Her Great Irish Escape

by Michele Brouder

  Declan grinned. “I’d say they don’t mind.”

  Gran giggled. “I’d say not either. And Maureen’s parents are on hand to help out, as well.”

  Declan nodded and didn’t refuse when his grandmother put a second piece of cake on his plate.

  His grandmother’s face flooded with concern when she asked, “You won’t get into trouble at work for not going back right away?”

  “Nah,” he said, trying to reassure her.

  “It will be wonderful to have you around here for a little while longer,” Gran said wistfully.

  The truth was, when he’d called his boss in Australia to tell him about the family emergency here, his boss, who he’d been under the impression was a family man himself, told him he could only give him two weeks and then he’d have to post his job. Apparently, he only cared about his own family. Two weeks would go by in a hurry, and he’d have to figure something out by then. He had a car and an apartment in Australia. Maybe it was time to think about coming back to Ireland somehow. He’d been gone long enough. He was just missing out on too much as far as his family went. And Gran and his parents weren’t getting any younger.

  “Tell me about the tour and how it’s going. I bet you didn’t think you’d be operating a tour bus on your holiday,” Gran said with a laugh.

  “Nope, can’t say that I did,” he agreed with a smile. He told her about the group and the occupants. He even found himself telling her about the tourist with the name of Grace Kelly.

  His grandmother lit up at this. “Ah, Grace Kelly, she was a beautiful actress. Loved her in that film, Rear Window. The clothes!” she said with a smile. Her smile disappeared as she shook her head. “Tragic death, though.”

  Declan nodded. “I’ve agreed to go off the beaten track and show them the real Ireland as we know it.”

  His grandmother raised an eyebrow. “And what would that entail? A daily trip to the shop for the dinner and the paper? Mass every Sunday morning? Milking cows?”

  Declan shrugged while laughing. “No, but I’d better have something ready by tomorrow morning. It’s a tour that only lasts two more days, thank God.”

  “By all means, thank Him,” Gran said. “Why don’t you call here with them, and I’ll give them a spot of tea and some tart and cake?”

  Declan looked shocked. “I couldn’t do that! Foist six tourists on you,” he objected.

  “Sure, why not?” Gran asked. “That would be real Ireland.”

  “True, we are a nation of tea drinkers.”

  It was good to spend time with his gran; he loved her company. She’d always been a wise woman.

  As he headed out the front door, his gran was behind him. “Bring your tourists here to me and we’ll fill them up with tea, scone, and chat.”

  Declan laughed. “When you put it like that, I can hardly refuse.”

  Chapter Three

  Grace was glad to see that Declan was on time the following morning. He hopped off the bus, all smiles. “The tour of real Ireland starts here and now. All aboard.”

  Grace had to admit to a certain amount of curiosity as to what he would show them and if he could live up to the task and their expectations. She begrudgingly gave him credit for accepting the challenge. It was her first time in Ireland and she’d already decided it wouldn’t be her last. She was already looking forward to her next trip to the Emerald Isle.

  Again, she let the other couples and the priest queue up ahead of her to board the bus. She didn’t mind. Besides, from the back of the line, she was able to get a better view of their tour guide and study him inconspicuously. He was handsome in an easy manner, and she suspected he knew it, too. These types always did. Why did she always seem to be attracted to these lotharios? Even though it was June, she was making a New Year’s resolution: no more picking the wrong man.

  As she got closer to the bus, she caught Declan’s eyes on her and a shiver of excitement ran up and down her spine. She reminded her body of her new resolution and told it to behave itself. She was not a hormonal teenager at a concert of her favorite rock star.

  Declan was grinning by the time she reached the bus.

  “Ah, Miss Kelly, the pleasure is all mine,” he said.

  Tongue-tied and feeling her face go red, she opted to say nothing, but noted he chuckled as he got on the bus behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she caught him looking up at her and grinning.

  “Just enjoying the scenery.” He smiled.

