Of the roles I assumed on marrying onto the farm, my role as country neighbour is cherished. Being a city girl and therefore a stranger, I was held at length for a short while until trust was gained and so I etched my way into favour with the local community. It wasn’t easy; I was unknown. I had not only come from the city but from enemy territory, Cork. Notwithstanding the Cork flag that now flies on my threshold on Munster Final day (lest said this year the better), I am honored to count my neighbours as friends.

It was with great sadness, alas, a few weeks ago, that I joined my neighbours to mourn the passing of one of our community. The news of this passing treacled through our village in the usual way; a telephone call, the postman passing, chatting with a morning stroller; each neighbour remembering the impression their friend and neighbour had left on them.
And so, in sadness, we neighbours gathered on a warm Thursday evening to offer some solace. Standing outside the local funeral home, locals chatted in line waiting to offer prayer and condolence to a family in mourning.

Later, the rosary rising amongst the neighbours was not unlike a bee’s song on a summer’s evening; a chorus raised up in offering to the heavans whilst bringing comfort to a dear neighbour on his wife’s passing. Afterwards, in slow procession to the church, the bereaved was accompanied closely behind by a group of neighbours, as if in correspondance,  reassuring him that we were there to catch him and his family should they fall as we would be in the lonely days ahead. There is much I have learned from living in Kerry and being married to a lovely and (mostly) wise Kerryman but most treasured is the idea that after death, we must look after the living. It took me a while to understand it but in the slow march after our neighbour, I understood what comfort it must have brought to be surrounded by good intention and kindness. In death, look after the living.

Never have I felt more like Ma Larkin in the Darling Buds of May. It might well be the baby belly or the belly aching laugh that I had tonight but as I poured some 2010 Walnut Wine into the glasses of my mother-in-law and her eighty year old cousin, the priest, I thought, how did this day come to this?
Ignoring the hungry farmer holding the baby and the five year old with the cold, I walked out the door to go next door to my mother-in-law’s. Also in my wake were the purveyors of said wine speaking to their daughter via Skype in my sitting room. My dreams of being an international translator in tact, I carried knowledge of how to harvest such wine from our French friends and producers to my thirsty octogenarians. Whether it was the luxurious sherry like digestif (aperitif in Brittany) or the awe at a conversation carried via computer, I left my elderly companions just a little giddy. Back in my sitting room, I greeted my tickled French friends with a resounding thumbs on their vin du pays. While there are days that I long for a dull moment, as it turns out, they never come up.

Sunday Beach-Combing.

Out there, on a parallel 5am, someone is putting on their slippers and stealing the morning. The milky coffee, the silent yawning stretches, the reading of yesterday’s news waiting for the toast to pop. Out there, a city is not yet awake but a grocer goes through his paces at the familiar sound of shop window shutters rolling up. A baker drinks her espresso and relaxes to the smell of buttery croissants. Out there, a road sweeper is paving the way for the day ahead.

Here, there is a foggy mist rising from the fields promising a warm day in Hearthill. I have awoken naturally without prompting from a hungry baby or my farmer’s alarm and so I steal a solitary hour to get ready for the day. My only companions thusfar are the swallows outside, who, in fairness, are no imposition. The mist is rising and the light will soon begin to awaken my merry band and so in leaving you, I luxuriate for a while longer in the 5am shuffle that brings the world to it’s feet.

Some girls dream of becoming the Rose of Tralee, but this once young city girl dreamt of becoming the Calor Housewife of the Year. And let it be known, that I blame that competition and it’s sponsors for my current state of affairs.

So imagine (though some of you may not have to try that hard) that you’ve just put the children to bed, you’ve had to cajole the toddler who missed his nap today to pry himself away from the TV and let’s say, he’s not happy about it. Your eldest has learnt how to whistle and believes that creeping up on you to whistle as a surprise into your delicate ear is hilarious and whatsmore you don’t know why the baby is crying. Windy, hungry, tired? Out of ideas.

So then comes the point of bliss when you turn on the ‘telly’ to watch some mindless TV to discover your favourite host, Gay Byrne at the time (1980’s Ireland’s favourite) has a queue of capable countrywomen lined up to woo the country, shame the city women and show them all how it is done. The details are blurry, there may have been jigs, there was definitely cake making, certainly triumphant stories of juggling five plus children and a career as a Home Economics teacher a pre-requisite. But somehow not withstanding what must have had my funny and talented city mother cowering and cringing in the corner, I wanted to be one of those uber capable Calor Housewives on a programme that ignited impossible standards for the already burdened Mna Na hEireann. *

And yet, while that programme is no longer aired, as women, city and country, mothers, wives, sisters at work, we set ourselves and each other impossible standards, raising the bar beyond what is compassionate. Tonight, dear friends, I declare myself the uncrowned Calor Housewife of Hearthill, without a Black Forest Gateau to show for it. No indeed, I have just done the necessary today, I have survived. You know who you are, you’re good enough, give yourself a pat on the back, you’ve done your bit for your country today. I thank you(!)…

Mna Na hEireann. * Women of Ireland.