The Irish Country Cottage

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Welcome to Get Sleepy. Where we listen, we relax and we get sleepy. My name's Thomas. Thank you so much for being here. Tonight as our Irish themed week of stories continues, I'll be reading to you. We'll be making a soothing journey from a village in the Irish countryside to a cozy and inviting cottage nestled among rolling green hills. Thank you to Lisa for writing this lovely tale. Our first to feature on Get Sleepy. For ad free listening, access to our entire catalogue of episodes and to hear our weekly premium bonus episode, why not try Get Sleepy Premium. It's the best way to support the show and you'll get a 7 day free trial when you first sign up to make sure you're happy. Tomorrow night in our premium exclusive episode, TK will be reading for us as we take you on a tour of a nostalgic country fair. For more information, just head to getsleepy.com slash support. I'll pop the link in the show notes too. Thank you all so much. Now before we hear our story, let's take a moment to get comfortable and ready for rest. Whatever kind of day you've had, now is the time to let go and give yourself permission to switch off. Let's bring awareness to our breath, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. This sends a signal to your mind and body that it's time to rest. Drawing in a deep breath, filling your lungs with air. Hold it for just a moment and then slowly exhale. If you like, take a couple more of those so deep breaths, exhaling steadily each time. And then allow the natural flow of your breath to take over as you go deeper into a state of relaxation. Now close your eyes and as your mind clears. In the scene where our story takes place, a quaint Irish village at dusk. See the old stone houses, some with thatched roofs and brightly painted doors and window frames. It is springtime in this village and despite the lateness of the hour, the sun still bathes the buildings in a warm glow. Throughout most of the cobbled streets, it is quiet and peaceful. On the main street, the shops are closed after a busy day. But from one doorway, sounds spill out into the clear air. This is the old village pub where laughter and friendly conversation can be heard. It is in this pub where our story begins. The archer in which you are sitting is plush and comfortable. It is probably sat by the fireside in this quaint village pub for many, many years. Just like the faded books on the shelves, which are covered with a light layer of dust. The rich peaty smell of the fire and the scent of the mulled barley from behind the bar, drift into your awareness. The sounds of warm, compeniable conversation surround you. And somewhere, a horsehair bow brushes lightly against a fiddle, teasing a tune yet to be played. It is getting late, and although you could spend hours more by the cozy fireside, you will soon have a fire of your own at home, which you are very much looking forward to. Stepping onto the cobbled stone of the village square, you breathe in the clear air of a spring evening, and the promises it holds for the lush green seasons ahead. Behind you, the music and sounds of good cheer tumble out onto the streets in a gentle lilt. The tinwessel, the fiddle, and the rhythmic drumming of the bowron make good companions, as they weave together, creating a tune that fades as you walk. The village is old. Even walls and thatched roofs can be seen poking out at intervals among the more modern buildings. Most of the homes in the village square are cottages, lovingly maintained and restored across the years. Their doors are painted a variety of bright and welcoming colours, reds, greens, blues, and yellows. Window boxes spill over with spring blooms, zinnias, geraniums, and nasturtiums. Their bright shades add another dash of colour to the scene. Here and there, you can already see the glow of soft lights emanating from certain homes, and the lamp posts surrounding the village square, although the setting sun promises at least another half an hour of light. There are few cars here in the village. Most visitors opt to travel in and out by foot or by bike. You collect your own bicycle from where you left it, near a cast iron hand water pump in the square. The hand pump has weathered over a hundred years in this very place, and for generations past, it provided village residents with water from the well below. And now, it serves as a meeting place of sorts, where villagers gather to share news and discuss the latest happenings. Its importance as a social hub in the village is reflected in the fresh coat of glossy black paint that has been carefully applied, allowing it to weather the coming years. As you collect your bicycle, you admire the pump, thinking with appreciation of the care and attention required to maintain historical items, so that future generations can enjoy them too. Although it is not quite as antiquated, the pump reminds you of your own bicycle. It is a