Louise O'Neill: alone together in Co Clare, as the 'new normal' dawns
Louise O'Neill, author. Photograph Moya Nolan
We first booked the Airbnb in January thinking, as so many of us did, that it would be better next month, it would be better next month, it would be better the month after that.
It was a cottage in Clare clinging to a clifftop, the last house before New York, apparently. It would be the perfect place to escape, we thought, the perfect place to write. It had been hard, feeling creatively inspired when faced with the same four walls, the same faces, touching the edges of the same 5km.
Like many writers, we can be prone to magical thinking – when we get to Clare, we will write for hours a day, any and all blocks will dissolve, the words will flow onto the page with the greatest of ease. When we get there… But we had to cancel and re-book, sending apologetic emails when lockdown was called, when new travel restrictions were put in place. Months passed.
Summer was approaching and it seemed increasingly unlikely we would ever get to Clare – it’s our busiest season, the owner told us kindly, availability is limited – but when an American family were unable to travel, she sent another email. Did a week in August suit us?
Before I was due to drive up, I was nervous. I couldn’t remember how to pack – how many pairs of workout leggings? Should I bring a hairdryer? What if I urgently needed my printer or shredder? Would it be ridiculous to chuck them in the back of the car, just in case?! I realised that my nerves had less to do with remembering to bring a sufficient amount of underwear and more to do with the fact I’m feeling awkward around people these days.
Even though my friend and I are both double-vaccinated, I have grown used to solitude. Cocooning at home, Cooper the dog, my only companion.
Now, I must step blinking into the sun, a little less robust than I was before the pandemic. Am I too sensitive?
When I pick my friend up at Ennis train station, I’m awkward.
I can’t help but wonder if I’m still okay at making conversation, if I am talking too quickly or leaving too many silences in between sentences. “We haven’t seen each other in nearly two years,” we marvel, swapping war stories of 2020, but soon, as is often the case with a good friend, we fall into an easy rhythm.
Food is deliberately chosen for its simplicity, food that requires no thought, no effort. Eggs and bread and good butter. Olives and popcorn and berries. Things to be nibbled at rather than pored over; this is not the time for gourmet meals.
My friend takes over navigation – her partner says she is good at map reading, she says, which I quickly deduce is a lie – and we follow the winding, narrowing roads, wildflowers sprouting in the hedges, tufts of grass pushing through the concrete.
When we get there, the house is beautiful, all white washed walls, flagstone floors, eclectic rugs and beautiful paintings. It does not have Wifi but to our delight, we find a sauna and a sunken bath, a master bedroom with soaring windows overlooking the sea, and that is far more important, we agree. This re-arranging of priorities sets the tone. We have laptops with us and yet with each passing day, the work seems less urgent.
We are cut off and although that should feel uncomfortable given the last eighteen months, it somehow feels freeing. We read and we go for long walks where my friend screams in fright when she spots a herd of roaming goats. (I display my country roots by shouting “get out of that, lads” at them, watching with grim satisfaction as they run away).
We swim, teeth chattering as we emerge from the frigid water, salt drying in our hair. We talk and talk and talk for hours, about everything and nothing. At times, we argue about some political issue but mostly, I laugh so hard that I cry. Every night, I am shocked by the fact it’s 9pm and time for Love Island – where did the day go? I ask as if my friend will admit to a secret talent to manipulate time – and afterwards, yawning, we say goodnight and go to bed.
In the morning, I stare out the window at the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs with a spray of foam. I sit there for what must be an hour, mesmerised. I feel something settle in my chest, something quietening down. I don’t know if it’s the sea or the lack of Wifi or the days spent laughing at the silliest of jokes with the best of friends, but I feel happier than I have in months. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed people. We are all tired of the phrase the New Normal, for what is normal, now? What will ‘normal’ ever be again, after this? But if only for one short week in Clare, I felt as if I saw normality on the horizon. So close, I could reach out and touch it.
is fast becoming one of the most heart-warming, life-affirming shows on air today.
Season two is on Apple TV now.