  She shook her head and proceeded toward the back of the bus. It was going to be a long day.

  Declan no sooner settled in and pulled the bus out onto the road than Mrs. Peete asked him, “Are you from around here?”

  “Originally, yes. I grew up on a farm about five kilometers outside of town,” he answered.

  “And where are you living now?” the priest asked.

  “Actually, I live in Australia,” Declan answered.

  “Australia!” repeated Mrs. Peete with fervor. “How did you end up there?”

  Declan laughed. “I know, right? Just got off a plane and looked around and said, ‘this looks good.’” He sobered up and continued, “No, seriously, it was for work. Ten years ago, we had a booming economy here in Ireland. It was called the Celtic Tiger and the work was great. But after the recession, everything came to a grinding halt overnight. The job I’d been working in for years vanished, as did the company I worked for. So, after six months on the dole, I emigrated to Australia.”

  Grace perked up at this information, noting that it was another reason not to harbor too much of a crush on him. Ireland was far enough away. But Australia? He might as well live on the moon.

  “Do you miss Ireland?” Mr. Robinson asked.

  “Every single day,” Declan said.

  “Any plans to return?” the priest asked.

  “Hopefully, someday,” Declan said wistfully.

  THE MORE DECLAN HAD thought about making up his own itinerary for the trip, the more enthused he’d become about it. It was a pity, really, that tourists only had time to see the traditional sites. Ireland had so much to offer. But of course, time was a factor. To see Ireland properly one really needed to have lots of time, like months . . . or better yet, to live here.

  He drove about half an hour toward Kerry but not quite reaching it. He took backroads and drove through little villages that housed only one petrol station, a post office, and a shop. This was where real Ireland lived. Off the main roads. Away from the big cities. At least, that was Declan’s opinion.

  The minibus expertly glided along the narrow country roads, branches sometimes swiping the windows of the bus as they gradually ascended into the hills. There was something up there that Declan wanted to show them, especially the priest.

  He pulled over at the side of the road, as far along the shoulder as he could without ending up in the drainage ditch, near a small white metal sign with black lettering that read, “Mass Rock.”

  “Mind your step as you get off the bus, and watch for oncoming cars,” Declan advised.

  “Mass Rock,” repeated Mrs. Peete. “What’s that?” She allowed Declan to help her off the bus.

  The priest, who followed her, stepped down carefully.

  “Father Smolarek, I think you might find this interesting,” Declan said to him.

  The priest, who was an elderly man but small and spry, smiled at him. “If it is what I think it is, I think you might be right. I’ve read about them but never had the opportunity to see one.”

  When the group was gathered together on the side of the road, Declan nodded toward a small set of steps. “We’ll make our way down there. Be careful, as it may be slippy.”

  “Slippy?” Grace smirked. “Don’t you mean slippery?”

  “No, I mean slippy,” Declan said firmly. “Now, back to our site. Hundreds of years ago, during penal times in Ireland, Catholics weren’t allowed to own land or even practice their religion. Not to be denied or told what to do, they would gather in secret around m
akeshift altars like the one we’re about to see, to celebrate Mass. There are hundreds of these Mass rocks all over the country.”

  Grace frowned. “But this was their own country.”

  “With a foreign occupier,” Declan said.

  Declan didn’t consider himself a religious man by any definition, but he did believe in God and in a person’s right to worship as they believed. “I’ll go down first, if only to see what condition the area is in.” He glanced around the group. “Grace Kelly, would you bring up the rear?”

  She nodded.

  Declan started down the steps. They weren’t in the best shape, but he felt they were doable.

  “What a view!” Mrs. Robinson said from behind him.

  “The view,” Mr. Robinson piped in.

  There were exclamations of agreement, for the site was in an elevated area offering a panoramic view of the Irish countryside below, with its gently rolling hills and varied shades of green. The sun pooled in the valley beneath them, making it look even more spectacular.