beautiful old thing. Sturdy handlebars, a newly oiled chain, and a fresh coat of green paint have staved off any rusting, and given it a new lease of life. You wonder to yourself how many times this bicycle has made the journey to and fro, from the cottage down to the village. There is a woven wicker basket affixed to the handlebars, and it is here that you place your purchases for the day. You only intended to stay in town for a short while, but with so much to see and do, and so many pleasant faces, you found yourself delightfully distracted. Now though, it is time to head home, and settle in for an evening of relaxation. The spring air is so pleasant, and the light still spilling out over the lush green hills is so beautiful that you decide to take your time and walk. Wheeling your bicycle alongside you, you listen to the rhythmic click click click click of the chain as you leave the village, crossing the old stone bridge. Beneath you can hear the steady flow of the river as it trickles down to the ocean. You wonder what flora and fauna might be found there, just below you, at this time of year. Tadpoles perhaps, or froglets, and the patches of bluebells that spring up year after year along the riverbank. Perhaps tomorrow you will take a stroll along the banks of the river and see for yourself. The cobbled path beneath your feet suddenly turns to dirt, stones scattered here and there. On either side, the path is lined with hedge-rows. There is a narrow strip of grass running down the centre, left mostly untouched and untrodden by countless wheels, feet and hooves of decades past. The bushes and plants of the hedgerow come alive at this time of year. They form their own little ecosystem, a world of plants, insects and animals, thriving in abundance hidden just out of sight. There are rich green leaves and grasses for small animals to hide within, darting in and out. They create their own unseen system of tunnels, allowing them to move safely from place to place. Raspberry bushes bear ample amounts of fruit. In just a few weeks' time, they will hang low with the weight of succulent, delicious berries. For now though, like all good things, they must be given time to grow. Your bicycle clicks along beside you, its noise alerting a rabbit up ahead. You just about see her as she darts into the hedgerow with a flash of her cotton tail. You know that she is probably returning below ground to her Warren, where no doubt she has a nest of baby kits snuggled together, waiting for her return and a good feed. In a matter of days or weeks, they too will leave the nest and venture out into the wild themselves. But for now, they are small, vulnerable, and tucked away safe and sound. In some areas, the hedgerow gives way to ancient stone walls which line the boundaries of the fields surrounding the village. As you walk, you admire the mastery and dedication in the construction of these walls, which have withstood many years of weather and history. Small stones make up the base, with broader, flatter stones stacked on top. To look upon any section of the wall is to see a tail unfold before you. The thought and logic applied to the placement of each stone. You notice parts of the wall that perhaps were repaired due to a storm or an adventurous animal. Here and there, an odd-sized stone will interrupt any perceivable pattern, making no two pieces of wall the same. But together, they create a balanced boundary that defines the landscape in this beautiful ancient part of the world. Every so often, the road is punctuated with gates leading up to cottages and homes, many of them farmhouses. We pass one gate that leads to a grand old home, with several stone outhouses, and a barn big enough to house a great number of cows. But the weather is pleasant and calm today, and the cows are not in their barn. Instead, they dot the landscape in the fields surrounding the farm. Their black and white patches are a stark contrast to the lush green of the grass that they chew, slowly and contentedly. Close to the edge of the field, you notice a cow grazing steadily. As you get closer, she slowly raises her head, her wide, beautiful eyes taking you in. She swishes her tail and returns to grazing. Beneath her legs, you see another creature, a calf, no more than a month old. It watches you from the safety of its mother's protection, eyes wide and curious. You smile as you walk past, reminded of all the exciting new beginnings that come with spring. As you draw closer to your destination, you crest a hill and are treated to a beautiful sight. Not far off in the distance, the fading light of day illuminates the ocean. From here, it looks settled, peaceful. The lighthouse stands resolute and white, a beacon against the landscape around it, even before it lights up. Over the breeze, you smell the unmistakable salt of the sea, and if you listen closely, you can hear the gentle crash of waves as they hit the beach. You close your eyes and picture them like a ripple of blue and