into.
She hands me a large woven basket and I follow her across a wide green field boxed in by a beautifully craggy, old stone fence and through a little wooden gate. A small but prolific garden hides behind the mossy stones. She picks plump, ripe tomatoes just warm from the rising morning sun and digs handfuls of potatoes from a small plot, dropping it all in my basket.
“It’s good for him to be here, he belongs here,” she muses as we cross the field to another stone enclosure. This one opens to the field and is populated with colorful hens, pecking and clucking their morning greeting. She wades through the hens to the small wooden hen house and begins pulling eggs from a little door, using her apron as a sling. “Well, bring yourself over here, ma’ dear, don’t need to be dropping these eggs before their kin.”
We return to the house, and she begins washing potatoes.
“Can I help?” I ask, watching her go through the motions as if she is programmed. She has probably done this same ritual every morning for untold years, thus the rhythm of this house, the comfortable rhythm of the whole country as I’ve experienced so far.
“Aye, it’d be my pleasure and is in fact my duty, ma’ dear, to teach you how to make my Rhys a proper Irish breakfast. If he is to love you, you must know how to feed him.” She chuckles and bumps me with her hip, sweeping by me to pull a side of Irish bacon from the refrigerator.
Colleen appears fresh faced and ready for the day and gets right to work on cracking the eggs. The boys filter into the kitchen and take their seats around the table, pouring orange juice and tea, talking about the days to come. When Rhys finally makes his appearance, it is clear his mood is dark. His eyes are hooded, his mouth turned down and when he smiles at me it doesn’t meet his eyes. I take my seat next to him as breakfast begins. The table is buzzing with talk of the upcoming days, the places Rhys must take me and the people he must see while we are here. He listens and answers, but I can see his heart is not here; he is distracted.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper in his ear, but he brushes me off with a shrug and a wink, turning to William to discuss a visit to somewhere, but they don’t say where. A few times from across the table I catch Brigid watching me, she always offers a smile or a wink as if to encourage me. When breakfast is finished, they all abandon the table and disappear into the courtyard, leaving Colleen and me to clean up. We clear the dishes while Brigid sits and finishes her tea.
“Rhys seems out of sorts this morning.” She looks to me in question, but I have no answer. The only thing I can guess is the phone call.
“I’m sure it’s probably just work,” I shrug and finish drying the dishes that Colleen hands me. I walk out into the courtyard and find him sitting under a tree, his phone in one hand, his head in the other.
“What’s got you so grouchy this morning?” I sit next to him and he puts his arm around my shoulder and forces a smile.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” he grins, but it’s not real. “Now, why don’t you go run and shower. We’re going out for a couple of hours.”
“Are you sure you are up for it?” I don’t want him to wear himself out; after all, we are here so he can recover. But I’m elated at the idea of being able to take in some of the country and being with him in his element.
“Yes, Sophie, I’m fine. Don’t worry, now go,” he urges me away as he focuses again on his phone.
I emerge from
She hands me a large woven basket and I follow her across a wide green field boxed in by a beautifully craggy, old stone fence and through a little wooden gate. A small but prolific garden hides behind the mossy stones. She picks plump, ripe tomatoes just warm from the rising morning sun and digs handfuls of potatoes from a small plot, dropping it all in my basket.
“It’s good for him to be here, he belongs here,” she muses as we cross the field to another stone enclosure. This one opens to the field and is populated with colorful hens, pecking and clucking their morning greeting. She wades through the hens to the small wooden hen house and begins pulling eggs from a little door, using her apron as a sling. “Well, bring yourself over here, ma’ dear, don’t need to be dropping these eggs before their kin.”
We return to the house, and she begins washing potatoes.
“Can I help?” I ask, watching her go through the motions as if she is programmed. She has probably done this same ritual every morning for untold years, thus the rhythm of this house, the comfortable rhythm of the whole country as I’ve experienced so far.
“Aye, it’d be my pleasure and is in fact my duty, ma’ dear, to teach you how to make my Rhys a proper Irish breakfast. If he is to love you, you must know how to feed him.” She chuckles and bumps me with her hip, sweeping by me to pull a side of Irish bacon from the refrigerator.
Colleen appears fresh faced and ready for the day and gets right to work on cracking the eggs. The boys filter into the kitchen and take their seats around the table, pouring orange juice and tea, talking about the days to come. When Rhys finally makes his appearance, it is clear his mood is dark. His eyes are hooded, his mouth turned down and when he smiles at me it doesn’t meet his eyes. I take my seat next to him as breakfast begins. The table is buzzing with talk of the upcoming days, the places Rhys must take me and the people he must see while we are here. He listens and answers, but I can see his heart is not here; he is distracted.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper in his ear, but he brushes me off with a shrug and a wink, turning to William to discuss a visit to somewhere, but they don’t say where. A few times from across the table I catch Brigid watching me, she always offers a smile or a wink as if to encourage me. When breakfast is finished, they all abandon the table and disappear into the courtyard, leaving Colleen and me to clean up. We clear the dishes while Brigid sits and finishes her tea.
“Rhys seems out of sorts this morning.” She looks to me in question, but I have no answer. The only thing I can guess is the phone call.
“I’m sure it’s probably just work,” I shrug and finish drying the dishes that Colleen hands me. I walk out into the courtyard and find him sitting under a tree, his phone in one hand, his head in the other.
“What’s got you so grouchy this morning?” I sit next to him and he puts his arm around my shoulder and forces a smile.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” he grins, but it’s not real. “Now, why don’t you go run and shower. We’re going out for a couple of hours.”
“Are you sure you are up for it?” I don’t want him to wear himself out; after all, we are here so he can recover. But I’m elated at the idea of being able to take in some of the country and being with him in his element.
“Yes, Sophie, I’m fine. Don’t worry, now go,” he urges me away as he focuses again on his phone.
I emerge from
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