boundaries of the fields surrounding the village. As she walk, you admire the mastery and dedication

in the construction of these walls, which have withstood many years of weather and history. Small stones make up the base, with broader flatter stones stacked on top. To look upon any section of the wall,

is to see a tail unfold before you. The thought and logic applied to the placement of each stone. You notice parts of the wall that perhaps were repaired due to a storm or an adventurous animal. Here and there, an odd-sized stone will interrupt any perceivable pattern,

making no two pieces of war the same. But together, they create a balanced boundary that defines the landscape in this beautiful ancient part of the world. Every so often, the road is punctuated with gates, leading up to cottages and homes.

Many of them farm houses. You pass one gate that leads to a grand old home,

and a barn big enough to house a great number of cows.

“But the weather is pleasant and calm today,”

and the cows are not in their barn. Instead, they adopt the landscape in the fields surrounding the farm. Their blackened white patches are a stark contrast to the lush green of the grass that they chew, slowly and contentedly.

Close to the edge of the field. You notice a cow grazing steadily.

As you get closer, she slowly raises her head,

a wide, beautiful eyes taking you in. She swishes her tail, and returns to grazing.

“Beneath her legs, you see another creature,”

a calf, no more than a month old. It watches you from the safety of its mother's protection, eyes wide and curious. You smile as you walk past, reminded of all the exciting new beginnings that come with spring.

As you draw closer to your destination,

you crest a hill, and a treat it to a beautiful sight. Not far off in the distance, the fading light of day illuminates the ocean. From here, it looks settled, peaceful.

“The lighthouse stands reserved and white,”

a beacon against the landscape around it, even before it lights up. Over the breeze, you smile the unmistakable salt of the sea. And if you listen closely, you can hear the gentle crash of waves as they hit the beach.

You close your eyes and picture them, like a ripple of blue and white silk, folding over and over upon the sand. Turning away from the main road, you take a narrow path,

bordered on each side by wild flowers. This is the way to your cottage, and though you are glad you took the time to walk, you have certainly worked up an appetite. In the wicker basket on the front of your bicycle,

there are some treats you bought in the village. You look forward to enjoying them with pleasant anticipation. For a moment's later, you arrive at the cottage. It is a small, cozy place, with white washed stone walls,

and a thutched roof, that has been repaired, time and time again, securing this sanctuary against all manner of weather. The window frames and the door are painted a deep green, in harmony with the lush, verdant fields around you.

There is a small lean too shed adjacent to the cottage, and this is where you store your bike away. Then, you turn to take in the scenery. The sun is setting across the countryside,

Dot it here and there among the rolling hills and fields.

You can see the lights twinkling in some homes. Everywhere, people just like you are settling down to enjoy this spring evening. You notice at this moment that your feet are a little weary. The walk was so pleasant that you didn't realise until now,

just how tired you are. You are longing to relax indoors.

“First, however, there is something you must do.”

In the shed, the sweet scent of hay, out and barley fills your senses.

You take a sturdy bucket and fill it with a few scoops of sweet smelling beet pulp freshly soaked from the night before. Out by the fence, you hear a familiar whiny. Someone is very pleased to see you. In the twilight, a sleek grey mare comes trotting towards you.

Her head and tail held high. Behind her, the foal moves clumsy with its long legs and curious eyes. The mare is beautiful.

“Her coat gleams and she tucks into her dinner with enthusiasm.”

Running your hand along her strong neck, you pat her,

and she snorts into her feet. As her foal approaches, you bend down to reach him. His warm muscle presses against your ear, and you smile as it softly tickles your skin. When she is finished, the mare looks at you with her pleasant eyes,

and turns slowly. She leads her foal to the upper reaches of the paddock,

“where they will spend the night dosing together on a soft bed of clover.”

With your work complete, you can enter the cottage, and begin an evening of relaxation. You look to the horizon and the setting sun. It has been a long, seasonably warm day, and the pink and orange glow of the sun as it melts into their distance,

promises more good weather to mare. The door to the cottage has a warm brass handle, brushed by the hands of many friends, visitors, and family members alike. Creaking open the door.

You see that all is as you left it. The door opens out onto a sitting room, with a large stone half. A ranged around the room are shelves, filled with books, empty bottles, and various knickknacks from years gone by.

There is a conch from the nearby beach, an old brass telescope, and frames filled with faded portraits, and pressed wild flowers.

a table, and a large plush armchair,

“with a patchwork blanket draped over one side,”

are waiting for you. There is someone else waiting for you too. From her patch on the chair, a black and white cat, blinks slowly up to you in greeting,

and mues softly, pairing her welcome. You waste no time in taking off your shoes,

and putting on a pair of thick woolen socks.

The flag stone floor might otherwise be a little cold, if it were not for these socks, and the thick antique rugs, which cover much of the cottage floor.

“Off to one side, there is a doorway with a cartoon pulled back.”

In here is your bedroom, with its soft, comfortable bed, beside a window. In the back of the cottage, there is a small kitchen,

with copper pots and pans hanging from the walls and ceiling.