white silk, folding over and over upon the sand. Turning away from the main road, you take a narrow path, bordered on each side by wild flowers. This is the way to your cottage. And though you are glad you took the time to walk, you have certainly worked up an appetite. In the wicker basket on the front of your bicycle, there are some treats you bought in the village. You look forward to enjoying them with pleasant anticipation. Moments later, you arrive at the cottage. It is a small, cosy place with whitewashed stone walls and a thatched roof that has been repaired time and time again, securing this sanctuary against all manner of weather. The window frames and the door are painted a deep green in harmony with the lush, verdant fields around you. There is a small lean-to shed adjacent to the cottage, and this is where you store your bike away. Then you turn to take in the scenery. The sun is setting across the countryside, bathing the landscape in a warm, tender glow. Dotted here and there among the rolling hills and fields, you can see the lights twinkling in some homes. Everywhere, people just like you are settling down to enjoy this spring evening. You notice at this moment that your feet are a little weary. The walk was so pleasant that you didn't realise until now just how tired you are. You are longing to relax indoors. First, however, there is something you must do. In the shed, the sweet scent of hay, oat and barley fills your senses. You take a sturdy bucket and fill it with a few scoops of sweet-smelling beet pulp, freshly soaked from the night before. Out by the fence, you hear a familiar whinny. Someone is very pleased to see you. In the twilight, a sleek grey mare comes trotting towards you. Her head and tail held high. At her, the foal moves clumsily, with its long legs and curious eyes. The mare is beautiful. Her coat gleams, and she tucks into her dinner with enthusiasm. Holding your hand along her strong neck, you pat her, and she snorts into her feet. As her foal approaches, you bend down to reach him. This warm muzzle presses against your ear, and you smile as it softly tickles your skin. When she is finished, the mare looks at you with her pleasant eyes, and turns slowly. She leads her foal to the upper reaches of the paddock, where they will spend the night dozing together on a soft bed of clover. With your work complete, you can enter the cottage, and begin an evening of relaxation. You look to the horizon and the setting sun. It has been a long, seasonably warm day, and the pink and orange glow of the sun as it melts into the distance promises more good weather tomorrow. The door to the cottage has a warm brass handle, brushed by the hands of many friends, visitors, and family members alike. Creaking open the door, you see that all is as you left it. The door opens out onto a sitting room with a large stone hearth. Arranged around the room are shelves filled with books, empty bottles, and various knickknacks from years gone by. There is a conch from the nearby beach, an old brass telescope, and frames filled with faded portraits and pressed wildflowers. In front of the fireplace, a table and a large plush armchair with a patchwork blanket draped over one side are waiting for you. There is someone else waiting for you too. From her perch on the chair, a black and white cat blinks slowly at you in greeting, and mues softly, powering her welcome. You waste no time in taking off your shoes and putting on a pair of thick woollen socks. The flagstone floor might otherwise be a little cold if it were not for these socks and the thick antique rugs which cover much of the cottage floor. Off to one side, there is a doorway with a curtain pulled back. Even here is your bedroom, with its soft comfortable bed beside the window. In the back of the cottage, there is a small kitchen with copper pots and pans hanging from the walls and ceiling. It is into the kitchen that you go now, eager for your supper. You fill a large iron teacat with water and set it to boil on the range. In a few minutes, it will whistle a tune to let you know it is ready. In the meantime, you busy yourself with preparing a tray for supper. From your shopping bag, you remove a thick loaf of brown soda bread, nutty stone ground and baked fresh that morning by the village baker. The aroma when you open the bag is delectable and you cut two thick sizes, covering them with creamy Irish butter. From a cheesecloth, you unwrap a small wedge of cheese made locally too. It is rich and masterfully created by a cheese monger who has learned her craft from generations before her. Behind you, the whistle of the tea kettle announces that the water is boiled, so you remove it from the heat. You turn your attention now to a shelf with a wide variety of jars. From far and wide, a range of tea leaves and herbal blends has been assembled. Lavender, El Grey, Japanese Citrus, Roy Boss, Peach and Honey and of course Irish Breakfast. There is a tea to suit just about any