the corner house next-door. George had come to the conclusion that he was too old for running up and down ladders and had decided to retire and live with his relatives. It was a large, rambling three-storey house with a big yard and garden at the back. “This is it,” I thought. “We’ll buy it and start something.” What we were going to start I had no idea. One smart friend suggested a house of ill-repute, which, she assured me, would do well due to an absence of competition. Despite our lack of plans, we gathered together every penny we had andwith the help of both our families we bought the corner house. Having bought it the next step was to decide what exactly we wanted to do with it, bearing in mind that we had no money for restoration. After making enquiries regarding grants we discovered that the tourist board, Bord Fáilte, was the only avenue open to us and, not quite knowing what to expect, we wrote to them and sat back to await developments.
Some weeks later, on a cold, wet, miserable winter’s evening, just as I was about to bath my two grubby, tired and cranky children and put them to bed, the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, hoping that it was not somebody who had to be invited in and entertained.
Outside stood two well-groomed young men. They informed me that they were from Bord Fáilte and had come to view the premises about which I had been in correspondence with their office. Tucking one child under my arm and taking another by the hand, I led the Bord Fáilte executives around to the corner house. Any old house bereft of furniture and left empty for a period does not look its best, but as well as that I had strung a temporary clothes-line across the Dickensian kitchen and from it a line of nappies hung like grey ghosts in the shadows. As I led these impeccably-dressed men around the dusty rooms and up the creaking stairs to the dark attic, I suddenly saw it through their eyes. How shabby the whole place looked! From the expression on the face of the slightly older man I could see that he was wondering what this crazy female, already overburdened with two fretful children, intended to do with this rambling old house.
He placed his polished leather briefcase on a dusty window-sill, snapped it open and sifted through some official-looking documents.
“Well now! To bring this place up to the required standard for a registered guest-house you are talking about an investmentof about twenty thousand pounds,” he informed me matter-of-factly.
“Twenty thousands pounds,” I repeated parrot-like, trying to keep the shock out of my voice and the shattered look off my face. He might as well have said twenty million as far as I was concerned.
Then, as if to drive the final nail in the coffin where he had lain my dreams, he concluded, “You are planning this at a very difficult time, what with the present credit squeeze in the banks. They are not giving out any money right now, not even for necessities – not to mention something like this.” He waved his hand dismissively at the peeling wallpaper and thumped his young, aggressive heel on a sagging floorboard. It creaked in protest. Then, having informed me that I should employ an architect on their approved list in order to qualify for a grant, the two dashing young men sat into their car and swept out of the village.
The following week the list of architects arrived by post. I got on the phone and tried to choose an understanding architect who would prove a pleasant working companion. It was almost like choosing a husband because I felt that our whole future depended on him. One came out the following day to view the premises, and he turned out to be a charming man of middle years. His attitude was so helpful and positive that I began to think that the creation of a guest-house might yet be possible. I tentatively mentioned the twenty thousand pounds estimate and he smiled sympathetically, “Ah well,” he said, “we might be talking about half
Some weeks later, on a cold, wet, miserable winter’s evening, just as I was about to bath my two grubby, tired and cranky children and put them to bed, the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, hoping that it was not somebody who had to be invited in and entertained.
Outside stood two well-groomed young men. They informed me that they were from Bord Fáilte and had come to view the premises about which I had been in correspondence with their office. Tucking one child under my arm and taking another by the hand, I led the Bord Fáilte executives around to the corner house. Any old house bereft of furniture and left empty for a period does not look its best, but as well as that I had strung a temporary clothes-line across the Dickensian kitchen and from it a line of nappies hung like grey ghosts in the shadows. As I led these impeccably-dressed men around the dusty rooms and up the creaking stairs to the dark attic, I suddenly saw it through their eyes. How shabby the whole place looked! From the expression on the face of the slightly older man I could see that he was wondering what this crazy female, already overburdened with two fretful children, intended to do with this rambling old house.
He placed his polished leather briefcase on a dusty window-sill, snapped it open and sifted through some official-looking documents.
“Well now! To bring this place up to the required standard for a registered guest-house you are talking about an investmentof about twenty thousand pounds,” he informed me matter-of-factly.
“Twenty thousands pounds,” I repeated parrot-like, trying to keep the shock out of my voice and the shattered look off my face. He might as well have said twenty million as far as I was concerned.
Then, as if to drive the final nail in the coffin where he had lain my dreams, he concluded, “You are planning this at a very difficult time, what with the present credit squeeze in the banks. They are not giving out any money right now, not even for necessities – not to mention something like this.” He waved his hand dismissively at the peeling wallpaper and thumped his young, aggressive heel on a sagging floorboard. It creaked in protest. Then, having informed me that I should employ an architect on their approved list in order to qualify for a grant, the two dashing young men sat into their car and swept out of the village.
The following week the list of architects arrived by post. I got on the phone and tried to choose an understanding architect who would prove a pleasant working companion. It was almost like choosing a husband because I felt that our whole future depended on him. One came out the following day to view the premises, and he turned out to be a charming man of middle years. His attitude was so helpful and positive that I began to think that the creation of a guest-house might yet be possible. I tentatively mentioned the twenty thousand pounds estimate and he smiled sympathetically, “Ah well,” he said, “we might be talking about half
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