A loving couple whose marriage the State refuses to recognise may be forced to leave the country

THE oversized hinges of the stout oak door grumble as it is wrenched from its resting place. The woman behind the door is grumbling, too.

"Genie - don't be stupid. Come back in," she exclaims, as a tiny creature of indeterminate vintage scampers along the terrazzo hallway, making for the exit but going nowhere fast.

What looks like a ball of grey angora wool eventually manages to unravel itself and settle at my feet, sniffing the ankles for the scent of a canine companion.

Genie is more than a pet; she's a long-term resident just like many of the 20 or so other dogs that enjoy free reign of this manor house set in 25 acres of panoramic parkland in Broadford, Co Clare.

Hundreds more have been rescued and saved from cruelty and neglect. Despite its size, the house refuses to reveal itself to a stranger.

Surely the post office would know? Closed. The pub? Too tempting. Salvation comes in the shape of Moloney's Video Rental and Food Store on the corner.

"It's down left on the Limerick road, past the hurling pitch. You can't miss it. Look out for the two eagles."

Sure enough, there's the pitch and beyond, past a bend in the road, two kitschy black-and white eagles are perched sentinel-like on each side of the black and gold wrought-iron gates. A painted sign proclaims: Pet Hotel.

Evidence of such grandeur suggests it could be the finest canine home from home this side of the Atlantic.

A dog's life it ain't. To the left of the grand hallway is a large living room, complete with 10-ft corniced ceilings, black marble fireplace, large leather corner suite, sideboard, bookcase and a surround-sound Toshiba television the size of a small bungalow.

All these creature comforts are there to be enjoyed by a couple of foxy-haired wiry mongrels and five lithe greyhounds that come bounding out the doorway.

The greyhounds are the pride and joy of German-born Sybille Hintze Krivenko, 50, one of the two humans who inhabit Hurdlesford House in Broadford, once the country seat of the Bentley family.

An array of trophies, medals and rosettes adorns the large display cabinet, testament to Sybille's success on the continent as a greyhound trainer.

"I won those for amateur racing in Austria and Belgium," she says.

"Over there, you have a lot of amateur greyhound racing. It is very much a family affair, unlike in Ireland where it is very commercial," she says.

She even toyed with the notion of racing dogs in Ireland but gave it up as a bad job when she was forced to quarantine two dogs which she brought from Austria.

"I was also shocked at the way some dogs are treated here. If they have a problem or they are not winners or commercially successful, they are drowned or killed some other way. Some are left to starve," she says.

There isn't a star rating for pet hotels but, if there were, Hurdlesford House would undoubtedly be in the Egon Ronay guide.

"I've stayed in hotels in Ireland far worse than this myself", I tell Sybille, admiring the wooden panelling and PVC floors of the centrally-heated kennels.

Apart from running the hotel for pets, she and her husband, Nicholas, have been engaged in a drawn-out legal battle to have their marriage recognised here.

Nicholas is a transsexual, born female 28-years-ago in Moscow.

After a series of operations and hormone treatment in Germany he finally became a man in 1998, a fact recognised without difficulty by the authorities in Russia.

The sex change (or gender realignment as they prefer to call it) proved no great problem. The new birth certificate issued in Moscow was even less of a problem and only took two days to secure.

Even their registry office marriage in Limerick in 1999 was also without major difficulty, but, as soon as Nicholas applied to Killaloe Garda station to have his passport stamped for a visa, their real problems began.

His status as a man was rejected by the Department of Justice and, as a consequence their union was deemed to be among same sex partners and also invalid.

Ireland refuses to recognise altered birth certificates of transsexuals, a dubious distinction shared only by two other European states, destitute Albania and tiny Andorra.

"People think of Ireland being progressive and Russia being backward," says Nicholas, "but actually it's the other way around."

They have been fighting their status with the Department of Justice for two years.

"We eventually settled our case when I was promised unconditional residency", says Nicholas, who would normally be entitled to a work permit as the spouse of an EU resident.

The reality, however, turns out to be different and the actual settlement allows him only a business residency.

The means he cannot apply for a job. "We feel we've been conned," says Sybille, clearly dismayed at the outcome of their two-year skirmish. "We never hurt anyone," she says, her voice catching.

The reality is that, without a work permit for Nicholas, they won't be able to afford to stay.

"The kennels don't bring in enough to keep us going," says Sybille., Nick has some photographic and translation work but that still won't be enough. If he doesn't get a work permit, we'll have to leave and we already have

a buyer for the house," she says.

One solution they are considering is remarrying on the continent, most likely Denmark, and to force the Irish authorities finally to recognise their marriage. In the meantime, they get on with day-to-day living.

"Most of our Irish friends were delighted when I had the operation," says Nicholas.

"We got absolutely no hassle from anyone. Mostly, the reaction of our friends was: 'It's about time. You've finally done it," he adds, relaxing on the living room couch.

"Growing up in Moscow, I was called Nadia but I always felt different from other girls my age," he says. "I loved playing soccer. Even my mother treated me differently and used to call me sir because I was such a tomboy."

Although his mother attended the wedding in Limerick, she still has difficulty accepting the fact that her daughter is now her son.

"My parents were in denial at first and did not accept my sex change but they are coming to terms with it."

Smartly dressed in jeans, tie and pullover and sporting a goatee, he looks every inch the man of the house.

"I have to shave twice a day," he says. In typical macho style, the outsize television was also his idea. "It's a 54in screen", he enthuses, going into a long rigmarole about how he got it cut-price because it was too big for a local pub.

Warming to the manly chat, he also reminisces about the Porsche 911 he had in Germany when he met Sybille 10 years ago.

Sybille raises her eyes heavenward. They make eye contact. She has heard all this before. They smile in unison and collapse in laughter. It doesn't get much more married than that.