  When Declan made it to the last step—there had only been about thirteen or fourteen in all—he instructed the group to make their way around the large blackthorn hedge. Grace was the last one off the steps. As she stepped down, her sneaker slipped and she catapulted off the step and into Declan’s arms.

  Quickly, she pulled herself away from him. But he held on a little too long. She was all curves, and he liked the way she felt in his arms.

  “You know, Grace Kelly, I think you’re falling for me,” he said with a wink. He set her on her feet and followed the rest of the crowd.

  “Ugh,” she said, her expression pinched.

  Declan wore a bemused smile.

  An earlier rain had made the grass slick, and everyone took their time getting around the hedge. Tucked behind it, not visible from the road, was a concrete surround that had been whitewashed. Above the wall, a plain brown crucifix in a glass-fronted box hung on the hedge. In front of that stood a plain white altar, simply two slabs of rough-hewn concrete. A slate-colored sign etched in white detailed the history of that particular Mass rock.

  Grace was amazed to see that it had been there since the 17th century. She had to admit to being impressed with Declan’s choice. Her knowledge of Ireland was narrow and stereotypical: forty shades of green, pubs, castles. Riverdance. She had never known about this particular bit of Irish history, and it was something she wouldn’t have found in a brochure.

  After a short introspection, she stepped away from the altar and turned around to enjoy the fabulous view. Down in the valley were dispersed houses and sheep, and a herd of black-and-white cows grazed in the distance.

  She was lost in her thoughts when Declan sidled up beside her.

  “Enjoying the view?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s beautiful,” she replied.

  A comfortable, companionable silence fell between them. She looked up at him and asked, “Do you think you’ll ever come back?”

  He shrugged, keeping his eyes focused on the horizon. “I don’t know. I hope so. Just trying to find my way back.”

  She nodded, understanding.

  He clapped his hands and laughed when she jumped. “Suppose it’s time to get to the next stop.”

  “Right then,” she replied, following him as he went to gather the others, who were taking pictures and enjoying the scenery.

  He herded the group up the stairs and back to the bus.

  “Come on, get the lead out, even Irish people stick to a schedule,” he said good-humoredly. “Just because it’s a by-the-seat-of-your-pants tour doesn’t mean we don’t have a strict timetable.”

  They boarded the bus, and Grace stole another quick glance at their host. He was handsome in a way that distracted her from thoughts of Mark. And she was okay with that. Weren’t distraction and diversion forms of coping?

  Once everyone was on board, Declan announced, “Our next stop is about fifteen minutes down the road at the Chawke farm.”

  As they drove along the narrow, winding country lane, hedged in by blackthorn bushes on either side, Declan said, “Do you see all the red berries on these bushes?”

  Everybody looked out their windows and assented.

  “Those are whitethorn and blackthorn bushes. My gran says she’s never seen so many blossoms on these bushes as she did back in the spring. I have never seen any of these bushes so profuse with berries. It is said here that it is a sign of a very cold winter coming. All the berries are nature’s way of taking care of the animals and the birds, et cetera, et cetera.”

  The minibus soon pulled in to a farmyard. Black-and-white cows were lined up nearby, eating hay spread from a feeder.

  Declan put the minibus in park, stood up, and opened the door.

  A man that Grace presumed to be Farmer Chawke came from around a side building and broke into a big smile when he spotted Declan. The two men shook hands heartily when Declan disembarked.

  “Declan, how are you?” Seamus Chawke asked. “Terrible about Paul. How’s he getting on?”

  “Aw, there’s no fear of him.”

  “So, you’re left to play tour guide.”

  “I am.”

  The farmer looked toward the bus, looked back at Declan, made a comment, and they both started laughing. Grace was intrigued by the fact that Declan’s whole body shook when he laughed. She caught herself smiling at the sight of it.

  The passengers filed off the bus so Declan could introduce them. The farmyard, though tidy, had a distinct smell of manure about it. There was the low sound of mooing coming from one of the fields beyond.