It is into the kitchen that you go now, eager for your supper. You fill a large iron tea kettle with water, and set it to boil on the range. In a few minutes,

it will whistle a tune to let you know it is ready. In the meantime,

“you busy yourself with preparing a tray for supper.”

From your shopping bag, you remove a thick loaf of brown soda bread, nutty, stone ground, and baked fresh that morning by the village baker. The aroma when you open the bag is delectable,

and you cut two thick sizes, covering them with creamy Irish butter. Cheesecloth, you unwrap a small wedge of cheese, made locally too. It is rich and masterfully created by a cheesemonger,

who has learned her craft from generations before her. Behind you, the whistle of the tea kettle is that the water is boiled, so you remove it from the heat.

You turn your attention now to a shelf with a wide variety of jars. From far and wide, a range of tea leaves and herbal blends has been assembled. Lavender, Earl Grey,

Japanese citrus, Roy Boss, peach and honey, and of course Irish breakfast. There is a tea to suit just about any mood or any occasion.

You select a jar that you think will complement the evening very well. The label reads "soft slumber". As you open the jar, you smell the delicate fragrance of jasmine, combined with Valerian and Lavender.

You prepare your drink in a beautiful ornate tea pot. The side is hand painted with intertwined images of local wildlife and flowers.

and you patch all of these on the tray with your food.

Returning to the sitting room,

“you decide that there is one more thing you must do”

before setting down for a relaxing evening. Although the air is not too cool and a blanket would suffice. The cozy warm glow of a fire is an opportunity you cannot pass up.

Say,

you set your tray on the small table beside the amcha

and get to work preparing your fire. There is a stack of turf beside the old stone half and you place a few brackets within.

“It doesn't take long before the fire is lit.”

Dancing frames burn off stray bits of plant matter on the peat before settling down, creating a deep, lasting warmth. The earthy smell of the burning peat

that you have always associated with positive memories.

Memories of comfort, warmth and time spent gathered around a fire with loved ones. Perhaps telling a story or two. For now though, you are content to sink back in the amcha and enjoy your supper as you watch the flames dance before you.

“It seems that the cat is also keen to enjoy the fire.”

She sits with her back straight and her tail called neatly around herself, watching intently. When you have finished your food, you return your tray to the kitchen

and take out a large brass basin. The cat will still partially fill with warm water. So you use it to fill the basin halfway, taking care as you return it to the living room and place it in front of the amcha.

From one of the many bookshows, you select a familiar book, Irish myths and legends. It is a large tomb, bounding green with gold and writing.

A freed gold bookmark has kept the page for countless readers over the years. There is a small chest on one of the shelves. A key sits in its lock. Turning it, you hear a satisfying click.

You open the chest to reveal a number of small vials and jars. Each containing some precious oil or substance. The smells combine to create an alluring scent that stares your senses.

From the chest, you retrieve a bottle of bath soap and a small vial of pure lavender oil. Into the basin, you are discattering of the suns

and just three drops of oil. Enough to fill the room with the calming, soothing fragrance of lavender.

into the warmth of the foot bath

and breathe deeply feeling waves of calm, wash over you. Then, you open your book and begin to read.

“The stories inside are all familiar to you”

and beloved. There is a comfort in returning to inhabit their world time after time. The page opens to the story

of the children of fear, a favorite of yours and you read contentedly

in the soft light of the fire.

When you reach the end of the story, you look up to see the cat stretched out in front of the fireplace. She catches your eye and then,

your name, she rises to her feet stretching out her whole body from head to toe. Perhaps it is time for bed, you think.

You remove your feet from the basin,

“trying them carefully with a soft linen towel.”

Then, you empty the basin

and place a guard in front of the fire, which is already dying down to soft glowing embers. You step into the bedroom in a cottageous, small as this.

This room, too, has felt to the benefits of the fire. You decide to open the window slightly and push one of the panes a jar. Out in the Irish countryside,

the stars twinkle above and the lights of homes twinkle below as though to mirror one another. In the distance,

you can hear the sound of the waves breaking on the shore. There are other sounds, too.

“An owl hoots from the not too distant wood”

and a gentle wind rustles the long grass. You change into comfortable pajamas and slip into the inviting bed. It's plush pillows and blankets enveloping you.

The sheets are soft and cool. And the fragrance of your lavender footpath still lingers. You have left the curtain between the sitting room and the bedroom,

drawn open. And you can see the fire as it glues in the great. Your eyelids grow heavy. As they surrender to sleep.

Beginning to drift off, you think of all the wonderful things you were able to appreciate today. And wonder what you might decide to enjoy tomorrow. Perhaps you will take a bicycle ride

down to the beach and collect some shells. Perhaps to the river. Or maybe a whole new adventure will await you.

The stars in the sky are bright

Here in the cottage, safe and comfortable. You are held by the bed. Your body's size with a gentle release

as you let go of the day and drift off. Slowly to sleep.

“You can see the light towers in the dark.”

You can see the light towers in the dark.

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