mood or any occasion. You select a jar that you think will complement the evening very well. The label reads, soft slumber. As you open the jar, you smell the delicate fragrance of jasmine combined with falyrian and lavender. You prepare your drink in a beautiful ornate teapot. The side is hand painted with intertwined images of local wildlife and flowers. There is a matching China tea cup and saucer and you patch all of these on the tray with your food. Returning to the sitting room, you decide that there is one more thing you must do before settling down for a relaxing evening. Although the air is not too cool and a blanket would suffice, the cozy warm glow of a fire is an opportunity you cannot pass up. So, you set your tray on the small table beside the armchair and get to work preparing your fire. There is a stack of turf beside the old stone hearth and you place a few briquettes within. It doesn't take long before the fire is lit. Dancing flames burn off stray bits of plant matter on the peat before settling down, creating a deep, lasting warmth. The earthy smell of the burning peat is one that you have always associated with positive memories. Memories of comfort, warmth and time spent gathered around a fire with loved ones, perhaps telling a story or two. For now though, you are content to sink back in the armchair and enjoy your supper as you watch the flames dance before you. It seems that the cat is also keen to enjoy the fire. She sits with her back straight and her tail curled neatly around herself, watching intently. When you have finished your food, you return your tray to the kitchen and take out a large brass basin. The cat is still partially filled with warm water, so you use it to fill the basin half way, taking care as you return it to the living room and place it in front of the armchair. From one of the many bookshelves, you select a familiar book, Irish Myths and Legends. It has a large tome, bound in green with golden writing. A frayed gold bookmark has kept the page for countless readers over the years. There is a small chest on one of the shelves. A key sits in its lock. Turning it, you hear a satisfying click. You open the chest to reveal a number of small vials and jars, each containing some precious oil or substance. The smells combine to create an alluring scent that stares your senses. From the chest, you retrieve a bottle of bath soaps and a small vial of pure lavender oil. Into the basin, you add a scattering of the soaps and just three drops of oil, enough to fill the room with the calming soothing fragrance of lavender. Now, you sink your bare feet into the warmth of the foot bath and breathe deeply, feeling waves of calm wash over you. Then, you open your book and begin to read. The stories inside are all familiar to you and beloved. There is a comfort in returning to inhabit their wild time after time. The page opens to the story of the children of Lear, a favorite of yours, and you read contentedly in the soft light of the fire. When you reach the end of the story, you look up to see the cat stretched out in front of the fireplace. She catches your eye and then, yawning, she rises to her feet, stretching out her whole body from head to toe. Perhaps it is time for bed, you think. You remove your feet from the basin, drying them carefully with a soft linen towel. Then, you empty the basin and place a guard in front of the fire, which is already dying down to soft glowing ambas. You step into the bedroom. In a cottage as small as this, this room too has felt the benefits of the fire. You decide to open the window slightly and push one of the panes ajar. Out in the Irish countryside, the stars twinkle above, and the lights of homes twinkle below, as though to mirror one another. In the distance, you can hear the sound of the waves breaking on the shore. There are other sounds too. An owl hoots from the not too distant wood, and a gentle wind rustles the long grass. You change into comfortable pajamas and slip into the inviting bed. It's plush pillows and blankets enveloping you. The sheets are soft and cool, and the fragrance of your lavender footpath still lingers. You have left the curtain between the sitting room and the bedroom, drawn open, and you can see the fire as it glows in the grate. Your eyelids grow heavy as they surrender to sleep. Beginning to drift off, you think of all the wonderful things you were able to appreciate today, and wonder what you might decide to enjoy tomorrow. Perhaps you will take a bicycle ride down to the beach and collect some shells. Perhaps to the river, or maybe a whole new adventure will await you. The stars in the sky are bright, and the lighthouse flashes steadily. Here in the cottage, safe and comfortable, you are held by the bed. Your body sighs with a gentle release as you let go of the day, and drift off slowly to sleep. You are now in the light of the night, and you are in the darkness of the night. 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