by Lynne Martin
I laughed and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present my husband, the king of understatement! Tough call…not!”
On another lovely day, we drove farther into the Wicklow Mountains and Wicklow National Park to see Glendalough—in Irish, “the valley of the two lakes.” I had visited many times, but it thrilled me to see it again.
When one lives in an attractive destination like Ireland, it can stimulate a procession of visitors. When I lived here for a few years with my first husband, Guy, we had a large house and an acre of gardens, which was one of the reasons I enjoyed being there so much. Rarely a month passed without friends or even second-tier acquaintances showing up for a visit and a tour guide (except, of course, in the dead of winter, when we could have used some entertainment and diversion). My longtime friend Fran Morris came from Oklahoma, and she and I indulged our lifelong garden addictions with visits to Powerscourt and Mount Usher Gardens in Wicklow, the National Botanical Garden, and we strolled through countless nurseries in and around Dublin. A couple from our hometown, Cambria, California, stopped in for a few days, and our daughter Robin came and loved it so much that she took some time off from college to stay for nine months with us. Friends of Guy’s from Texas found their way to our house, and our well-used guest room sheltered two young friends of our daughters on their first trip abroad.
Indeed, during those days I traveled to Glendalough so many times that the woman running the visitor center would say, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Deel,” when I appeared, which would astonish whatever little flock I herded that day. It was nice to be back here again, so many years later, and see it with fresh eyes.
As we moved along, the natural beauty of the mountains, lakes, streams, and ancient forests enthralled my flock of one. St. Kevin, the hermit, founded a monastic settlement in the sixth century. It continued until the fourteenth century, when the English decimated it. The lovely twelfth-century ruins are one of the most viewed sights in the country. Hardier people than we hike above the upper of the two lakes to the place where St. Kevin lived. There, they also find a Bronze Age cave, one of the earliest works of man in Ireland.
We ambled along an easier route through the forest, where the trees are so thick with moss that it’s impossible not to believe that fairies live there. We wrapped up that lovely afternoon with a Sunday “joint” (here we go again) in a nearby pub, surrounded by Irish couples who brought along their children, dogs, and grandma for a jolly autumn outing. Not all Irish conversations are conspiratorial, and we enjoyed being among families enjoying one another on a beautiful day out. Ireland was definitely agreeing with us, and I was having a wonderful time sharing places I loved with my darling Tim.
Back in our Georgian apartment, we wrote most mornings and tried to balance our increasingly busy writers’ lives with outings, whenever we could get away. Tim searched for more blood spatter and clues as he wrote his crime novel, while I banged away at what would be the first chapters of this book about our experiences. I finally accepted the fact that I would give this writing thing a serious try, and Tim encouraged me every day to work at it. I was actually having fun telling our story, and writing felt good.
To sell it, though, I would need a book proposal. I had been fiddling with it for quite a while and wasn’t getting far. I bought several books of instruction about how to approach the project, but the result was utter confusion. Each writer had a different idea of how this essential tool should be created, and every time I tried to compose an element like a biography, a description of the book, or even a cover letter, I was disappointed and frustrated with the results. The task seemed insurmountable, and I began to doubt that I would ever pull together something good enough to submit to an agent. Tim sat at our little dining room table, and I had commandeered the coffee table for my desk. Neither of us could refrain from glancing through the tall Georgian windows to the view. Every morning, we watched the horses being led out to the field along the wall below our gardens, beyond which the Irish headland jutted into the sea. Autumn declared its presence more dramatically as vivid magentas, oranges, and reds enveloped the landscape. It was outrageously beautiful—which made it very hard to concentrate on our work!
One morning, after a long, fruitless session, I closed my computer. “Tim, I’m using five different book proposal textbooks, trying to pull the elements together into something an agent or a publisher would consider reading, but I’m really frustrated! Everything I do looks homemade and amateurish to me. I just can’t get a handle on it. Maybe we should consider getting some professional help. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
He turned from his keyboard. “I think you’re right. If the article in the Wall Street Journal generates any interest, you should have a proposal ready to go. Things move fast in the publishing business, so we’d want to take advantage of the buzz.” As usual, Tim had a solution in mind. “Remember Bob Yehling, the guy who did such a good editing job on [the novel] Mental Hygiene for me? We could see if he has time to help you.”
A series of lucky breaks followed. First, Bob agreed to take on the project. He was a very busy man and a book author in his own right, but he understood our sense of urgency and agreed to plunge into it immediately. Bob would write the bio, the cover letter, and all the other parts of the proposal that would have taken months for us to do ourselves.
My wonderful, sweet muse also pitched in, doing research about other books in the genre of travel and retirement, and providing excellent fodder for Bob’s efforts.
Since I became so involved in chores like the table of contents and sketching out proposed chapters while providing other material Bob needed, Tim started to take over more of the household duties I had been performing. Later, Tim would joke that if we were both writing full time, we’d starve to death and go naked because no one would ever get to the market or wash our clothes.
