Esther McCarthy: Away with the fairies for a paint and sip

Stuck in a house of paint, Esther escapes her drop cloth and step-ladder riddled home for a day of... painting?

Esther McCarthy at the Paint and Sip event at Ard Na Slidhe, Killorglin.

It’s day 2,409 in the house of paint. I think fondly of life before drop cloths and step-ladders. I yearn for the simpler days, when I didn’t know what a caulk gun was and all my soap was sans sugar. I also look to the future, when I will be able to sleep in my own room again without the smell of primer and turps mixed with my salty tears.

My family and I, we struggle through these dark days together. We comfort each other, sharing beds, and sympathetic eyebrow wiggles when the painters start on their Dulux monologues.

We’re really here for each other, in this together, through thick and thin, like the paint.

So when I get an invitation to go to Kerry for — ironically enough — a painting event, I do what any sane woman would do. I fling a few bits into an overnight bag, and leg it out the door, shouting: ‘So long, suckas!’ before slamming the still slightly tacky door behind me.

This painting thankfully involves canvases and champagne in a light-filled drawing room in the outrageously luxurious Ard Na Sidle country house in Killorglin. Its name translates as hill of the fairies, and I do feel like I’ve stepped into a netherworld of whimsy. The house is set on 32 acres of woodland, hugged by the shores of Caragh Lake. My room has a four-poster bed, guys, there are open log fires, and a wood-fired jacuzzi. We’re talking pillow spray and a roll-top bath — and not a splattered radio in sight.

If I did believe in a God, I think this is where she would live.

The invite was to join a small group for “a relaxed guided painting session accompanied by drinks and conversation”.

Apparently paint-and-sip events are all the rage these days. People, particularly women, want to do something with their precious time, they like an activity, a bit of bonding, something tangible, when they do finally get to slip away from the madness and mundane. Now this is a trend I can get on board with.

Deirdre from Art Jam is our teacher for the session. Everything is laid out for us, she has the easels, paints, brushes, and water all set up while a divine lady from the hotel wafts around filling up champagne glasses.

Deirdre shows us the photo of an autumnal landscape from the grounds that we are to reproduce.

There are two important things you need to know. Firstly, I am the only Cork person in the group, ergo my competitive spirit kicks in immediately. I’ll show these jumped-up Jackeens.

And second, I’m the only one
not drinking alcohol. Being an idiot who has declared a self-imposed alcohol ban finally has an upside.

Even though Sarah from the hotel goes to great lengths to emphasis that it is just a fun class, designed for us to tap into our creative sides, we all know there’s going to be one winner and four crybabies at the table at the end of the night.

The girl opposite me raises her glass and smiles warmly. “Cheers!” she says. “This will be fun!”

“Over my dead body,” I say through gritted teeth, that I pretend is a smile. “Ye are going down to Chinatown.”

“What was that?” asks the wannabe artist next to me.

“I said I really like your brown,” I say brightly, as she looks confused at her blank canvas.

“That’s right, drink up, losers,” I think, as they extend their flutes for another refill and we follow Deirdre’s step-by-step instructions. I’m sipping my sparkling water and getting in the zone.

“There’s no right or wrong,” Deirdre coos as she checks our progress. “Just go with your flow.”

I ramp up stage two of my campaign to be crowned Queen of the Canvas. I clear my throat and casually ask for a palette knife; I’m going to psych these jive turkeys out. But they were too busy throwing bubbles down their necks to care that I’m upping my tool game.

Hmm, this is really relaxing though, the daubing, the swirling, the mixing. Creating a sky and a river and trees. Taking the time to do nothing else, only concentrate on making something out of nothing. It catapults me back to when we had the poster paints at hand every day when the kids were small. Their chubby little hands determined, concentrating, delighted when we affixed the finished masterpiece to the fridge. Damn you reverie! Time is up, and I haven’t had a chance to accidentally spill anything on my competition.

Deirdre takes all our paintings and displays them side by side on the mantelpiece. A hotel guest, an affable older gent from Australia, comes in for a look.

“Didn’t you all do brilliantly!” he beams as four tottering, half-sloshed artists and one sober Leesider murmur our thanks.

I look at them carefully. All but one have verve, and flow, and passion. Mine is so utterly rubbish, it makes me realise I need to do this again when I’m back on the sauce, and I’m going to be much nicer to the painters when I get home. At least they can do a straight line.