  “This is my neighbor, Seamus Chawke. Dairy farming is a big industry in Ireland. If you’re from rural Ireland, you’re either a farmer, related to a farmer, or have a neighbor who’s a farmer,” Declan said.

  Seamus crossed his arms over his chest and laughed. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” He was a man who could have been thirty or fifty. His face was so weather-beaten from wind, sun, and rain that it was hard to tell. He wore an open expression that seemed to say he found everything humorous.

  Declan continued. “Seamus here is a dairy farmer and has been all his life. And by all his life, I mean he grew up on this farm, which was run by his father before him. So, he’s been milking cows since he was a small boy. And actually, I’m the son of farmers so I know the schtick myself.”

  Seamus smiled. “Remember having to milk cows before going off to school?”

  Declan grimaced. “I do. And the race was on to get to the milking parlor first in the morning to get the easiest cows.”

  Grace found this revelation of Declan to be charming. And she felt caught off-guard by it. She really didn’t want to have a crush on him, but it was proving difficult. Why couldn’t she have gotten on a tour with a driver much older and far less handsome?

  “But it’s a lot easier now, isn’t it? No more hand milking,” Declan said.

  Seamus shook his head. “I’ve been milking cows all my life and honest to God, I’m sick of it.” He paused and laughed. He seemed a jovial man, and Grace could easily picture him down in the pub at the end of the day, trading tales. “Last year, I had a robot installed and now he milks the cows.”

  “A robot?” Mrs. Peete said, clearly impressed.

  “How does that work?” asked Mrs. Robinson.

  “Yeah, how does that work?” Mr. Robinson parroted.

  “Come on into the barn and I’ll show you,” Seamus said.

  They all followed him into the barn. It was a big space and the floor was littered with mud, water, and straw.

  Seamus explained how the cows walked through the metal queues one at a time until they came to the robot. The robot was nothing more than a machine that the cow stood next to.

  As if on cue, a cow walked into the barn and moved through the queue until it arrived in a small, fenced-off box. They all watched as a robotic arm extended out underneath the animal.

  “The computer knows by the tags on
the cow, which cow this is. At the start of the setup of the robotic milker, the udders were shaved so that the computer could map and record the shape of the udder of each cow,” the farmer explained.

  A cluster lined up with the teats and latched on. While this process was being conducted, the cow ate feed out of the box in front of her.

  “Do you have to herd them in to be milked?” Mr. Peete asked.

  The farmer shook his head and smiled. “No. Before, we milked all the cows twice a day, but now they come in when they want to be milked. To relieve the pressure on their udders is the motivation.”

  “As well as something to eat.” Mrs. Robinson laughed, watching the cow eating her food.

  When the cow was finished being milked, she exited and walked along the rails, where a bristled brush rolled along her back.

  “What is that?” Mrs. Peete asked with a laugh.

  “That’s a massager,” Seamus answered with a grin. “After they’ve been milked and fed, they can walk over and have this thing scratch their backs.”

  Mrs. Robinson laughed. “I wouldn’t mind one of them myself!”

  Everyone laughed.

  Declan led them outside the barn. He stopped the group and looked down at all their feet. “We’re going to go through a field. For those of you who don’t want to get your shoes muddy, you can stay on the footpath.”

  “Mind the bull,” Seamus said from behind them.

  Declan stopped and turned around. “Where is the bull, exactly? We certainly don’t want to run afoul of him.”

  Seamus chuckled. “Nope, that’s the last thing you want to do. But the bull is in the field next to yours. So just don’t go straying into his territory.” He paused, looked over the group, and added with a grin, “Unless of course, you think you can outrun him.”

  That brought about a nervous twitter from the group.

  “Right, let’s get a move on here,” Declan said. “We’ve got an itinerary to follow.”

  The group followed Declan out of the farmyard and into the first field, walking along the footpath that ran parallel to the stone border fence.