After a few intense days, I responded as I always do when overwhelmed with a project: I ran away and made plans to do anything but the proposal! So many sights and experiences still awaited us in Dublin, and I couldn’t very well write a chapter about something we hadn’t done, could I? I found some interesting ways to procrastinate in the name of “book research.” It wasn’t too hard to persuade my darling spouse to play, since watching a person grind away at a computer keyboard isn’t very scintillating.
During my previous two years in Ireland, I made several good friends. One, Brooke Bremner, reared her children there. She had since moved back to the United States, but the charm of Ireland drew her across the pond again. Now, she and her husband, David Glueck, divided their time between Kenmare, Ireland, and their other home in Chicago. They were stopping in Dublin on their way home to Chicago, so we arranged to see them. It was wonderful to be with old friends after such a long time on the road. The four of us took a walking tour of locations made famous in the Easter Rising in 1916 and the Rebellion in 1921. We attended the Irish Theatre Festival to catch The Talk of the Town, a lovely play by Emma Donoghue, whose book, Room, we had all enjoyed. Irish poets, writers, artists, and composers enjoy the kind of financial and emotional encouragement that I wish we would emulate in our country. In Ireland, the earnings made by visual artists, composers of music, and writers are tax exempt. The country’s rich literary and musical history is evident everywhere! Tim and I later enjoyed two other performances at the festival, and we loved seeing the packed houses and intelligent audience responses.
We chose to stay in Bray because getting into the city was easy with the DART rail system’s convenient runs into the city. Once there, it was a quick walk from the main station to almost any Dublin destination. We found street parking near the station easily, a nice beginning to our pleasant twenty-minute commute. The train wound along the beach, and on every trip we saw something new—a tower or home we had missed, people playing on the sand, a storm moving across the Irish Sea en route to Britain, or clouds lit afire by the setting sun. Always something going on! Every ride in and out of the city was a joy to us,
and watching Tim become enthralled with the country added to my pleasure.
Although Dublin is an ancient city and its historic monuments and landmarks remain the same, I noticed some dramatic changes. The National Gallery of Ireland had expanded from its intimate building on Merrion Square by adding an enormous space filled with a world-class collection. I was thrilled to see that the country had made such an investment during its economic growth! It was one more indication of its respect and appreciation for the arts. It made me proud. Grafton Street and its surrounding area, the shopping and street music hub of the city, looked almost the same, except for new trendy restaurants and brand-name stores we saw in all the big European cities we visited. Street musicians, many of them first-class entertainers, made music on every block. Flower stalls, mimes, and busy shoppers made the scene lively at all hours. Marks and Spencer’s downstairs food court marked the perfect place to pick up a tasty dinner for our return train ride home. I was happy to see that the worldwide economic downturns and the decline of what was called the “Irish Tiger,” the ascendency of the Irish economy in the nineties, had not diminished the city. If anything, it felt livelier and more cosmopolitan than I had remembered it being.
Aside from Brooke and David, we saw other old friends of mine who made us feel welcome, right at home again. We didn’t have to look far for new friends, either; it turned out they lived right next door to us in Old Connaught House. We met Alan Grainger one day while we were lugging grocery sacks into the building. With his neatly trimmed gray beard and natty sweater vest, he looked and sounded like the distinguished British gentleman one would imagine living in such an elegant manor. We took the elevator together, realized that we shared a small hallway, and talked about getting together during our stay. As we put away groceries, I said, “Oh, I hope Alan’s wife is as charming as he is. Wouldn’t it be great to know the neighbors? I’ll bet they know everything about this house and Ireland, for that matter!”
The next day, Tim had just settled at his “desk” to begin researching some facts Bob wanted when I said, “You know what, honey, the sun is shining and the forecast says it’s going to get rainy and cold tomorrow, so maybe we’d better go up to New Grange today. I don’t want you to miss it, and it would be lousy up there in the rain.”
He grinned at me. “Boy, are you transparent. You really don’t want to settle down and work on the table of contents, do you?” It seemed as if he was taking his new role seriously.
“I’m working on it,” I lied. I tapped my head and continued, “It’s all ticking away in there, and when I sit down to do it, it will just flow right out.” In all honesty, I did hope my little white lie would prove to be true.
“Oh, come on then, kid, we’ll go up there, but tomorrow, you really need to knuckle down and get on with it. The article comes out next Monday, and we have to get that proposal in shape, just in case!”
Naturally, the rain arrived earlier than the weather forecast predicted, leaving poor Tim to again dodge oncoming traffic on sloppy, slippery two-lane country roads. It was my penance for procrastinating once again. As we sloshed along, I filled him in on Newgrange. “The thing that knocks me out is that it was built in 3200 BC as a burial site, which makes it older than Stonehenge and the pyramids in Egypt,” I said. “When we get there, you’ll see that it’s a long passageway dug into a huge circular grassy mound with white stones covering the outside. When you look at the mound, you have no idea what’s inside. The outside facing looks like a bad 1970s imitation stone fireplace, but it was really how the Neolithic people covered the outside wall of the hill. Those white stones had all fallen off and the archaeologists found them around the mound and put them back!
“I’m a little concerned about your going into the passageway,” I continued. “It’s pretty tight, and there will probably be a lot of other people there.” Tim nodded silently and then swerved hard to avoid a pothole.
