Under the Hill - Sheila Connolly
Under the Hill
I’d picked the rental from a listing on the Internet: cottage in Ireland, two bedrooms, scenic views, privacy. I’d skipped over the lists of things to do nearby—the beaches, the golf courses, the whale watching and the like. I wasn’t going to sightsee, I was going to regroup, to find myself or center myself or whatever trendy phrase was popular this week.
I had just ended it with a guy I’d been seeing for two years. Once—it was hard now to remember when—I had thought he was The One. I couldn’t remember when I’d stopped feeling that way, but it had been a while. We’d been living together for a year, and talking less and less—and we weren’t doing anything more interesting either. We’d just kind of drifted, and we were both too polite to say anything. When John had finally said, “I think this just isn’t working out,” my first reaction was relief. I could stop pretending.
And after that it was easier. Once he was gone, I felt both free and empty. If John wasn’t the road to the future, who was? I had no right to whine: I had a job I liked; I lived in a house in a comfortable and safe neighborhood; I had friends; I was healthy. And I had no idea what I wanted to do next. Of course, I could keep doing exactly what I was doing, where I was, for the next forty years, and then I could die quietly of boredom. Would anyone notice?
So I decided to jolt myself out of my comfort zone: I booked a vacation to Ireland, a place I’d never been, all by myself. John and I had done our share of traveling when we’d been together, but after a while, I realized that he had always chosen the destinations. Sure, we saw some great places—Greece, Egypt, Australia—but they were the ones he wanted to see. But how could I complain, when he made all the plans and arrangements? I would nod and agree to just about anything he suggested. It was easier that way, and I’ll admit he was a superb organizer. But, said a niggling little voice, why didn’t he ever ask me where I wanted to go?
Now I could make my own choices, and it didn’t take me long to choose Ireland. It was a place that John had refused to consider: too dull, too provincial, and the food was lousy. As I looked at it from my new independent perspective, I thought it sounded perfect—calm and relaxing, without a list of Must-Sees, and I didn’t care all that much about gourmet cuisine anyway.
I had plenty of vacation time coming to me, since John had cut back on our excursions for the last year or so, claiming the demands of work. Maybe he’d gotten bored dragging me along to the Hot Spot of the Moment, where I would smile and take pictures and forget what I’d seen in a few days. I decided to take two weeks for myself, and if I got bored with my own company, at least I’d know it was me and not him. Plus, I figured that would be long enough to clear my head and figure out what it was that I wanted to do next, without John. And instead of running around and looking at Famous This and Important That, I was going to find one place and stay there, really get to know an area, and pay attention to the details for a change.
The most practical solution seemed to be to book a cottage, with a kitchen, so I wouldn’t have to eat out every night. When I went online I found there were plenty to choose from. I more or less picked one at random—I could have thrown a dart at the page of listings—after I weeded out the ones in the middle of towns and the ones with eight bedrooms. Remote cottage, two bedrooms max, and pretty views of rolling hills. Peaceful.
John and I had ended things in August, and I decided I was going to declare my independence by going to Ireland at the end of October, when rates were low and tourists were few and far between. I flew to Dublin, rented a car, drove from the airport to the small town nearest the rental cottage without any problem (John had never believed I was capable of driving on the left), and met my landlady in the parking lot of the church there.
“You’d be Ellen?” she called out as she climbed out of her car.
“I am. And you’re Catherine McCarthy?” She was older than I was, but dressed much the same, in jeans and a shirt with a sweater over it. Her haircut was short and low-maintenance, and she looked like she’d never worn makeup. Her hands showed signs of years of hard work.
“Right so. Do yeh know the way?” When I shook my head, she said, “Follow me, then.”
I did, along twisting lanes bordered by towering hedgerows, up a couple of hills, through gates, until we came to a stop in front of a white-painted cottage with a red door flanked by two windows, with three above, and chimneys at both ends, the whole nestled in a cluster of tall pines. Catherine climbed out of her car and waited for me to pull up beside her, and then fished a key ring out of her pocket. “Two rooms down, two up, with a bath between. Heat’s on, hot water too. If yer wanting to use the fireplace you’ll have to buy wood or coal in the village. Here’s my number, should anything go wrong.” She handed me a business card.
“You said the rate was three hundred euros for the two weeks?” I asked.
“It is. I’ll stop by toward the end—you can pay me then. Cash if you can manage it.”
She took herself off, leaving me blissfully alone in my temporary home. I scouted it out and decided which bedroom I wanted to use—the one with the better view, I decided—and inventoried the supplies. Clearly I’d have to find a grocery store or make do with sugar and flour. I tested the television connection—it worked, but the selection was sparse; I hadn’t come all this way to watch reruns of American sitcoms anyway. There were few books in the house, mostly battered paperbacks some earlier tenant had left behind, but I’d come prepared with an e-reader and books of my own. I didn’t bring my laptop, though—I didn’t want the distraction. It would be all too easy to get sucked into the Internet and Facebook, and I’d come here to get away from all that.