The night I bought a 17th century granary in the West of Ireland

I’ve never been a steadfast proponent of making definitive plans, and indeed when a promised, long-awaited, and very much deserved promotion fell through, I greeted the news with a mixture of shock and relief.

Alas, what is one to do in such a situation, when they have reached the point of no return and are well and truly in a state of limbo?

Why, escape into a very large glass of the finest claret and avoid any and all decision-making for as long as possible.

Although, in my case, that particular evening ended up with a trek across the internet which resulted in a little impulse buy.

“A pair of shoes?” you ask, “or a set of crockery? Oh my … how very decadent!”

No, dear readers. It was neither. I bought a house. Or more precisely, a very old and very beautiful granary halfway across the world in Ireland, the land of my mother’s birth. The most beautiful assemblage of stones imaginable, ensconced within acres of rolling greenery, beckoned and enticed me with the promise of dreams as yet unrealised. Dreams of living at one with nature imbued with plentiful fresh air fuelling my creative talents.

“Yes, a career break during which time I can restore this bastion of human creation to its former glory.” That was seven years ago. I’m still on the career break.

Like so many before me, those who have walked miles in my shoes, those who have made impulse purchases in the night, I awoke the following morning filled with a sense of excitement which served to hold the impending sense of foreboding firmly in abeyance. Like so many, I embarked upon this adventure with a joie de vivre and never gave a second thought to the inconveniences of living in my beautiful monolith during its restoration.

So there I stood, dream unfolding, feet firmly rooted in reality, lost in thought when my gaze happened upon the exact moment that the cloudless blue sky morphed into a spectrum of deepening grey. The Big Weather suddenly broke, and the heavens opened. It absolutely bucketed down. Cats, dogs, sheets of water, and all manner of things descended in a breath-taking display of Mother Nature’s supremacy. I was transfixed and entrenched in my “I’ve just done a crazy thing and bought a derelict barn in the West of Ireland” fugue, when suddenly, distinctly and undeniably, a drop of rain plopped onto the top of my head. Plop plop plop.

Let’s rewind to the thought process that happens to justify an impulse purchase of, say, a large property in need of substantial repair. “I’ve always wanted to (a) have an adventure, (b) live outside my comfort zone, and (c) throw caution to the wind.” Here is what does not enter the thought process of an impulse buyer caught up in the dizzying heights of an endorphin overload: “It’s raining inside the house. Uh oh.”

Fortunately, my cousin’s daughter’s husband’s brother is a roofer, and Dennis obligingly hastened over toot-sweet from Westport to inspect the roof. He disappeared, I mean he totally vanished into thin air, and I supposed he must have been scurrying around the roof somewhere and not taken flight as his car was still parked out front. But with no ladder nor safety harness in sight, I was baffled at his nimbleness of foot and could not for the life of me work out how he ascended a two-story structure by no discernible means whatsoever. He reappeared and wasted no time in delivering his diagnosis.

“Ay, the roof is sound. A few loose shingles but not a bother.” A quick search of Google Translate revealed that this was lingo for “your roof doesn’t need replacing," which was a huge relief since replacing a roof is expensive, time-consuming, and fraught with delay.

But this did not solve the riddle of how or why it was raining inside the house. Over the next few weeks, the interior began to resemble an indoor water park, and further investigations threw up more questions than answers. Upstairs was dry, but downstairs was not. The novelty of wearing a raincoat inside was fun initially but quickly frayed.

And then, just like that, the obvious presented itself. Of course, half a century of rain and wind had battered the poor stone walls. Half a century of unrelenting wear and tear. Half a century that these three-foot-deep walls had withstood it all. The time had come to reciprocate all the love and care and protection that the house had afforded so many before me. Yes, I knew I had the answer. The stonework needed re-pointing, all of it. Replacing the roof would have been so much the easier option.

Stay tuned for more ‘Notes from Newbrook' …

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