When we arrived, about twenty people waited at the entrance, staring up at the space above the opening where the sun enters. It shines straight through and strikes the middle of the chamber precisely at dawn every December 21, the winter solstice. After three thousand years of the planet’s slight course changes, it’s moved a bit, but it’s still on target. Every year a select group is privileged to witness the event. We waited until everyone else had moved ahead, so Tim was able to enjoy the reenactment of the solstice performance before we hustled down the narrow passageway to the drizzly October day outside.
When we returned, we saw a note underneath our door. “Please come for cocktails at 6 p.m.” It was signed, “Maureen and Alan, the people next door.”
We searched our pitifully small stock of outfits to wear for the occasion. Tim’s ancient black wool Pendleton shirt (which we call his “wubie” because he wears it all the time like a little kid wearing his security blanket around him) was just the thing. Maureen and Alan saw me in a long sweater and tights, the bottle of wine in my hand my most significant accessory.
Maureen is one of those mature women whose features are so beautiful that you know she was drop-dead gorgeous in her youth. She was still stunning. Her silver bun was arranged perfectly, and her wide blue eyes were full of intelligence and mischief. We all talked at once, crowding into the entry hall in an immediate lively conversation that, to our subsequent delight, never stopped the entire time we lived next door.
Their place was a different world from ours. They had combined two spaces at the end of the building, so the lofty Georgian windows ushered in light from three sides. An interesting variety of excellently framed paintings decorated the pale green walls, and the etched French doors to the dining room brought in even more light. The carpets were luxurious, and double silk drapes framed the windows. Deep crown molding and formal lintels over the doors brought the rooms together, while the fireplace was a welcome sight on a chilly evening. Family pictures glimmered in their polished silver frames as they sat atop the mantel and several inlaid tables. The sitting room and dining room comprised the entire depth of the building and gave Maureen and Alan an even more exciting view of the woods, fields, and Irish Sea than we enjoyed.
And they had an abundance of our favorite commodity on earth—furniture! Tim and I hesitated before sitting down, not wanting our new friends to think us piggish. When Alan and Maureen gravitated to what were clearly “their” chairs facing the fireplace, we gleefully took up residence in two cushiony velvet wing backs with matching tufted footstools. Heaven.
Travel was an obvious topic we could connect over. We enjoyed stories of their exciting journeys around the world. They, like so many people we had met, had been avid travelers all their lives. “Our health doesn’t let us take on challenging trips anymore,” Alan said, “so having that rental apartment next door has been a joy to us! We get to sit tight and enjoy people from all over the world who come to stay there. It’s a great way to travel—no packing, and it’s free, too!” he laughed. We were delighted to once again find kindred spirits, people who were always on the lookout for expanding their world view and found ways to keep learning and experiencing new places, even from those armchairs!
We would spend many more evenings enjoying good wine and conversation (craic, as the Irish call it) in that appealing room. Maureen, who was Irish, and Alan, a British transplant, had three daughters and many grandchildren. Alan was a writer, with twelve books to his credit, and he was working on his latest, Blood on the Stones, a spy thriller with its roots in the Holocaust. Alan shared Tim’s facility for remembering absolutely everything. He proved a bountiful resource for historical fact, legends, and hilarious tales. After a little wine, the dignified Maureen, who at first appeared to be rather formal, told some righteously funny stories, too, mostly about the colorful branch of her Anglo-Irish family who rattle around in a three-hundred-year-old castle in the wilds of western Ireland with muddy dogs and crazy farmers tracking dirt all over exquisite Irish stone floors and ancient oriental carpets. As we left their house, I said,
“We have had a marvelous time and we’re so happy you invited us! We would love to reciprocate, but as you know, our apartment has terrible furniture. Could we possibly bring the food and wine to your house and pretend that we’re returning your hospitality?” The plan worked out well, so we were able to spend time with them without feeling like bounders.
We had such a good time that we were over-stayers, and stumbled the five feet to our house too late to cook dinner. We settled for canned soup, crackers, and a re-hash of the evening’s most entertaining moments. We congratulated ourselves on our good fortune. Who could imagine finding intelligent, hilarious neighbors who were willing to make friends with itinerant souls like the Martins! What a country.
Several days later, Maureen and Alan invited us to join them for a luncheon party that would include the father-in-law of one of their daughters, who lived in the wilds of Scotland. Like his hosts, he had many tales to tell. He had climbed mountains and seen sights we loved hearing about. We rolled into high gear as we ordered wine in a sophisticated restaurant we would never have discovered on our own. As the decorous waiter distributed menus, I looked across the autumn flower arrangement that echoed the colors in the china. Maureen extracted a gold-framed monocle from a small leather case in her purse. She popped it into her eye socket and began to peruse the menu. I had never before, except in the movies, seen a person use a monocle! It was imperative that I not make eye contact with Tim, whom I could tell was also choking back a chuckle, or the game would have been up. After she made her choice, Maureen slipped the glass back into its holder and daintily tucked it into her pale leather clutch bag, and I could finally exhale. We didn’t embarrass ourselves at all.