Special Places

I've often wondered what makes some places more special than others.

Nearly 30 years ago, during a brief trip home from the wanderings of our youth, GB and I decided to splash out, buy a small plot of land and prepare to down our roots .... a little.

There were few, if any, limitations to our imaginations. There were no arguments about location. The raised eyebrows and questioning looks, the disbelieving comments "why, in God's name do you want to live THERE?" or "you do know, don't you, that you'll be virtually CUT OFF from civilisation?".... There was some serious head nodding and knowing looks passed between the relations and friends .... they skittered down our backs like water off a duck.

We followed our hearts.

To the wild, stony landscape where our souls felt at peace.

Unfortunately, we didn't get to live there on a permanent basis. Opportunities for full-time work, the necessity of having an income, and 4 children conspired against us. But we did manage to build a house of the basic variety, nothing fancy, that protected us from the elements and provided a bolt-hole from the insanity of urban existence. It also provided a much-sought after retreat for the doubting thomases. Every summer, the house was filled with hordes of laughing, crying, cranky, joy-filled children and a motley selection of parents and other adults. We made a conscious decision not to have a TV or a phone or computers of any kind in the house. But we did have running water and electricity and open arms for anyone who wanted to escape and recharge. We were never short of visitors.

When the sun was smiling, the days were filled with expeditions to the seaside to collect crabs, cobblers, feathers, shells and round, smooth stones. Chases in and out of the icy, cold ocean, shiverings and goose bumps. Boisterous games of bulldog and boules in the maze of sand dunes. Panning out on the sand, with desultory conversation, if you liked. Cares and worries on the back boiler. Slowness.

On the not so sunny days, backpacks and "sensible" shoes were donned and we headed for the rocky hills. Amidst loud protests. But not for long. Like puppies, the children scampered off over the rocks, rising many a startled hare from its reveries, in their element running and climbing, laughing and racing and sometimes whingeing and whining. Hours later, we would arrive back, like the Pied Piper, with the exhausted, ravenous creatures that had been protesting so loudly just a few short hours ago. Fed and watered, they went on to regale each other and the non-attending adults, of what so and so did, how high the mountain was, what the goats smelled of, what the hares did when the dogs chased them ...... endless stories ..... and memories.

The days were long and warm. And rainy. And windy. And very wet.

On the very wet days we stayed in. We played cards, scrabble, monopoly, cluedo, made jigsaws, read books, painted masterpieces, cooked a million different types of cake, built dens and secret hideaways in the garden, dressed up, play acted, played charades and had 15 part recitals of every song we could think of. On the third consecutive wet day we HAD to get out. A "Special Treat" trip to a cinema in Galway or a trip to the local Cave was the choice. We didn't have too many of these.

The years have flown past. The children have grown and their parents are off exploring a much more accessible world. We're still here, embracing our treasure.

Back to where we started. With our minds and hearts filled with priceless memories.

Back to the wild, stony place that sings to our spirit.