I was on my way to Donegal and if I was too distracted looking at the sheep in the hills of Cavan, I’d easily miss this little gem on the side of the road.
This cottage has many years of stories to tell I’m sure! Tales whispered on the wind, passed down through generations, and woven into the thick walls. It's seen more rainbows than any pot of gold, and more laughter than any jovial pub on a Friday night.
Outside, the ivy-clad walls hug the cottage to keep it timelessly preserved. The high Nelly bicycle rests against the tree, the same type that my own father peddled many a mile to dances and hurling matches over the years at home in Offaly.
Now, this cottage may show its age, but that only adds to its charm. It's like a wise old soul, weathered by time, yet standing strong and two milk churns topped off with colourful petals stand guard outside the bright red wooden door.
As a child at home, I used to help my father carry many a churn, his hand on one handle, my two hands barely holding onto the other and me tripping over with the weight of it.
And, for sure, I had to taste the scent of the turf in the wheel barrow ready to be brought into the hearth of the home. Imagine the smoky aroma of the turf fire of an enchanting past. I just love that.
If I was to ponder any longer I’d go up in a puff of smoke meself with the heat that was in it that day!! My face was as red as that front door but that’s for another tale to tell!
Slán for now,