The venture would have its excitements and its obstacles, dramas and melodramas, and the getting of a site at all necessitated a wiliness to interpret that no might possibly mean yes and that any yes was equivocal. Stephen Rea and his wife, Dolours, were the ones who led me there, Stephen in his wry Belfast way saying, “It’s the best of the north and the best of the south without the fuck-up of either.” In this he was gloriously mistaken. The very placenames so rough and musical, the country dotted with lakes and hemmed in by the mountains of Errigal, Muckish, Blue Stack, Doonish West, and Snaght.
It was to Donegal, in the most northwestern tip of Ireland, that in the 1990s I headed, in order to build a house. In an excerpt from her memoir, Edna O’Brien returns to Ireland to build a house in which she hopes to avail of the “peace that passeth understanding,” only to find that even the best laid plans can go awry.
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